Arcmire: Monument of Madness
Rising from the Dread Wastes like a twisted monument to human depravity, Arcmire once stood as a testament to unchecked ambition. This massive coliseum, cobbled together from stolen timber, scavenged metal, and roughly-hewn stone, dominated the landscape—a crooked crown of corruption where morality withered beneath the desert sun. At its heart lay a sprawling arena that drew the darkest elements of society: hardened gamblers, ruthless gangsters, and spectators who thirsted for blood sport.
The fortress’s outer walls concealed a labyrinth of shadowed tunnels where crude cells housed Eden’s outcasts and condemned. These unfortunate souls existed in spaces barely large enough to stand, their world reduced to straw bedding and air heavy with decay. For these prisoners—human and beast alike—the arena offered the only escape, though few survived its brutal embrace. Under the merciless desert sun, they faced deadly Baldagaars, nightmarish creatures, and fellow prisoners in desperate battles for survival.
Those rare fighters who proved their worth in blood received a grim reward: quarters on the coliseum’s second level, where basic amenities passed for luxury. These “Moneymakers,” as they were known, continued to dance with death for the crowds’ entertainment, their very existence a dark reminder that survival sometimes demands terrible compromise.
Above it all reigned the architect of this horror—a shadowy tyrant known only as The Fat Man. From his perch on the third level, far removed from the suffering below, he surrounded himself with plundered treasures and exotic artifacts stolen from across Thaloria. His throne room dripped with ill-gotten wealth, while death echoed through the chambers below.
But even empires built on sand must fall. When Lord Solomon’s airships darkened the sky, they brought swift justice to Arcmire’s corrupt heart. In a single night of fire and thunder, bombs reduced the mighty coliseum to rubble, sending The Fat Man fleeing into The Dread Wastes, never to be seen again.
Today, Arcmire’s ruins tell a different story. Where once blood soaked the arena floor, a community of survivors has taken root. Former prisoners, desert wanderers, and the desperate have claimed these broken walls, transforming chambers of death into shelters of hope. The legendary riches of the third floor have scattered to the winds, becoming tales whispered around campfires—stories of hidden treasures that draw treasure hunters and dreamers alike.
The fortress that once imprisoned now offers refuge, its charred bones housing those who seek shelter from the wastes. Within these walls, bandits and outcasts forge an unlikely fellowship, building lives among the ruins of tyranny. Every corner holds secrets, every shadow conceals possibility, and every artifact found comes with its own dark history.
Yet Arcmire remains a place of harsh truth—where survival requires strength, where trust is earned in blood, and where the past refuses to stay buried beneath the shifting sands. In this sanctuary of the desperate, each resident knows their tenure is as temporary as the desert winds allow, for The Dread Wastes are patient, and they claim all things in time.
