A feathered nightmare with a widow’s patience—she doesn’t hunt for sport, she hunts to keep her nest warm and full.
A knee-high terror with quick hands and quicker exits—he doesn’t win fights, he wins messes.
A lean, sharp-eyed road-butcher who can smell a full pantry from half a mile away—and who never leaves a witness with both hands intact.
A corpse-fat brute with a cookpot halo of iron who drags a dinner bell through the mud—ringing it only when the screaming starts.
A mud-crowned titaness of hunger and spite who treats settlements like pantries and people like noisy livestock.
Sea-Facing Cliffwarden Checkpoint sits hard against the wind on a narrow coastal shelf, where pale stone and weathered timber meet the endless churn of the surf.
Ventworks Pressure Gallery is a cramped, iron-limbed maintenance corridor suspended above a roaring furnace line—more machine than hallway.
Glowstone Lampworks is a tight, industrial bridge-gallery stretched across a deep channel where heat and haze rise in slow waves.
Storm-Split Cliff Mine Mouth clings to a jagged coastline where slate-blue rock shelves drop straight into churning surf.
The Crucible District Foundry Walkways sprawl across a soot-black forge hall where cliff-stone walls sweat heat and iron ribs of industry crisscross the open floor.
“The Bluffs don’t need courage. They need discipline.”
“If it whistles, it’s warning you. If it’s quiet… that’s when you run.”