Skald

Skald, the largest community in Kartakass, gleams with charm, color, and cultural pretense—a city of masks, both literal and metaphorical. Nestled at the foot of wooded hills and bordered by winding streams, Skald projects the image of a vibrant, sophisticated hub of artistry, trade, and theatrical excellence. Its streets echo with music by day and drama by night, as minstrels duel in verse and every square becomes a stage. But beneath its dazzling exterior lies a city obsessed with image, manipulation, and performance without end.

Every citizen of Skald is an actor, whether they wear a costume or not. Performance is currency, and social standing depends on one's ability to sing, spin a tale, or outwit a rival with flair. Theaters rise like temples on every block—some vast and ornate, others little more than wine-stained parlors with an audience of three. Even the city council is made up of self-declared “Master Thespians,” elected through public popularity, applause, and showmanship rather than merit or policy.

Citizens dress extravagantly, and it is said that no one in Skald wears their true face. Masquerade masks are common, as are titles that shift with the seasons—“Baron of Ballads,” “Duchess of Drama,” “Count Quill.” Outsiders often mistake these for nobility; they are not, but correcting them ruins the game.

The ruling elite of Skald—the Cabal of the Velvet Curtain—maintain power not through force, but by controlling narratives. Those who speak poorly of Skald are ridiculed in public verse, defamed in one-man shows, or have their reputations “rewritten” through musical slander. The cabal has eyes and ears in every gallery, inn, and costume shop.

Reputation is life. Duels are fought with words. Lives are ruined through rumor and satire. The greatest crime is not murder or theft—but being uninteresting.

Unknown to many, Skald is also the seat of Harkon Lukas, the domain's darklord. A devilishly handsome werewolf bard, Lukas poses as a charismatic impresario who owns several of the city's theaters and salons. He moves among the populace as a celebrated performer and tastemaker, drawing the most beautiful, talented, and naive to his side—only to discard them when they lose their shine.

Some whisper that Lukas drinks inspiration like blood, feeding off the passion and sorrow of his admirers. It’s said that many of Skald’s most tragic suicides were never self-inflicted at all.

Skald is dazzling by torchlight and suffocating by morning. The city pulses with:

• Echoes of applause and unseen judgment
• A sense of being watched, evaluated, and recorded at all times
• A constant need to perform, to be “on,” to never break character

Behind every laugh, there’s a script. Behind every mask, a predator. Skald is a city-sized stage, and the show never ends.

Skald is a city of spectacle and seduction, where dreams are kindling, tragedy is fashionable, and the crowd’s roar may well be a howl in disguise.