Post by Malum on May 11, 2010 15:31:52 GMT -5
The golden age of Angels, some call it. The waves roll over the endless sea just feet below the mighty, hovering metropolis called the Port of Angels. In the midday sun the city gleams brightly, almost blindingly. At night the city lights blot out the stars to those looking up from its streets. At the fall of day the sun bursts open, splashing its color across the ocean horizon, but fails to match the glory of the city which floats on air.
It is here and now that our story begins. An average Thursday as trade bustles in the low streets, posh air ships fly around the central spire, burly men and women load and unload boats and zeppelins at the docks. It may be early morning, but the Port of Angels is awake and alive as she always is, and always will be.
From the tallest point of the city, the very highest tower rises; a finger pointing at the gods, challenging them to try and outdo their children, the Angels, a man wearing a long, sparkling blue cloak with a high collar stands watching the zeppelins and distant boats below. His view stands out for a hundred miles in every direction. The canals below are like rivers, the towers like trees, he thinks to himself.
"We have created the new world," he smirks. "And it shall be we, not you, who builds the next." The man's slanted eyes and razor-thin smile point up to the clouds. Surely the gods must tremble at the sight of him.
It is here and now that our story begins. An average Thursday as trade bustles in the low streets, posh air ships fly around the central spire, burly men and women load and unload boats and zeppelins at the docks. It may be early morning, but the Port of Angels is awake and alive as she always is, and always will be.
From the tallest point of the city, the very highest tower rises; a finger pointing at the gods, challenging them to try and outdo their children, the Angels, a man wearing a long, sparkling blue cloak with a high collar stands watching the zeppelins and distant boats below. His view stands out for a hundred miles in every direction. The canals below are like rivers, the towers like trees, he thinks to himself.
"We have created the new world," he smirks. "And it shall be we, not you, who builds the next." The man's slanted eyes and razor-thin smile point up to the clouds. Surely the gods must tremble at the sight of him.