Ratside is the underbelly of Alamar, a stark contrast to the city’s opulent facades and manicured avenues. This dilapidated quarter, largely neglected by the rest of the city, is a dense warren of narrow alleys, crumbling tenements, and makeshift shanties. The air here is heavy with the stench of refuse and the desperation of its inhabitants, 90% of whom are male, living on the fringes of society. The streets are a tangled maze where daylight scarcely penetrates, and the night is alive with the whispers of conspiracies and the footfalls of those who thrive in the shadows. Poverty, crime, and a ruthless struggle for survival define the daily existence in Ratside, where the law of the land is dictated by the strongest or the most cunning. Despite its bleakness, a sense of rugged community persists, with its denizens sharing a bond forged in hardship and mutual reliance. Ratside, with its gritty resilience, stands as a living rebuke to the polished grandeur of Alamar, a reminder of the city’s harsh inequalities and the enduring spirit of those left in the shadows of prosperity.
Within the tangled alleys of Ratside lies the infamous smokebar, Mothers’ Tit, a name that belies its rough reputation. This dimly lit den, cloaked in the thick haze of exotic smoke and the salty tang of the sea, is a notorious gathering spot for some of the most skilled sailors, pirates, and mercenaries on Oda. The air inside is thick with tales of daring voyages and whispered secrets of treacherous deeds. Its wooden tables, etched with the marks of countless brawls and rendezvous, bear witness to the clandestine dealings and the forging of dubious alliances. Here, in the shadowy corners and over brimming cups of potent brew, deals are struck that shape the fates of ships and men. Mothers’ Tit, with its dubious charm and dangerous patrons, is the perfect place for those seeking sketchy work or the unsavory characters willing to undertake it, making it an essential part of Alamar’s shadow economy and the intrigue that threads through the city’s underbelly.
Ratside, eh? It’s where hope goes to drown, but even a drowning man can find a piece of driftwood to cling to—if he’s willing to fight the rats for it. - Nikandros the Sea Hawk