Black Brine’s a rotting tooth on an island of darkness, slick with salt, sin, and secrets best left buried. The mist never lifts, the gods never sleep, and no one dies clean. Power belongs to cutthroats and cults, and coin buys less than a well-placed knife. Taverns drip with blood and confession. Deals are struck in whispers, broken in screams. Out here, loyalty’s just leverage, and survival’s a sacred art. Welcome to Black Brine—hope you brought something sharp.
| Played | 5 times |
| Cloned | 0 times |
| Created | 16 days ago |
| Last Updated | 4 days ago |
| Visibility | Public |
| Coordinates | (-9931, 9937) |
Sinker’s Curiosities is where Black Brine’s luckless, desperate, and dangerously curious go to bargain with their better judgment. Perched like a vulture on the cliffs of Salt Crown Shores, the shop is part reliquary, part rumor mill, and part trap. Sailors come seeking lost memories. Warlocks come sniffing for power. The smart ones leave empty-handed. Sinker—half myth, half hoarder—runs the place with a sly tongue and no sense of mercy. No price is ever straight, no item ever safe. But when the gods go quiet and the mists press close, folk crawl down to Sinker’s door anyway. Because sometimes, what you need to survive Black Brine can’t be bought in coin. Only consequence.
The sloop shouldn’t still be standing, let alone selling things. It juts from the cliffside like a drunken dare, half its keel buried in stone, the other half dangling over the crashing sea. Boards creak, ropes groan, and the whole thing smells of rust, incense, and old secrets. Lanterns cast shadows over shelves packed tight with relics, bones, bottled storms, and gods know what else. Locals say if it’s lost, forbidden, or cursed, Sinker’s got it—wrapped in wax paper and priced in blood or favors. He’s in there somewhere, beneath the mess. Crooked grin, fingers like bird claws, always watching. You don’t find what you need in Sinker’s. You find what wants to be found.