There’s a saying about the Hive Ward: it’s got Sigil’s dumbest murderers. If they had any brains, they’d move to a safer ward.
For most, life in the Hive is a tedious journey down a road of despair, with death waiting at the end. And not just any old death. Death in the Hive wears a variety of disguises. Compared to the Hive, an Arcadian swine barn smells like a rose garden. It’s not just the filthy kips that cause the stink.
And it’s not the lack of hygiene – though the only time a lot of these sods get a bath is when they fall in a mud puddle. It’s mostly because of the rainwater. The gutters of the Hive are filled with gargbage, and no one comes to clean it up. The rain collects in brackish pools, some swelling to the size of small lakes. A lot of Hivers use the pools for trash pails.
Whoever planned the ward didn’t know the definition of a straight line, as the streets wind in every direction: some end abruptly in blind alleys, others circle back on themselves like snakes swalloing their own tails. With space at a premium, new structures’re built on top of old ones, giving a typical building the appearance of a stack of boxes about to collapse. It’s a mess alright – though a basher flying overhead might make some sense of it.