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.)
The Ghostworks.
The Boneworks.
The Soulworks.
The Bladeworks.
The Painworks.
What exactly goes on at the Painworks? I don’t know, but I bet its employees enjoy the music of Trent Rezner.
Tags: everybook
Wow! I love the Ghostworks etc! And I love a city shaped like a sugar rose. Delicious!