Decorticatopolis

A Merchant’s Tale

“Well now, cutter, whaddaya think of me work? Don’t pike off too quick! These ain’t your run-o’-the-plane raggedy stitchjobs, nah nah—these are the finest flesh golems this side o’ Dis. Durable, obedient, and downright beautiful… if ya don’t mind the odd misplaced eye or an extra arm stickin’ out where it shouldn’t. But that’s art, innit? That’s craftsmanship, see?”

“What’s that? You wannae hear about me day-to-day? This for a mimir? [coins clink] Oh that’s very generous, cutter. Of course. It ain’t a tale for for the squeamish, mind ye, make sure your listeners know about that!”

A Day in the Flesh Markets of Decorticatopolis

“Ah, Decorticatopolis. She’s a nasty piece o’ work, this town—nothing but flayed skin banners, the reek of spoiled meat, and the howls of the poor sods being shaved clean outta their hides in back-alley deals. This place ain’t built on jink or stone, see? It’s built on meat, proper and raw. The streets themselves squelch under yer boots, and don’t you stop to think about the walls. They breathe sometimes, yeah, but that’s just ambiance. Keeps the clients in the mood, eh?

“Now, call me Grasklem (planar tiefling necromancer [he/him] / Doomguard / CE). That’s me tag. Folk ‘round here know me as the “King of the Stitch,” though that’s just some fancy nick they slap on me. Call it what ye want—me trade’s a simple one: flesh golems. The finest in the planes. You want a guard that don’t ask you questions? A servant that don’t flinch at a blade? Or maybe you just fancy a pet stitched together from bits o’ things what should’ve stayed dead? I’m yer berk. Oh yes”

Morning: Sourcing the Goods

“Me day kicks off early, aye—it’s all about getting the goods. See, the real art ain’t the stitching, nah—it’s the materials. You don’t slap together a masterpiece outta scraps, cutter. You need the right parts, fresh and, ideally, still kickin’. Lucky for me, the Flesh Markets keep me well-stocked. They’re the pulse of Decorticatopolis, y’know—a sprawling bazaar where anything with a pulse (or without one) gets sold, sliced, or stitched.

“’Loths from Oinos, tanar’ri high-ups looking for muscle, poor primes what got a bit too curious ‘bout planar portals—it all ends up here, in bits and pieces. Skinned, flensed, or sold still screamin’, I don’t care so long as the bits hold together. The trick is knowin’ which merchants ain’t tryin’ to nick ye. Zalriss the Corpseweaver, he’s alright, keeps his undead nice and chilled. But Krrakra, that vrock bastard—he sold me mouldy arms what fell apart the second I stitched ’em. That berk ever swindles me again, I’ll use his own wings for a project.”

Noon: Workin’ the Needle

“Back to the workshop, eh? That’s where the real music happens. I got me a little nook carved into the fleshy underbelly of the Markets—Grasklem’s Stitchery. Humble, but busy, see? The place might stink o’ blood and chemicals, but I keeps me tools sharp and me vats full. Big black cauldrons bubble with preservative sludge, while the workbench is stacked with all manner of bits: hands, legs, arms, wings, tails, heads, and eyeballs—still twitchin’ with leftover life.

“When I’m buildin’, that’s when I’m happiest. There’s a rhythm to it, a kind o’ dance. Ya start with the frame—iron wire and bone, twisted together in a way that’ll hold the weight. Then the flesh—layer by layer, y’ave to sew it on just right, so the muscles bind proper. The worst mistake a berk can make is stitchin’ wrong, see? Ain’t nothin’ worse than a golem what pulls itself apart ‘cause you botched the joins.

“Some clients want specifics, o’ course. “Grasklem, I need six arms, and they all better be left ones!” or “Can ya make it smile? I want it to smile while it’s killin’.” You learn not to ask questions, aye. Folks got their tastes, cruel as they may be.

Evening: The Buyers ain’t Always Honest

The day wraps itself up in the nastiest part of the trade: dealing with customers, but also the skinthieves. See, the Flesh Markets attract more than buyers—they attract scavengers, too. Cross-traders who think they can pike off with a piece o’ me product, or worse, try to copy me work. Had a group o’ mortal necromancers try to lift one o’ me premium golems last week. They paid the price in the end, aye—a proper flaying, and their bones’re forming part of me next commission. Yes cutter, ya can’t ever let yer guard down, not in Decorticatopolis.

“The town itself don’t help, neither. The place is sort of alive, y’know? I mean that literal-like. The Flesh Markets feed on the trade, drinkin’ up the spilt blood, the gobblin’ up cast-off parts, savouring the screams. Some nights, when the business is slow, the walls start to groan and demand more. That’s when ya know ya gotta step it up, deliver somethin’ extra grotesque. Otherwise, the town might decide yer shop’s next on the cuttin’ block.”

The Motley Clients

“Now, here’s the best part: the customers. Ain’t a bleedin’ soul comes through me shop what don’t give me somethin’ to laugh about—or somethin’ to shiver about when I’m alone at night. But hey, shiverin’ keeps a body warm, at least?

“Tanar’ri tend to come sniffin’ ‘round, lookin’ for big, brutish things to throw into the next skirmish against the baatezu. They don’t haggle, nah—they just take, unless you make it real clear they’d lose more limbs than they’ve got. You need a solid pair of stones to deal with the tanar’ri. But if you can handle them, their jink is as good as anyones.

“Yugoloths, now they’re sneaky bastards. They usually want their flesh golems sleek and elegant, somethin’ to serve ‘em in their posh little Hellside-casinos. They pay good jink so they do, but they’ll try and scam ya if you don’t nail down every detail in the contract. Frankly they’re a headache, I always shudder when an arcanoloth darkens me door.

“And then there’s the planewalkers, yeah cutters like yerself. Lost mortals with too much curiosity and not enough sense. They want somethin’ “exotic,” somethin’ to take back to their backwater Prime and show off. I once built a wolf-headed golem with spider legs and a scorpion’s sting for some berk who thought it’d make him a king back home. Wonder if it ate ‘im yet?”

Life Here Ain’t for the Faint-Hearted

“So, cutter, that’s me day. Grim, bloody, and full o’ screams—just the way I like it. Grasklem’s Stitchery is the best in the Flesh Markets, and don’t let no berk tell ya otherwise. But it ain’t an easy life, nah. You live here long enough, and you start to wonder who stitched you together, and what kinda monster they were.

“Now, you want somethin’ stitched up, or are ya just here for the stories? C’mon then, make yer choice quick—ain’t like I got eternity. Well… not yet.”

Source: Jon Winter-Holt