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 | (-9915, 9895) |
Keelhauls Harbor is where Black Brine does its grubby business—dockside deals, leaky hulls, and backs broken under crates of rotting produce and powdered vice. No gleaming sails here, no sleek hulls—just rusted cranes, crooked piers, and ships held together with spite and tar. It’s the cheapest berth in town, and the filthiest. But without it, the city starves. Every barrel of grain, every salted fish, every bolt of stolen silk drags its sorry arse through Keelhauls first. It’s the gut of the city. And guts are never pretty, but gods help you if they stop working.
Keelhauls Dock rose like a splintered fist from the surf—boards black with brine, nails rusted to red ruin. Cranes swayed like drunks after midnight, loading crates no one dared open. The wind carried the scent of oil, tar, and desperation. Rats scuttled with more purpose than the men, and the gulls laughed like they knew something you didn’t. A crooked track ran straight into the dockside belly, shunting crates and coffins alike into waiting hands. Cheap berth, cheaper labor. Ships moored here didn’t ask questions. Neither did the dockhands.