Off the Edge of the Map: City Between Worlds
A lady in faded finery walks down a street of rain-slick cobbles, arm-in-arm with a man of patchwork flesh. They smell of sex and formaldehyde, the fresh, twinned stumps of their right ring-fingers declaring their newly reanimated love. A line of sad-eyed slaves with stooped shoulders and sloped brows shuffles past, flanked on either side by a double column of dead men in gleaming armor. On the opposite side of the street, an inscrutable woman in jade-green lacquered plate haggles with a massively muscled figure clad in fur over the price of a slightly- used woolly mammoth. Somewhere down the street, a bell tolls midnight, and a temple opens - the weary god within selling miracles of dubious provenance on the cheap, if only someone will believe. Just another night, in the city between the worlds.
