Stephen King built Castle Rock and Derry out of the bricks of childhood and the mortar of nightmares. Frank Miller rebuilt Gotham City into the image of the ultimate urban sprawl. Spider Robinson crafted a bar run by an Irishman, and everyone has been looking for it since. Lovecraft built the tiny villages of Dunwich and Innsmouth, and like a child building sand cities only to step on them, unleashed his dark horrors upon them. Arkham rose out in the Massachusetts countryside by the will of his imagination alone, and with it all its secret tomes and dark temptations. Great authors need a place where they can put their stories, a place that suits them perfectly. Many, unable to find them, have simply built their own.
In this tradition, we too have created a city uniquely crafted for our stories. Crescent City is a decaying ugly wreck of a city, rusted and rotten on the inside, its industries dead or dying. Crime is rampant, abandoned buildings dot the urban landscape and slowly fall apart. No one cares here, and the Sabbat thrive in the atmosphere of dismay.