Cobblestones rang hollow beneath their feet.
Rotheart spread before them like a fever dream of European history—Victorian grandeur melting into Belle Époque excess, as if some cosmic architect had reached into Joseph's memories of Earth and built a city from stolen blueprints.
Steam hissed from grates, brass pipes climbed building faces in coils, in such a way that wouldn't have looked out of place in 1800s London or Paris.
Carriages clattered down the main road, wheels grinding against bumpy stone, while pedestrians pressed to the walkways flanking each side. It wasn't exactly the cleanest; Joseph even noticed several cigarette buds and horse manure littering.
Victorian facades rose three and four stories high with a French Belle Époque flourish darkened by soot and age. Golden lions purched from cornices and doorframes, the same lion flew on flags from narrow balconies, golden with a blue background no doubt the city symbol.
