Here, on the edge of night, the grey sea turns black.
Here, on the edge of winter, the leaves spin through their last fanfare.
It is a city built upon ruin and happenstance, and the destination of all travelers who have neglected to choose another path. Through cracked glass and driftwood there are snatches of song and the smell of cooking food. Merchants line the Ghost Bazaar and offer the impossible to the misbegotten. Behind locked doors heaven and hell discuss terms and the usual private games are played.
Given enough time, even the Iron Road leads somewhere, to some end.