Razor’s Edge

Razor’s Edge, perched precariously on shifting cliffs above the Cauterising Plain, is a glittering paradox: A citadel town of lethal imagination where innovation reigns supreme—but at a cost so steep its citizens rarely speak of it aloud. From its serrated spires to its glowing magically shielded streets, everything in Razor’s Edge is cutting-edge, literally and figuratively. Here, the pulse of change is palpable, and standing still means falling behind. Every moment a struggle to stay relevant, but those who succeed gain power and prestige—for a time at least—and immortality in whispers.

Razor’s Edge isn’t just ahead of the curve; it defines the curve. Be it new fashion that makes the high-ups of Sigil green with envy, new philosophies that would shock a Signer, or magical discoveries that threaten to rewrite existence itself, everything from here is a first. At least, that’s what the locals reckon.

But like everything in the Abyss, turns out the town’s perfection comes from a sinister source—one that ensures the innovations never stop flowing—no matter how many bodies must be piled up keep the wheels turning.

The Secret to Staying Ahead

The dark of Razor’s Edge’s relentless innovation is as sharp and jagged as the town itself: culling stagnation at the source. This is no metaphor; the town’s survival depends on a system of constant shedding akin to the philosophy of the Cauterising Plain itself. Innovation here isn’t nurtured—it’s harvested, stolen, and sometimes even ripped forcefully from the minds of the unlucky.

At the heart of Razor’s Edge’s machinery is a cult known as the Exactionists. This shadowy organisation acts as both a secret police and harvesting apparatus, tasked with ensuring the town never falls victim to mediocrity. As you might expect, they are utterly ruthless in their methods.

If you create something brilliant—an idea, a piece of art, a spell, even an outfit—you may find yourself an invited guest at the Exactionists’ tower. Many go willingly, believing they will be celebrated, elevated, even immortalised. If the Exactionists reckon they’ve got more to offer the burg then that is indeed what happens; they’re put on a pedestal and venerated. But those who don’t, the one-trick ponies, they are… not. Their remaining creativity is extracted, sometimes mechanically, other times magically, leaving them drained, hollowed-out husks. Razor’s Edge keeps the innovation. The innovator often does not survive.

So why would a berk risk it? And those who don’t innovate? They are culled. Whether this means death, public humiliation, or exile to the Wastes, it’s all the same. Stagnation is the only crime in Razor’s Edge, and the punishment is swift and merciless.

The Exactionists prize the moment of inspiration above all else, believing it to be a spark that must be harnessed—and consumed. Entire hallways of their headquarters in Razor’s Edge, the Cutting House, are said to be lined with preserved brains, each one forever crackling with the last, best idea of its former owner.

Who Rules?

*Today’s Look for Lady Akrinelle Vescanis*

On the surface, Razor’s Edge is ruled by Lady Akrinelle Vescanis, the Ostentatious Dictator (planar succubus tanar’ri [she/her] / CE), an effervescent and terrifying figure who personifies the town’s philosophy. Akrinelle changes her appearance daily—not just her attire, but her entire self. Through a combination of magic, surgery, and sheer artistic madness, she reinvents herself to match the town’s fleeting trends, embodying whatever is currently “in.” One day she might appear as a porcelain doll with skin like cracked glass; the next, a smouldering sorceress with flaming hair.

Akrinelle preaches that existence itself is an art form, and that to stagnate is to decay. Her speeches are dazzling and venomous, a blend of charismatic inspiration and ruthless condemnation. But beneath her constantly morphing exterior lies a paranoid, desperate core. Akrinelle knows that even she is not above Razor’s Edge’s unspoken rules. Should she falter for even a day, should she fail to embody the spirit of innovation, the Exactionists would discard her just as easily as anyone else.

This fear drives her to ever-greater extremes. Rumours swirl that she has sold her soul multiple times, trading it to various powers of the Abyss for more attention, greater talent, and her terrifying ability to stay ahead of the bloody curve.

Who Really Rules?

Beneath the glitz, glamour, and ceaseless reinvention lies the true power behind the throne: A being known only as the Scarred Reflection.

The Scarred Reflection is a shadowy, eldritch force which is tied intrinsically to Razor’s Edge. Some say it is a sentient shard of the Abyss itself, a sliver of Skindjur’s essence that birthed the town as an extension of its philosophy. Others claim it is an ancient power, shattered long ago and rebuilding itself piece by piece by devouring creativity from mortals. Whatever it is, its influence drives Razor’s Edge.

The Scarred Reflection lives deep beneath the Cutting House, its presence hidden from all but the Exactionists. To gaze upon it is to see your own flaws magnified a thousandfold, your imperfections splayed out like bloody wounds. The Reflection speaks not with words but with the sharp sting of scorn, carving its will directly into the minds of those who serve it.

The Scarred Reflection feeds on creativity, but it leaves devastation in its wake. Every new idea, every groundbreaking spell, every dazzling design sacrificed to Razor’s Edge is absorbed by the Scarred Reflection, which uses these stolen sparks to slowly rebuild itself. Those who are “culled” by Razor’s Edge—whose brilliance is extracted by the Exactionists—are amalgamated into the Reflection’s ever-growing power.

In this way, the burg thrives, but at a horrible cost: the very people who forge Razor’s Edge are ground to dust beneath it, their souls shredded on the altar of progress.

Akrinelle Vescanis is aware of the Scarred Reflection, but whether she serves it willingly or is simply its most prominent victim is a matter of debate. Some believe she struck a bargain with it long ago: As long as she keeps the town fed with fresh innovation, she will remain untouchable. Others whisper that she too is a prisoner, her constant reinventions merely a desperate attempt to keep the Reflection from noticing her flaws.

Why Would Anyone Come Here?

Ah, cutter, that’s the rub, isn’t it? Razor’s Edge isn’t a place for the faint of heart or soft of flesh. It’s a gilded trap, a glittering blade, and only the most desperate, ambitious, or warped souls would willingly walk its serrated streets. But make no mistake—folk do come here, and some even choose to stay. The town’s allure is as sharp as its philosophy, and to some, it’s worth the pain for the chance to carve out a piece of history (even if it carves you later).

The Draw: A Throne of Innovation

For the ambitious, Razor’s Edge is the ultimate proving ground. The town is renowned across the planes for its relentless drive toward invention, reinvention, and progress. To make your mark in Razor’s Edge is to become a name whispered in every city, citadel, and abyssal trench from Sigil to the farthest reaches of the Inner Planes. Write a spell here, craft a philosophy, design a wholly new artform, and your creation will define trends for decades—possibly centuries.

Of course, the catch is that your creations outlive you, while you’re likely to end up as one of the forgotten husks hanging in the Exactionists’ Cutting House. But for those blinded by ambition, the cost doesn’t seem so steep.

Razor’s Edge offers the promise of shedding your anonymity and joining the fast track to fame. For those haunted by inadequacy, or frustrated with being passed over or ignored, the burg feels like an answer to their prayers. Want to be a fashion icon? Here’s your chance to redefine beauty itself. Aspiring mage? Razor’s Edge holds the secrets to spells no one’s ever dreamed of.

Of course, this promise is a razor-edged lie. The “perfect” self Razor’s Edge offers isn’t truly you—it’s a hollow shell sculpted to suit the town’s fleeting ideals. And in Razor’s Edge, perfection has a shelf life of weeks, if not days.

Yet for the Abyssal elite, Razor’s Edge is one of the places to be seen. Tanar’ri, yugoloths, night hags, and shadow fiends with too much pride and too little sense flock to its gilded salons and theatres, desperate to stay ahead of the curve. For them, it’s a game of prestige—an arms race in beauty, intellect, or influence. They come to Razor’s Edge to flaunt their wealth, showcase their innovations, and outdo their peers.

These high-rolling visitors think themselves untouchable, believing that the Exactionists’ knives are for the desperate and downtrodden. That is… until they themselves fail to impress the crowd.

Why Stay?

Once you’ve thrown yourself into the machinery of innovation that drives Razor’s Edge, it’s near impossible to escape. Some stay to feed ambition, others for fear, and most because they’ve become addicted to the town’s philosophy.

Razor’s Edge does something to those who linger within it. The constant demand for transformation seeps into the soul, making the thought of stagnation feel worse than death. Those who stay find themselves unable to stop—redesigning their hair, their faces, their philosophies, their very beings, in an endless cycle of destruction and rebirth.

In Razor’s Edge, falling behind is a death sentence. Many of its citizens stay simply because they’re too terrified of what will happen if they fall off the cutting edge. The Exactionists are always watching, ready to prune anyone who ceases to contribute or embody the town’s ideals. Leaving might mean safety (assuming you don’t leave via the Cauterising Plain of course), but it also means abandoning everything you’ve built—a fate worse than death for those who’ve invested their very identities in the town.

Petitioners: The Damned of Razor’s Edge

While some choice berks might wander into Razor’s Edge out of ambition or curiosity, the petitioners who populate much of the town didn’t get a say in the matter. They earned their eternal stay by the lives they led—and what lives they must’ve been.

Petitioners in Razor’s Edge are those who, in life, were consumed by vanity, ambition, or a need to appear perfect—folk who sacrificed everything for their ideals of beauty, invention, or status with no regard for the ruin they left behind. Ruthlessly ambition leaders, innovators, or creators who tore down others to elevate themselves, leaving a trail of broken lives in their wake. A mage who betrayed their companions to steal spells; a designer who destroyed rivals with cunning deceit; a prophet who twisted minds to build a cult that worshipped themselves. These souls are drawn to Razor’s Edge in death, doomed to endlessly chase perfection they can never quite grasp.

Those who cared for nothing but appearances in life find themselves here, the worshippers of image become trapped in an eternity of chasing trends and carving away their identities. A noble obsessed with fashion to the detriment of their people, an artist who sacrificed lives for their art, or a politician who built a corrupt career on shallow charisma—all face the grim irony of having their souls stripped and reshaped until nothing remains. Razor’s Edge also claims the perfectionists who pursued impossible ideals, obsessing over the tiniest flaws in themselves and others.

For these poor sods, Razor’s Edge is the ultimate punishment, tailor-fit to their mortal sins. Upon arriving, they are stripped of their original forms and reborn as blank, featureless figures, their identities carved away to prepare them for their endless cycle of reinvention.

At first, they might revel in the chance to perfect themselves, but soon they realise the truth: there is no end to the process. Every time they achieve perfection, the town’s ideals shift, forcing them to start again from scratch. Worse, the Exactionists are never far behind, ready to harvest their meagre sparks of creativity for the Scarred Reflection. By the time a petitioner’s soul fades completely, there’s nothing left of who they were—only another layer of brilliance absorbed into Razor’s Edge’s endless pursuit of innovation.

To come to Razor’s Edge is to gamble with your life for a chance at fleeting triumph. It’s a place that makes you feel like you can shed everything ugly, weak, or broken about yourself, but in truth, it only strips you bare until there’s nothing worthwhile left.

Still, for some, the temptation is too sharp to resist. Perhaps it’s better to burn in the brief glory of innovation than to fade into obscurity. Better to become the edge than to be cut by it.

But me? I’d rather stab myself with a thousand dull blades than set foot in Razor’s Edge. What’s the point of perfection, cutter, if it costs you everything?

Source: Jon Winter-Holt