If for some reason the players ever decide to leave the joys of the Rookery, here’s its closest neighbour.

The Fogwalk, a borough of seaside views, commerce and depravity.

Sights, Smells, etc.

• Smells of salt, sweet fish, tarred wood and a lingering hangover.
• Moss grows around the docks and on the walls of nearby buildings. At night it glows a bright bioluminescent blue.
• The morning mist rolling in from the Hollow Sea to swirl about your ankles thins out through the day and returns at night.

Buildings:

• Strong black stone along the shore, towers raised up against the Hollow Sea, wide doors to admit cargo and release machines of war.
• Mixtures of stone and jettied wood the further you get from the sea.

Building: d6 storeys, d6 sub-levels (3-6 no sub-level).

Occupants: d10 per storey, 0 = currently unoccupied.

Activity

Morning:

Dockhands going to work, fish buyers with baskets, men with knotted arms and sharp knives removing barnacles from the docks.
Encounter chance 1 in 6 per hour
Overhear Rumour on a 6
Chance of Godless: 20%/Turn

Noon:
Cargo unloaded, goods being shipped out and haggled for, Neophytic Sisters of the Cathedral of Lost Virtue waiting to lead more discerning seafarers back to the Cathedral and away from the Plaza of Earthly Lust.
Encounter chance 1 in 6 per hour
Overhear Rumour on 6
Chance of Godless: 20%/Turn

Night:
Workers leaving, others arriving to unload the night cargo, revellers of the Plaza, Godless night watch.
-2 to reaction rolls unless inside the Plaza
Encounter chance 1 in 6 per hour
Overhear Rumour on 5-6
Chance of Godless: 30%/Turn

Facts

• Murder Loot: d100 sp. Carrying Curio on a double.
• Dock Trade: They may be the most powerful trading company in the Dockmaw, but Haugroten & Sons are far from alone. Organisations like the Hollow Sea Co. and Leviathon Cargo Cult maintain a presence on the Dockmaw’s boards, generally hiring mercenary dockhands job-to-job. Many speculate that Haugroten & Sons allow their competition to persist merely to avoid boredom.

The thing shambles at you out of the dark, its phallus half hard and bobbing before it as it walks, heavy testicles churning beneath its girth. Something viscous seems to be slowly dripping from its tip, until suddenly it sucks back inside. As you brace your shield and unsheathe your blade similarities to a snail’s eye occur to your subconscious. The thing shudders and retches on itself and the base of its cock swells to triple the original girth and continues to inflate until something you cannot fathom emerges from the tip. The beast wails in pain and terror and collapses to the floor.

Have you seen the snails infected by mind-controlling worms? Like that. Something that enters your penis and takes residence in your scrotum after consuming your testicles, it needs the room, it is not small. Penises can be surprisingly elastic, but fuck it hurts. But you don’t process that. The chemicals it’s pumping into your bloodstream just make you want to mate. Make you want to woo. It is always looking for the perfect host, someone pleasing to the opposite sex. It needs you to find a mate. It needs it to be consensual and loving. It needs your mate to care for the offspring once you have passed away from a mysterious wasting disease, right up until hundreds of its kind emerge from her womb amidst screams and blood and madness.

It is not completely averse to you engaging in same-sex relations, it has found that to be a very convenient way of entering a handsome new host.

Cocks can be both invaded and invading. NO ONE IS SAFE.

Rose: “I think I have the oral hygiene of a convict at the moment so I have the authentic palate for it. I feel like the back of my tongue has been ringbarked. It gathers in my ulcer nicely and then runs to the back of my palate like a bushfire.”

Logan: “The first sip is a bit of a shock, much like the first crime, but the second goes down a lot easier and you start to feel the appeal. It would be easy to fall into this life of crime.”

Rose: “Logan Knight you are the man of my dreams and I love you, recklessly, with abandon, I refuse to love moderately.”

Recommended for petty larceny, perhaps the theft of a small fluffy sheep with a black face.