About the City
How we rose
Raptoraem is a scar turned sovereign.
Once Vergoldetestadt—the Gilded jewel of the Imperium—the city was torn from the mainland during the Sundering and left to rot under Solarium’s boot.
For centuries, its people—mocked as Sludgerats, Skewbacks, Dustfingers—endured Strip-mining, taxes, and Ore-Blight. The Synod dubbed their home Refugium: fitting epithet for an oubliette dressed as sanctuary. With its heretical idols, sunken ruins, and streets smogged with acid rains, it became a place where the unwanted were cast off;the condemned forgotten.
But the Pitbound do not forget.
From the sludgepits rose a people who would not kneel. They sharpened their suffering into steel; their hunger into teeth. And when the Siege at the Vesper Gate came, Solarium’s white banners burned. In their place, Raptoraem raised its own: fangs bared. Wings spread.
Sovereign at last.
Three months have passed since independence. Yet Raptoraem is no scenic route.
It is a crucible.
Every Strut groans with rust and revelry. Every tier of the Pit is carved from mineral veins that bleed riches and rot. The higher you climb, the stranger the light; the deeper you descend, the blacker the trade. Law here is not writ but numbered into bones: each blood bargain and backroom deal an iron code that holds the city fast.
And the Black Maw himself?
He rules with razored teeth: swallowing rivals whole, grinding rebirth out of ruin.
Meanwhile, beneath it all, the stone remembers. Strange glyphs crawl the foundations, carved by hands older than empire. They glow in blackened tunnels and whisper in broken vaults, a reminder that Raptoraem’s soul is rooted in a darkness as primal as the blood that once feed the Blessed Five.
Freedom here is not granted—it is seized, and spat back out with teeth bared.
Welcome to Raptoraem.
Try not to scream.