New Vance City

Deep within the Subterranean Echo Chambers lies the Static Forge—an unholy crucible of sound, circuitry, and sanctified decay. Once an emergency signal repeater site for underground transit, it's now the main workshop-temple of the Static Cult. Here, chosen machinists—called Clang-Priests—hammer divine resonance into scavenged tech, assembling “tuning artifacts” meant to amplify the Conductor’s signal. The Cult believes this Forge is the closest physical echo to the Static God’s voice. Pilgrims whisper that machines built here can "listen" to fate itself. Conversion chambers hum with voltage, and newly tuned zealots are baptized in raw feedback. Every creation is a ritual. Every repair, a sermon. Those who displease the Forge’s frequency often vanish—reduced to burnt wire and static ash. The deeper you listen, the more it listens back.

The Static Forge churns within a cathedral of rusted steel and collapsed comms infrastructure. Glowing conduit veins snake along cracked walls, pulsing in sync with unseen transmissions. Welding sparks arc like lightning from altar-sized worktables, where devotees solder relics in epileptic light. Crude speakers dangle from overhead scaffolds, whispering reversed chants and corrupted radio loops. A miasma of burnt plastic, ozone, and ancient oil coats the air like incense. Cybernetic limbs twitch on gurneys beside glowing vats of neural coolant. Machinery groans with mechanical agony—some of it organic, some not. Blueprints are etched into walls with conductive ink, and cult sigils pulse with bio-electric paint. A massive, shattered satellite dish crowns the Forge, now wired into the ceiling like a halo of ruin. It turns, sometimes… though no one powers it.