Gorzanth is no jewel, no haven. It is a scar, a fortress squatting on its hill like a carrion beast. Its walls are blackened with soot, its gates plated in iron and scarred with the sigils of conquered folk. From afar, Gorzanth looks less like a city than a siege engine frozen in time, contempt made stone.
Around the fortress sprawls the horde: reed huts, skin tents, mud hovels, swelling when raiders return, shrinking when they march. The horde is impermanent, but the fortress endures, obsidian walls bristling with towers like broken fangs.
Inside, Gorzanth runs on blood. Pits roar with slave-fights, criminals are dragged into anthills, enemies sacrificed in flame. War is not a calling here—it is the only truth. Coupling in Gorzanth is indistinguishable from combat. Packs rut in the streets, courtesans scarred and cruel offer pleasures edged with blood. Tenderness is weakness; sex is conquest, as public and violent as the pits. Barracks, dungeons, slave pits, and forges hewn into the stone. Here, captives are consumed, steel is hammered, and the war machine never sleeps.