The lower market terraces of Trench-Spire were not designed for casual browsing. They were designed for survival.
As we descended from the relative quiet of the upper caldera rim and stepped onto the primary mercantile promenade, the sheer, unfiltered hostility of the deep-sea culinary world crashed over us. The avenue was paved in jagged, cooling basalt. Heavy iron grates lined the centre of the street, venting localised plumes of raw, crimson magma that served as both illumination and open-air roasting pits for the hundreds of vendors hawking their wares.
The noise was a physical weight. The deafening roar of highly pressurised water flash-boiling against the thermal vents mingled with the aggressive, overlapping shouts of merchants screaming prices in a dozen different abyssal dialects.
"That's a lot of people."
Luna projected directly into my mind.
