The docklands stretch along the bustling banks of the Tiber, thrumming with the relentless energy of maritime trade. Warehouses of sun-bleached stone line the river's edge, their massive wooden doors yawning open to reveal endless stacks of crates and bundled goods. The air is thick with the tang of salt, damp wood, and the briny scent of the river itself, mingling with the calls of dockworkers and the creak of ropes under heavy strain. Broad piers extend like rugged fingers into the river, where merchant ships with billowing sails are tethered, their crews unloading wares in a steady, unhurried rhythm. Cranes loom over the docks, hauling cargo in a feat of engineering, while carts clatter back and forth, carrying bales and barrels from ship to store with practiced ease. There is a sense of constant, purposeful motion here, as though this is the beating heart that keeps the city stocked with all it needs to survive.