The foundry has a vast blank stone wall topped with a steep tiled roof, and tall chimney stacks that pumps out oily black smoke. Through the great rusted iron doors can be glimpsed a vision of Perdition. Men stripped to the waist in the heat, silhouetted against the furnace flames, shoveling coal and hauling glowing rods from a bank of fire that looks and feels like the surface of the sun.
Behind this hellish scene, watching in silence from the gantry above them, shadowy figures smoke cigars, overseeing the construction. Well-fed men who wear crimson tabards decorated with masonic pentagrams and other ancient guild symbols. At the center of their circle is the most corpulent of their number, the bloated Controller, in his stovepipe hat, embembroidered silk waistcoat and chains of office