As I passed through the gates of Zagnaroth, the air changed. It was denser, filled with soot, molten metal, tension. The ground echoed with each step, a blend of polished black stone and beaten metal slabs. The city was alive.
A world of iron and fire. Organized, oppressive, magnificent in its own way. And in its streets, several races coexisted. I saw ash-skinned dwarves, carrying barrels of ore. Demonic species with twisted horns, sometimes with scaly skin, beings dressed in leather and chains, others masked, walking hunched under inhuman loads.
But one race dominated. They were seen everywhere. In the markets. In the forges. Guarding the walls. Sitting on steel balconies, or standing, watching the others. The demons of Zagnaroth.
