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The City of Tlemprasion
Tlemprasion is the heart of the world. The rest of the world may not know it, though. It lies effectively between the continents of the Middle Kingdoms and Selleas, and more trade passes through it than through any other single location on the planet. Between the edge of Sot Heath in the east to the three harbours on Drowner Bay, and from Garjhel's Pass in the north to the half-named slums of Sinkhole and Dead End in the south, more than a million people live, work, fight, and die, many of them never leaving the city. There has always been a city here, although it's had many names, and so there are levels both below and above the ground. There are streets that haven't seen sunlight in centuries, yet feel the flow and ebb of crowds every day, and streets through whose wooden floors you can fall to the ground below, if you're not careful. The Vanishing Tower watches over the city, occupied by the foolhardy, by madmen, and by those bent on revenge. Canals wind their way here and there, connecting the bends of the Savage River, stretching to the harbours, and climbing to the north in lock after lock. The university, with its hundreds of schools and colleges, spreads over square miles, and is even yet lost among everything else. Temples dot streets, shrines to cathedrals. Everything is in Tlemprasion.
Miroon
Most people never notice the thing that makes them realise they're in Miroon. They speak of eateries and taverns, of revolutionary broadsheets and tomes of philosophy, of dancers and sages, of the wires and bridges. But they never notice the sound of the sea, echoing in the great round bay, slapping up against the cliffs and the island towers. Yet if it stopped, everyone would know. Miroon is the crossroads of a hundred, two hundred, a score of hundreds of cultures, some unique to itself. You can eat in a Gowrow Spoon Bar, drink Muradi wine in the sun, watch Ilimite dancers, and argue philosophy with a Tjadec, all without leaving a table. Visitors arrive from the sea, the land, from the planes, by magic, by boat, by horse, on foot, for commerce, knowledge, survival or simple curiousity. Above all, Miroon is civilised. Who can be otherwise when the sea speaks?
Tlemprasion is the heart of the world. The rest of the world may not know it, though. It lies effectively between the continents of the Middle Kingdoms and Selleas, and more trade passes through it than through any other single location on the planet. Between the edge of Sot Heath in the east to the three harbours on Drowner Bay, and from Garjhel's Pass in the north to the half-named slums of Sinkhole and Dead End in the south, more than a million people live, work, fight, and die, many of them never leaving the city. There has always been a city here, although it's had many names, and so there are levels both below and above the ground. There are streets that haven't seen sunlight in centuries, yet feel the flow and ebb of crowds every day, and streets through whose wooden floors you can fall to the ground below, if you're not careful. The Vanishing Tower watches over the city, occupied by the foolhardy, by madmen, and by those bent on revenge. Canals wind their way here and there, connecting the bends of the Savage River, stretching to the harbours, and climbing to the north in lock after lock. The university, with its hundreds of schools and colleges, spreads over square miles, and is even yet lost among everything else. Temples dot streets, shrines to cathedrals. Everything is in Tlemprasion.
Miroon
Most people never notice the thing that makes them realise they're in Miroon. They speak of eateries and taverns, of revolutionary broadsheets and tomes of philosophy, of dancers and sages, of the wires and bridges. But they never notice the sound of the sea, echoing in the great round bay, slapping up against the cliffs and the island towers. Yet if it stopped, everyone would know. Miroon is the crossroads of a hundred, two hundred, a score of hundreds of cultures, some unique to itself. You can eat in a Gowrow Spoon Bar, drink Muradi wine in the sun, watch Ilimite dancers, and argue philosophy with a Tjadec, all without leaving a table. Visitors arrive from the sea, the land, from the planes, by magic, by boat, by horse, on foot, for commerce, knowledge, survival or simple curiousity. Above all, Miroon is civilised. Who can be otherwise when the sea speaks?
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E.
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but that is just me
i am happy to play in either.
Ta
Yrth