Deep in the sweltering humidity of the Backwaters lies the town of Port Laveau, the rotten heart of the region that shares its name. To get here is to travel down crumbling roads for what feels like an eternity, roughly two hours from the concrete chaos of Hathian, and a world away from the manicured lawns of the University Campus. This is not a town you stumble upon by accident; it is a place you arrive at when you have run out of all other options.
Port Laveau is a scar that never healed. The ghost of Hurricane Katrina still haunts the coastline, a devastation compounded by a decade of floods that followed. The result is a waterfront that feels post-apocalyptic. Buildings stand skeletal and half-swallowed by the murky tide, their foundations surrendered to the swamp. This perpetual state of decay created a power vacuum that God and government ignored, allowing something far older and more sinister to take root.
This is the Syndicate’s base of operations, the central hub from which their influence spreads throughout the South, and it is a place wholly dedicated to the darkest forms of roleplay.
The Flow of Vice
The lifeblood of Port Laveau, and the Syndicate, flows through the marina. The old, splintering docks are in constant use, but not by fishermen or tourists. This is the primary artery for trafficking in the region, where illicit cargo—drugs, arms, and even people—is moved under the cover of darkness and fog.
Dominating the marina is the crown jewel of the town’s vice: a massive, vintage steamboat, its white and red paint peeling to reveal rot beneath. Permanently moored, it has been converted into a decadent, floating casino. With a vibe reminiscent of the Ozarks’ darkest dealings, this riverboat is where high-stakes poker games are played for souls as much as for money, and where quiet deals are made in smoke-filled back rooms.
Onshore, the rot continues. Establishments like The Serpent’s Den, Barracudaz, and the Pink Flamingo cater to every possible sin, while the flickering neon of the Starlust Motel promises cheap rooms where secrets can be kept, and screams will be muffled by the incessant drone of insects.
The Soul of the Swamp
To live in Port Laveau is to live with a constant, oppressive weight in the air. The culture here is a dark tributary of Louisiana lore, steeped in a pervasive and fearful voodooism. This isn’t parlor magic; it’s a deep-seated belief system born from desperation. You will see strange symbols scrawled on doorways to ward off evil, and hear whispers of things seen in the mists that defy explanation. The people here believe the land itself is alive, and that it demands offerings and respect.
The town’s very walls tell a story of brutal, quiet conflict. The sides of buildings are a constantly shifting map of territory, marked by the dangerous graffiti of the Syndicate’s vassal factions, each tag a silent threat or a claim of ownership.
While the town itself is centered in the Laveau region, its influence and its dangers bleed outward, encroaching deep into the adjacent swamps of Conjure and Bastille.
A Glimmer of Civilization
Even in this forsaken place, some semblance of society remains, twisted to suit the town’s needs. A small, underfunded Fire Rescue station exists, and a local Clinic stands ready to patch up the wounded, asking few questions and ensuring its patients are just healthy enough to be thrown back into the grinder.
And then there is the feared Sheriff’s Office, sitting at the edge of the marina like a vulture, a constant reminder of the true law of the land.
Port Laveau is a magnet for the damned. It is a place for characters who are running from something, or sadistically running towards it. The stories told here are among the darkest ever written, born from a town that has forgotten hope and embraced the beautiful decay of sin.
