The warrens are, as the name suggests, a layered tangle of simple wooden hovels and homes clustered in the eastern part of the city. Sitting in the shadows of the other districts, the winding network of roads that connect the warrens to the rest of the city are built of a mixture of stonework, logs, and packed dirt and mud, crisscrossed by clothes lines and crude wooden bridges that connect the upper floors of buildings. A dark tangle of alleys offer a quick route through the district for those with the knowledge or sense of adventure.
The homes here are small, sparse, and practical, built with little comfort in mind. Most of the buildings appear to be connected to one another in some way, sharing heating areas or small yards. A few of the larger buildings seem to crawl up the crag wall, anchored by iron and wishful thinking. These larger ‘low-estates’ seem to perch, on the mount, with balcony’s looking out over the warrens like crooked birds.
From the edge of the district you can see a few treacherous paths up Maurlog; switchbacks that scale the steep incline of the mount.
The smell of humanity is strong here; mix of cooking food, bodies, and waste that creeps from every window, subtle at the edges of the district and chokingly strong deeper within.
The roads are sparse during the day, occupied by two groups; wives, children, and those few lucky labourers on a day of rest; and the destitute and dangerous. You catch glimpse of regular guard patrols, 4 men strong and well armed, each of which sends the more latter scrabbling for the alleys.
It would be easy to get lost in this part of the city; streets seem nameless and arbitrary, merging with small courtyards surrounded by tiered homes and alleys are little more than urban caves and nearly as dark.
King Rotta’s Tavern