Ramulai

Life in Ramulai is precarious. Most villagers are indentured laborers, failed students, or magically afflicted souls who cannot leave due to curse or necessity. They live in stacked stone hovels, their homes illuminated by arcane braziers and the soft glow of containment glyphs. Children play with warped toys that shift shape when no one is looking. Illness is common, and birth defects—or spontaneous magical mutations—are accepted with grim resignation.

Despite the hazards, some choose to come here: exiled scholars, fugitive spellcasters, or those seeking forbidden knowledge. In Ramulai, magic is not revered—it is a force to be harvested, used, and survived.

Though Hazlik rarely appears, his will permeates every part of Ramulai. A trio of his apprentices—each twisted by ambition and magical mishaps—rule the village in his name, bickering over territory and vying for their master's favor.

• Zarika the Bound Flame is a pyromancer whose veins glow with molten light, her presence igniting the very air.
• Mekoruun the Quiet speaks only in magical sigils and commands silent constructs that enforce order with mechanical precision.
• Vaustra Null manipulates time in fragments, living moments ahead of others and driving herself into prophetic madness.

Ramulai is not a place of quaint cottages or peaceful farmlands. The village is built from charred bricks, runestone-laced timber, and slagglass windows that warp the light and the eye. Its streets are paved with cracked stone etched with fading arcane sigils. A constant haze of sparkling smog—a noxious byproduct of reckless magical industry—hangs over the settlement, turning the air into a swirling soup of shimmering dust and slow suffocation.

Breathing is difficult in Ramulai. Locals wear filtration masks or enchanted scarves, and visitors rarely stay long unless they have business with the alchemists, artificers, or the Red Wizards who quietly claim dominion here.

Once a modest hamlet, Ramulai was transformed by Hazlik’s decree into a site of magical experimentation and resource extraction. The surrounding lands are riddled with spell-scars—zones of unstable magic, elemental rifts, and eerie silence.

Within Ramulai:

• Alchemy foundries belch multicolored steam and embers day and night, producing potions, poisons, and failed experiments in equal measure.
• Runesmiths labor over magical inscriptions etched into everything from doors to animals.
• Arcane waste is dumped into nearby pits known as the Glittergulfs, where sparkling sludge bubbles ominously, warping the land and attracting strange creatures.