Somewhere past the low, grim marshes and thick woods of the oldest gnarled trees that twist and curl with one another in strangely human shapes: is a city. The city is vast, its age inestimable to even the most powerful and knowledgeable of its secret echelons. Its architecture skeletal and arching, the city bridges mesh and marrow into a thump of forgotten magics coagulating in industry and quieted senses of morality. It rises from the moss and muck of the ancient wilds to stretch its dark stone and brass buildings to the ever-murky skies, their eerie authority daring any foreign to its ways to misstep or misspeak.
This city is Basilika.
There are countless laboratories and vaults and cabals within its limits, much of the unnatural light that burns ceaselessly in windows and over archways fueling experimentation and conspiracy wherever its citizens can inter themselves from suspicion and unwanted investigation. There are whispers and rumors of a single deep network of spies, assassins, and specialists, thralls serving masters of such influence and history that it seems they are Basilika itself, the utterance of its name difficult to stomach for even the boldest, most corrupt nobility looking to purchase their information or services:
The Black Sect.
Vice is normalcy in Basilika. Lawlessness, however, is atrocity. The city has learned to mutate even as it decays—thus the enormity of its dereliction is only matched by the regal malfeasance.
It is also within the city that The Glorious Hierarchy of Martyrs makes home, an institution one part behemothic governmental religion, one part merciless righteous punishment. Ruled by the enigmatic Hierarch himself and the powerful member of the Godhead, they make it their sanctioned duty to rid the city of any and all immorality they observe, something they define rather broadly.
This is a city of dark sedition and shadowy tales. This is a place of history and secrecy, of thought and life growing from the long dead. This is where the very landscape itself speaks to those wise to listen and discern the lies from the rare and dubious truth. This is the city of bastioned cathedrals, black parapets and forgotten belfries looming over the fashionable occult, the grotesque mechanical, the squalid grandeur and, most of all, the unknowable barely hidden from sight.
This is Basilika.