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 | (-9963, 9924) |
In Mistwalk’s well-manicured heart sits Cutty’s Blades, where the shine of steel blinds the eye and the price of a single sword could buy a year’s loyalty from lesser men. A duelist’s temple below, a war room above—every inch scented with oil, blood, and cold ambition. The Windowmakers nest here, the Governor’s unofficial knife in the dark. Six sleek sloops lie hidden in the fog, each crewed by silent bastards who never miss, never warn, and never leave more than one corpse breathing. A warning, that breath. One only.
From the outside, Cutty’s Blades looked more like a temple than a smithy—marble towers and stained glass catching the sun like it owed them coin. The scent of oil and steel drifted on the garden breeze, sharp as a threat wrapped in perfume. Carved stone steps rose toward an open courtyard ringed with flowers and ghosts—portraits of killers past, smiling like they knew your next mistake. Beyond, behind barred doors, the Windowmakers watched the city through shutters half-cracked, like blades waiting to be drawn.