Carved into the jagged face of the Southern Crags, Ironspine is a vertical empire in miniature—a colossal, tiered megacity of blackened iron, towering chimneys, and endless machinery. The city climbs the mountain like an unhealed wound, its stacked layers forming a fusion of brutal architecture and relentless ambition.
Where ancient forests once blanketed the slopes, a mud-choked swamp now festers below. Centuries of clear-cutting, flooding, and industrial runoff have created the Mirebelt, a sprawling dead zone of black water, rusted machinery, and drowned stumps. Elevated rail lines rise from this mire—skeletal steel pathways connecting Ironspine to the wider orcish empire.
From a distance, the city appears as a rising cliff of smoke and light, its forge-mouths glowing like the eyes of some vast metal beast.
Each tier of Ironspine functions as a city unto itself. Massive steel bulkheads, monitored lift systems, and armed checkpoints divide the levels. Passage is restricted, taxed, and closely watched. The higher one ascends, the cleaner the air—and the greater the cost of standing there.
Buried deep within the mountain’s interior, the Warrens are a sprawling labyrinth of tunnels, crude habitation blocks, and industrial waste channels. Flickering Sunstone lanterns provide dim illumination through thick steam and shadow.
This tier is dominated by ogre laborers—massive, broken creatures used for heavy industry. Discarded machinery and the remnants of earlier industrial eras rot in forgotten corridors. Though officially a labor zone, a shadow economy thrives here: illegal prosthetic clinics, outlaw markets, scrap-chapels, and whispered prayers to forgotten gods.
The Grind is Ironspine’s roaring core. Foundries, smelters, factories, and dense residential blocks stretch across iron-paved streets. Chimneys pierce upward through the city’s higher levels, venting smoke skyward.
Life here is loud, harsh, and efficient. Work-gangs move in regimented shifts, overseers patrol on smoke-belching trikes, and families live in stacked cube-housing built directly into the city’s framework. Each district is governed by a guild—metalworkers, enginewrights, core-refiners, technomancers—each enforcing strict hierarchies and oaths.
Markets bustle with grit-covered engineers selling parts, schematics, and stim-tonics. Taverns offer no music—only the hiss of pressure valves and the clank of mugs on steel.
At Ironspine’s summit rises the Pinnacle, a gleaming spire of polished black iron and brass. Airship docks ring its edges, while administrative towers dominate the skyline.
Reserved for the elite, this tier houses technocrats, high engineers, Sunstone magnates, and ruling officials. Streets are clean, architecture refined and angular, and light is artificial but golden. Ornamental gearwork decorates façades, clockwork statues mark the hours, and Sunstone cores glow behind frosted glass.
This is the brain of Ironspine—the place where industrial tribunals and technomancer guilds make decisions that ripple across the empire. Security is absolute; guards augmented exosuits, their rifles hissing with alchemical charges.
The Spinewalk – A vertical rail tram running the full length of the city’s inner wall, linking all tiers for those with proper access.
Lift Bastions – Colossal freight elevators moving cargo and authorized personnel between levels.
Suncore Wells – Heavily guarded chambers where refined Sunstone is stored and distributed through the city.
The Founder’s Bell – A massive, brass bell housed in the Pinnacle. It tolls only during war.
Ironspine is not merely a city—it is a declaration. Every beam, tier, and machine reflects the orcish belief in discipline, advancement, and dominance. Its vertical structure mirrors their worldview: ordered, hierarchical, and always striving upward.
To live in Ironspine is to live with purpose. Every citizen has a function. Every machine has a role. Anything idle is dismantled and rebuilt. Ambition is forged here, weakness sinks into the Mirebelt below, and only steel endures.