The Caldera

The mountain opens like a furnace. Cable cars rattle on steel lines, carrying crowds past glowing vents and iron bridges. Inside the hollow, markets sprawl on ledges smiths hammer blades beside jewelers cutting crowns, gamblers shout over embers, and artisans sell charms hot from the forge. The air tastes of ash and oil, lit red by molten glass. But beneath the clang and smoke, whispers run deeper. Beneath the markets, past the lifts and the ritual shafts, lie chambers where the sun light fades and fires below heat the air.

There, cults gather in silence, hiding their altars in stone that drink any sacrifice.

Atmosphere: volcanic heat, neon lights and forges light up the darkness, constant noise
Markets: bazaars selling weapons, jewelry, relics and Arcanum trinkets
Artisans: smiths, glassblowers, mechanists, flame eaters and daredevil performers
Transit: cable cars and freight lifts. Bridges crisscross the crater
Hidden Layers: cults, ritual chambers, outlaw shrines beneath the market. No one sane ventures to the deeper levels.