Port Elias

The north side of Port Elias lifts itself above the rest of the city like a noble chin tilted toward the sea. Tidy avenues wind past manicured courtyards and marble façades, every home built to remind the world that wealth can buy distance from the chaos below. The air tastes cleaner, the lanterns burn brighter, and even the gulls seem to know better than to soil the rooftops.

The district is anchored by the Temple of the Gods, a sweeping triumph of pale stone whose bells toll like the heartbeat of the city’s elite. Pilgrims climb its steps seeking blessings; nobles do so hoping to be seen. Not far from it, the Guard Barracks and Training Grounds form a disciplined spine—rows of drilling soldiers, polished armor flashing in the sun, the rhythmic thud of boots reminding residents that order here is not just an ideal but an investment.

For travelers of means—or locals pretending they still have it—there’s no shortage of gilded rest. The Silver Minstrel stands as the crown jewel of aristocratic lodgings, all crystal chandeliers and harp music drifting through perfumed halls. The dwarven-owned Boldrum’s Barrel provides quieter comforts and an ale cellar that could tempt the gods themselves. The Falengar Resort sprawls like a private paradise, a bathhouse and hotel renowned for its sea-salt pools and scandalously high prices. And perched above it all like a smug bird of prey, rumor whispers that The Red Room hosts secret, night-only gatherings for patrons with money and secrets to burn.

In the Albatross District, wealth doesn’t whisper—it glides. And every smile hides a thousand calculations. Presiding over all of this is Westwind Keep, the wind-battered stronghold where Port Elias’s ruling council gathers.

If the Albatross District glides, the Shearwater District hustles. Wedged between the nobles above and the scrappers below, it thrums with the restless energy of trade—crates thudding onto docks, merchants shouting prices like battle cries, and sailors weaving through crowds with saltwater still dripping from their sleeves. Here, the air always tastes faintly of brine, spices, and someone’s half-burnt lunch.

The Grand Market sprawls through the district like a living creature, breathing in coin and breathing out chaos. Stalls overflow with northern furs, dwarven ores, foreign teas, suspicious trinkets, and food carts that smell far too good for anyone to trust. Bargains are struck with quick hands and quicker lies, and if you leave with the same purse you arrived with, the gods have favored you.

Amid the noise and bustle stands Applewood Bakery, a bright, warm pocket of comfort owned by Mary Rose Applewood, a halfling with flour on her sleeves and kindness in her bones. Her bread is famous, her generosity more so—every evening, she hands out day-old goods to the poor with the same casual grace others use to breathe. Some say the whole district would fall apart without her.

Not far away crouches Howl & Hide Mercantile, an adventurers’ supply shop run by a pair of grizzled werewolf hunters who price their goods as though silver is going extinct. Their windows display pelts, traps, and a particularly judgmental replica wolf head that seems to glare at every passerby. The hunters insist they’re experts in “lycanthrope prevention,” but critics argue they’re even better at “wallet reduction.”

For matters chemical, botanical, or ill-advised, there’s The Serpent’s Head Apothecary, run by the sharp-eyed halfling alchemist Nigel Hobbletoe. His shop smells faintly of herbs, citrus, and the kind of secrets that come in corked bottles. Nigel keeps a calm, meticulous demeanor, but the way he watches customers makes it clear he knows more about them than they’d prefer.

In the Shearwater District, fortunes rise and fall with the tide. It’s the city’s crossroads, its middle child, its pulse—loud, honest in its dishonesty, and always moving forward. Where the Albatross District wears its power like jewelry, Shearwater wears its survival like armor.

If Port Elias has a shadow, the Gull District is where it falls. South of the markets and far from the watchful eyes of the nobles, the streets sag with salt-stained shingles, peeling paint, and the weary dreams of those who can’t quite afford better. Here, alleys double as bedrooms, drunks sleep curled beside crates, and the gulls scream overhead like they’re mocking everyone who calls this place home.

And yet—even in its roughness—the district breathes. Children chase each other between fishmongers’ stalls. Laundry snaps from lines strung above muddy streets. The smell of brine, smoke, and last night’s mistakes hangs in the air. This is a place held together not by wealth, but by stubbornness and the unbreakable fact that people must live somewhere.

The taverns here are the district’s heartbeats, each one pumping its own brand of chaos into the night. The Drunken Sailor sits at the end of a crooked lane, its windows steaming with laughter, spilled ale, and poorly tuned shanties. The place is loud, rowdy, and—on a good night—only moderately dangerous. Regulars say it’s impossible to leave sober, and even harder to leave without someone’s elbow print on your ribs.

Then there’s The Pickled Pike, a dive so cheap its ale tastes like it’s been rinsed through old boots. Every dish served carries a suspicious hint of fish, even the bread. Locals swear the tables are sticky before you touch them. But if you’re broke, hungry, or both, the Pike won’t turn you away. That counts for something.

Finally, tucked between two shabby warehouses sits The Siren’s Song, a surprisingly refined brothel that gleams like a polished coin dropped in the gutter. Velvet curtains, soft lighting, and a staff trained in more than flirtation give it an allure the district can’t pretend it deserves. Aristocrats from the upper districts slip through the back entrance after dark, masks on their faces and secrets in their pockets. The Song never asks questions, and its silence is worth more than gold.

Life here is messy, loud, and unfiltered. But it’s real—more real than anything gilded. In the Gull District, survival isn’t guaranteed, but honesty is. And for some, that’s worth more than safety.