Some call it the Jewel of the Coast, others the City of Thieves. A place of virtuous adherents and esteemed nobility. Black port of skullduggery and robber barons. A city bearing splendid extravagance and inventive merchantry. A roost for scheming foreigners, knaves and outcasts. A cloister of chaste thought and vibrant revelation. Hotbed of licentious blasphemy and irreverence. All are correct, and none.
Despite the labels stuck to Censure, her citizens are steadfast and unconcerned with foreign claims, and yet the city lives and breathes by indulgent trade and policy with the outer world. Therein lays her charm, for she offers a nonjudgmental view and more palatable alternatives: romantic dalliance and intrigues removed from common claims of morality and justice. Many come here to discover their own nobility, the spirituality of self, and legitimate redress in court or alleyway with nothing but their own conscience to guide them. However, the errant visitor should not view Censure as a place of lawless self indulgence, for she has her own sense of decorum and propriety. She is a city of action and consequence, of cause and effect, and the Lords of Censure brook no intolerance of her ways from the contentious warlord, boorish foreigners, zealous mystics or the daring mountebank. Liberal equity coincides with rigid hierarchy; extravagance marries hatchet-faced practicality, clemency with cruelty. Above all things, Censure is a place of balance, but around that stoic core swirls the chimeric dance of daily life, in speculation and discovery, intrigue and artifice, sophistry and streetwise romp, sensual deviance and orthodoxy. It is a place where one can come with nothing and risk it all for aught but a fleeting dream. Whether torn from the ground or the emperor’s coffer, all gems are stolen. Where they come from is irrelevant to the lust of the eye, for each shines beautifully when set and polished. This is the Jewel of the Coast. This is the City of Thieves.