the Corpse Market
This amorphous phenomenon caters to the unseemly needs and desires of the Dominion’s most deranged and desperate. In its hidden, mobile bazaars (most readily found in Nephalia) one can find components and reagents for even the vilest rituals, and solicit the services of necromancers, cultists, and unscrupulous alchemists alike.
The Corpse Market is in fact a travelling pseudo-pocket dimension which takes the form of a large town-sized cavern. The ceiling is studded with glimmering stars (brilliant gemstones encrusted in the ceiling which occasionally fall to make someone’s day), and the streets are lit by lamps. The town is populated primarily by mortals, although a smattering of outsiders do business there as well(mostly along the lines of devils, efreet, mind flayers, the more sociable sorts of demons, and suchlike) Regardless of where the host city is located, the Market always has access to a black, subterranean sea upon which merchant ships sail and over which the Market does business with distant places.
The Market is presided over by several enigmatic beings known as the Masters, which take a an active role in the community. Although none can say what exactly they are (they are all swaddled and hooded, and virtually indistinguishable), they nonetheless take a great interest in their citizens, particularly promising newcomers, and will readily offer their patronage if they’re not satisfied simply spying.
They and their domains are as follows (note: a Master is always describes as “it”)
Taxes from trade in all things wrought from metal are payable to Mr Iron. They say it never speaks, but can write with both hands simultaneously.
All that is written
Trade in anything liquid comes under the jurisdiction of Mr Wines. Though it can’t be bothered with water. Entertainment, music, and business of the ladies of the evening are also its domain. There’s supposed to be some sort of dispute about dreams.
Jewels. Quarrystone. Salts. Powders.
Governs commerce in food, wood, and immortality. Primary distributor of prisoner’s honey (the only way one can dream in the Market, although exceedingly effective).
Who is Mr. Eaten? A good question, but not a wise one. Carries a large, lumpy burlap sack.
Governs trade in all manner of fuel, keeps its offices among the warehouses and rowdy dockside pubs. Carries a brand at all times, keeps the lamps lit.
Meats, bloods, puddings, joints, chops, sausages… all manner of dead things for any purpose… makes no sound other than the ubiquitous beat of a pumping heart.
POINTS OF INTEREST
Watchmaker’s Hill: on the summit of which sits an observatory staffed solely by blind men.
Veilgarden: decadent haunt of poets, prostitutes and other low types, and location of the notorious Singing Mandrake inn. Elderwick Square is famous for its booksellers. Hollow Street offers the best honey-dens in the city.
Spite: run-down thieves den.
Ladybones Road: can be a good place to hear gossip, and is always a good place for a hanging.