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It was a quiet little town on the Highland Scrub.
Not quite picturesque, but peaceful enough for the dragons that lived and worked there.
It started out as a trading post--much like the one a little ways down on the Carrion Canyon, tucked into its own little niche near the Sundial Terrance and always bustling with activity.
Here, a short distance between flights from the Hewn City of the Sunbeam Ruins, things were a little more subdued. Shops take the place of stands and caravans, selling food and clothes and all sorts of other goods to the travelers that passed through.
The residents themselves are kind and friendly as can be, always willing to lend a set of claws to help anyone out as much as they could.
After all, it lent to the illusion of being sleepy little town, instead of the meeting and breeding ground of the dubious, the shady, and the downright low that it was.
There's hardly a soul in the place that hasn't washed blood off their hands at least once, and even less that could say with a clear conscience that the treasure rolling into their pockets were made by providing the goods and services they had neatly painted onto their shop windows.
Those shops were merely fronts for the real businesses conducted in their back rooms, available only to those with enough treasure or gems to pay for them.
Mercanaries favor the place for the wide variety of services they could pay for. Whether it was a vial of lethal poison for a job or a quick place to drop off a corpse, there was always someone offering a worthwhile deal.
It was a quiet little town on the Highland Scrub.
Not quite picturesque, but peaceful enough for the dragons that lived and worked there.
It started out as a trading post--much like the one a little ways down on the Carrion Canyon, tucked into its own little niche near the Sundial Terrance and always bustling with activity.
Here, a short distance between flights from the Hewn City of the Sunbeam Ruins, things were a little more subdued. Shops take the place of stands and caravans, selling food and clothes and all sorts of other goods to the travelers that passed through.
The residents themselves are kind and friendly as can be, always willing to lend a set of claws to help anyone out as much as they could.
After all, it lent to the illusion of being sleepy little town, instead of the meeting and breeding ground of the dubious, the shady, and the downright low that it was.
There's hardly a soul in the place that hasn't washed blood off their hands at least once, and even less that could say with a clear conscience that the treasure rolling into their pockets were made by providing the goods and services they had neatly painted onto their shop windows.
Those shops were merely fronts for the real businesses conducted in their back rooms, available only to those with enough treasure or gems to pay for them.
Mercanaries favor the place for the wide variety of services they could pay for. Whether it was a vial of lethal poison for a job or a quick place to drop off a corpse, there was always someone offering a worthwhile deal.
