(Tor: a mount, tort: a wrong)
Mining town #42, or blandly referred to as Torth by its inhabitants, never did quite have a real official name, a problem repeatedly discussed and debated, over and over, but never actually solved =96 solutions brought about a nasty mound of paperwork, and furthermore they had the unpleasant effect to actually negate the original problem, thereby putting a good deal of clerks and scribes out of their job. So, to the outside world, Torth remained mining town #42; those that lived there referred to its different parts as "Torth Mine" or "Torth Town", or "Torth Keep". Seen as a whole, it was a sight both overwhelming and depressing. The keep stood out: tall and stout spires, and airy archways that connected those spires, all of this perched on a high mountain. On one side the keep looked up at even higher mountains and a clouded sky, on the other side it looked down on a landscape of crude hills: steep and barren, all pebbles and boulders, and moors, and mist. Nothing grew or flourished there. On this side, the mountain dropped suddenly, and was covered with rusted tubes and pipes and the like that ran all the way up and down, together rising up as a great chimney that covered Torth in a permeating mist. At the foot of the mount, smacked against the maze of metal was the odd little town, a rather rundown place of walls, stairs and steep alleyways, broken windows and dust.
There was only one way to reach Torth, if one really desired such a thing, and that was by train, a two week journey from anywhere through the rolling landscape. The train ran up straight to the keep, the railroad never touching the earth, supported high above the ground by giant stone pillars. And all around, mist, greyness.