This was not like the village of the Bomunga. It was of stone, with tall, tiered structures, ending in rounded tops. … this city was built of a corbeled architecture that all outside structures were built so each successive stone projected beyond the one below it. This gave the city a perfect defense as no human could scale such a wall.
This description of a sword-and-planet city, with out-tilting walls with rounded tops, reminds me of the way that a very, very small person would describe one of those sugar roses on birthday cakes.
Actually, a giant sugar rose would make a very attractive city. The pastel-pink walls would rise outwards. There would be separate, overlapping sections of walls, like petals. They wouldn’t touch, but between them would be a narrow corridor barred with a city gate.
Also, the book mentions breastworks. I’ve never been exactly sure what breastworks are, but it doesn’t matter, because even if I look it up, I can’t use “breastworks” as a D&D location because my players will snicker. But it got me thinking about how medieval builders added -works to things: it seems to denote a factory, with the added connotation that what was being made was a Work, capitalized. Adding -works onto fantasy words might be a fruitful way to make new locations that sound mechanized, sinister, and possibly slightly German (which might amount to the same thing.)
What exactly goes on at the Painworks? I don’t know, but I bet its employees enjoy the music of Trent Rezner.