Black Brine

Gallows Market is where Black Brine wears its prettiest mask and bares its sharpest teeth. The rich come here to posture and preen, to drop coin like blood in the water and hope someone notices. Perfume clings to the air like rot beneath a silk sheet, masking the stink of desperation and old money turning sour. The chained god watches from above, looming huge and pious, hauled from the mainland like some righteous cargo. His temple feeds the hungry, shelters broken pirates and swordless old killers, all in the name of mercy. But the sermons slip in with the stew—talk of order, obedience, salvation through service. The rich smile tight at the influx of the unwashed, dragged into Mistwalk on church charity and cultish fervor. Now there’s tension humming beneath the cobbles. The nobles don’t like the stench of sanctity mixing with their wine. But the temple’s growing, and the chained god never blinks. Not once.

The first thing you see is the statue—chained, towering, smug in its sanctity. White stone gleaming like a warning, arms spread in mock surrender, eyes cast skyward as if pretending not to notice the market crawling beneath it. Gallows Market is a riot of color and coin, cobbles laid like a drunk painter’s dream, canopies flapping like banners at war. Perfume and spice curl with the reek of sweat, salt, and ambition. Merchants bark. Nobles strut. Cutpurses drift like smoke. The temple looms at the edge, all sanctimony and shadow, its doors yawning wide for the weary and the wicked. You can smell the soup before you see the line of broken men waiting for it. They say it’s charity. You’d swear it’s bait. And all around, Mistwalk watches—its towers sharp, its alleys whispering, its wealthy patrons smiling too wide, like they’re in on some joke the rest of you haven't heard yet.