Nights at the Round Table
Garradon, an old city. Some say eternal. Bound to this world, but anchored in the next. It has lived many different lives. A dwarven city. Elven city. Undead city.
Magic circles through its veins. Gods power its people. And commerce serve as its food.
Gold speaks loudest here. Enemies live in peace while money is exchanged. Those feuds held outside the walls are ignored while inside.
The city’s walls are made of tightly fitted, enormous blocks of granite. So large that no human hand could have moved them. They show no signs of age and are rumored to reflect even the heaviest catapult shot. If damaged they self-repair, like skin on a young child. No blemish will remain. Sixty feet tall and thirty feet thick they are impossible to scale.
Three main gates protect the West, South and East entrances. Made of orichalcum they almost seem to glow an odd dull orange color. At thirty feet tall and Twenty feet wide two lines of carts are constantly moving into and out of the city at all hours. Commerce must not stop.
Engraved upon their surfaces are tales of the city’s beginnings. The story beginning on the West gate and completing on the East. The South gate being the most grand as it leads to the Bridge. A causeway that divides the city into the Eastern and Western halves. The bridge rises in front of all who enter here up and up to King’s island sitting perfectly safe in the bay.
Well come to the city of complication, illusions, money, power and opportunity. Be careful and yet carefree. Your life is your own here. Make of it as you will.