Red Jack is a lawless market-settlement squatting in the Mirrorwide Flats—a sprawl of scrapboard stalls, canvas alleys, and sun-bleached boxcars welded into streets. Goblin clans run the place like a cartel of shopkeeps and pit bosses: you pay gate toll, you keep your weapon peace-tied until a fight ring, and you don’t stiff a dealer. Anything moves here if you’ve got coin or leverage—guns, forged cords, stolen rail parts, “clean” water, venom meds, even maps that may or may not be real. Every race shows up because every race has the desperate and the crooked.
Order is transactional. The clan bosses post prices and bounties; their runners sweep bodies after shootouts and reopen the street in minutes. Night brings the real business: dice dens, card halls, auction slabs, and the Dust Pit where bouts settle debts. Rail scouts and bandits trade intel; Tiefling oath-keepers avoid the core but watch the roads; Iron Gospel Railway agents pass through in plain clothes to buy back stolen kit—no questions. If you stay: cash up front, eyes out, and never owe two clans at once.