The Northern District is a bustling quarter. Mud-brick homes cluster close to military barracks, their walls worn but sturdy, mirroring the resilience of those within. Craftsmen’s workshops line narrow, winding streets, spilling the scent of wood smoke and molten metal. Taverns, lively and rough-hewn, are scattered throughout, their open doors welcoming labourers, soldiers, and servants who gather nightly to drink and share stories, their laughter carrying into the twilight. By day, the district hums with the clang of hammers and the call of market vendors; by night, it becomes a fortress of fellowship, where even the most worn souls find solace.
