Graymarsh

Graymarsh sprawls along the southern river mouth where the land never fully decided whether it wished to be shore or swamp. The ground is soft and brackish, boards laid over mud that swallows boots after heavy rain. Houses lean at uncertain angles, their foundations sinking slowly into the muck, patched endlessly with driftwood and scrap timber. Crooked piers jut into shallow water where small sloops and fishing craft tie off, far from the structured order of the main harbor. Nets hang to dry beside rusted anchors, and the air smells of rot, brine, and woodsmoke. Graymarsh is where newcomers dock when coin is thin and scrutiny unwelcome—a second harbor built from necessity rather than design.