LOCATION LISTING May 25, 2015 18:50:16 GMT -6
Post by 月老 on May 25, 2015 18:50:16 GMT -6
Smoggy, thick, and blanketed in crawling vines, low-falling leaves, and heavy shade. Patches of sunlight slip through gaps in the treetops, casting clouds of black dirt and bubbling pools in an off-gray. Each bog is unique; strange; ghostly, and wanderers are said to go missing more often than not if they explore them after the sun goes to sleep behind Mag Mell's hills. Boatsmen and fishermen make their living here, alongside providing easy passage in and out of the Mires.
Coiling inward as the bay drifts further from the Mires, Cinder's Hills earns its name from the snow and ice drifts that speckle pockets of dead grass—turned limp and brown, breathed in frost. As the earth heaves and trudges up into the heavens, it becomes jagged cliff sides and treacherous peaks; the air is thin, almost choking and dead-cold. No man or woman has climbed it in modern history, but stories of famed explorers bring word that it opens up to Nibiru's Vulture's Eye.
A sizable village in the north Kells, nestled comfortably between the mountains and sea. A hodgepodge, it attracts the merchants; smiths; textile-workers; loggers and woodsmen, and is considered the Artisan's village. Dusty white and onyx-colored swans have taken residence in the streams and ponds under long, carefully-engineered draw bridges. Well-loved in Strangford, they have been incorporated into statues and architecture in friendly challenges—contests between craftsman of all sorts.
A village of engineers, mechanical artisans, and mineral refiners that blossomed in the lowlands of Mount Cnoc Lochtair, a once very-boring-and-wholly-unlivable stretch of nothing. Shrouded in a thick smoke that billows from cave mouths and the chimneys of the metalworkers, Ahiohill is littered with ticking clocks built into the walls and mechanical gears eerily reminiscent of Carneval. These turn the giant bellows and the windmill that hangs behind in the fields and farmlands.
A budding port that has grown in the past decade. Arguments and discomfort comes from the idea that Gowran should—fairly—replace Carneval as the capital, but no lawyer can declare the city legally dead. Steam hisses in the air, in corners and from the luxury train that moves from one side of Gowran to the other. Ships and faces come and go, hosting trade vessels from all parts of the world. Travel through zeppelins and sky trams found its niche here, hovering above sharp-tipped rooftops that outline creamy sand drifts and shores.
The only inland Kellan settlement, this scrape of a town sits on the far shore, between the island, the bridges, and the land. Sleepy during the day and utterly quiet when night falls, Brigend exists as a pass for Sidhe traders to leave goods and conduct business. A single ferry moves between the greater Kells and Carneval's border, its ticket station the largest—and sole—building outside of quirky store fronts or lonely stands that come and go with time.