The Pixis Palace sat on the far edge of Cliffsunder's Grandport, where the water lapped against a sagging wooden pier. To outside eyes, it looked like little more than a forgotten shack, with patchwork of uneven boards and chunks of old ship hull hammered into place. The roof leaned at odd angles, patched with tar and canvas, and the whole structure rested on stilts that lifted it a few feet above the tide. Few bothered to look twice at this place except for those that knew it was the home base of the Glitterati, one of Cliffsunder's most notorious crime gangs.
Past a rotting wooden door, two magically-grown mahogany boughs slope upward together, forming an entrance to a lavish parlor. The Glitterati filled the Pixis Palace with comforts to match their size and needs. Its main hall was scaled for tiny Fey, its walls lined with enchanted lanterns that changed colors based on the room's mood and mirrors that multiplied the light. Plush cushions and tiny beds were stacked in carved alcoves, enough to house dozens of Fairy gangsters, and above them, walkways of wood and rope formed a second layer of perches and nests.
A long counter at one end of the hall functioned as both bar and kitchen, stocked with food broken down into fairy portions, as well as sweet nectars and wines brewed by their own. Small stoves and enchanted burners kept the air warm, and polished trinkets stolen from ships were displayed like trophies. Larger Mortalkind servants lived in the back room, their space more cramped but outfitted with simple bunks and tables.
Inside the Palace, the Glitterati lived in close quarters, their fairy ranks filling the main hall while human enforcers and smugglers worked from the back rooms and docks. The common space doubled as barracks, tavern, and council chamber, with disputes settled as quickly as deals were struck. Don Coriander Thorn held court from a raised dais at the back end, seated on what looked like a dollhouse's carved table but draped in velvet and gold. From there, he gave orders, heard reports, and directed schemes that reached across the port.
Above the shack, the Glitterati had salvaged a crow’s nest, barely steady but high enough to see the sprawl of the Grandport. A small firepit there burned almost constantly, tended by trusted lookouts. When needed, colored smoke was sent skyward in short bursts, each signal carrying a message understood only by the Glitterati’s allies. It was their way of spreading news or warnings across the city without ever touching ink or parchment, and it kept their hands cleaner than the gangs who relied on messengers.