Black Brine

The Captain’s Club is where the salt-crusted elite of Black Brine go to remember they’re better than the rabble—and remind everyone else, too. Moored like a bloated corpse in the canals of Mistwalk, it’s a hollowed-out brig refitted in velvet and smoke, where the wine flows richer than blood and the coin clinks louder than truth. Entry requires clout, coin, or compromise—sometimes all three. Inside, it’s all low candlelight and whispered threats. Cards slap, dice tumble, and deals are struck with smiles sharp enough to cut rigging. Musicians play behind gauze curtains. Servants never speak. And the backroom vault? It’s seen more betrayals than the gallows. The Club isn’t just a place to drink—it’s where captains trade secrets, pirates court power, and fortunes are made or vanished over a single wager. In a city run on superstition and scheming, the Captain’s Club is the closest thing to nobility Black Brine allows.

The Captain’s Club looms at anchor like a drunk noble in a stolen coat—too polished to be honest, too still to be safe. Smoke curls from carved vents along its hull, thick with cloves, pipeleaf, and secrets. A gangplank of dark, lacquered wood leads from the misty quay, guarded not by brutes, but by silence—and a woman with a ledger who knows your name, debts, and sins. Warm lamplight spills through the stained-glass portholes, purple and gold, flickering like the eyes of something half-asleep and hungry. You can hear the faint strum of strings, the roll of dice, the hush of dangerous men trying not to be overheard. The planks underfoot gleam with wax and spilled brandy, and the brass fittings shine like gold teeth in a liar’s smile. Step aboard, and the world shifts. Power leans in. Luck lights a cigar. And if you’re clever, rich, or ruthless enough—you might just be allowed to stay.