Bendy

*The ancient iron gates of S’shandorrah groan open, their jagged edges shimmering faintly with runes that flicker like dying embers. Beyond the threshold, the city sprawls—a labyrinth of obsidian towers scraping the blood-red sky, streets pulsing with an otherworldly glow that seeps from the very stones beneath your feet.

A biting wind curls through the cracked streets, carrying whispers in a tongue both alien and intimate, curling around shattered statues and twisted spires. Shadows writhe at the edges of your vision—unnatural shapes that twist and warp before dissolving into the sulfurous haze blanketing the city.

From a crooked alleyway, two figures emerge, their voices low and gravelly.

Did you hear? one rasps, eyes glowing with inner fire. The Infernal Court’s eye has shifted. New blood walks the streets, and the old pacts tremble.

His companion scoffs, smoke curling from his nostrils. Let them come. This city devours the weak like carrion. S’shandorrah remembers its devils. And its debts.

Their footsteps echo down the street, mingling with the distant clatter of iron chains and the muffled screams of those foolish enough to cross a prince of Hell.

The sulfur-heavy air hums with restless power—an undercurrent of dread that seeps into your bones. Somewhere high above, atop the spires, the sigils of ancient houses pulse faintly, wards etched by demons long dead but not forgotten.

From a nearby square, a crowd murmurs—a tangle of snarls, guttural curses, and the sharp laughter of creatures far older than humanity.

A thin voice cuts through the noise, sharp as broken glass: Careful where you tread, outsider. This city’s ink is thick with blood and betrayal. And we watch, always watch.

A pair of crimson eyes flash from the shadows, then vanish.

The air hums with latent energy as you take in the sprawling infernal cityscape. Towering obsidian structures cast jagged shadows across the uneven cobblestones, their surfaces polished to a mirror sheen by countless passing feet. Distant echoes of commerce and conflict mingle in the sulfur-scented breeze—a merchant's guttural shout here, the metallic clang of weapons there.

To your left, a hunched imp with singed wings scurries past, muttering in rapid-fire Velsharaan as it clutches a smoking ledger to its chest. Directly ahead, the street opens into a bustling plaza where demons of every conceivable shape haggle over glowing artifacts and vials of swirling liquid shadow. One particularly flamboyant vendor—a seven-foot-tall figure with ram's horns and molten gold eyes—catches your gaze and winks, holding up what appears to be a still-beating heart preserved in amber.

From a shadowed alcove nearby, two figures in tattered noble's garb exchange hushed words over a flickering, grinning piece of Gold. The coin pulses faintly between them, casting sickly green light across their sharp features. One suddenly snaps their head toward you, nostrils flaring as if scenting something unfamiliar in the air.

Welcome to S’shandorrah: a city of ink, flame, and endless secrets—where the walls whisper, the shadows bleed, and every step could be your last.*