story and setting ::
If you need a more detailed description of this world, which is pretty much limited to a circular area with a six kilometre radius, excluding the greenhouses, which stretch a further kilometre and a half before there's just darkness; Marillian Spyre is a city located underground, with occasional dust storms from light bits of debris from the underground cavern's roof, which is impossible to both reach and see. The lightbulbs are up high, and the magic fueling them stops anyone who manages to get up high enough by creating a light blue force field that gives anyone who tries a might good shock. Few people try anymore, incidentally.
The city is a patchwork of eras; some buildings stretch high above the people bustling through the streets, which are coated thinly in fine clay-coloured dust, kicked up by quick feet, slow feet, leisurely feet. Other buildings are small, stout but sturdy looking. Some of the tightly packed edifices are crafted from brick, others from sandstone, metal and wood. There doesn’t seem to be any difference or division between social classes of any kind; a perfectly built, new looking block of apartments stands next to a small, shabby looking brick complex, where paint is peeling on the front door and the steps leading to the entrance creak as thought they were old bones and joints.
Golems swoop overhead, occasionally flitting through the crowds, with the odd clumsier kind knocking over various items of the market, eliciting several shouts by angered stall holders, whose goods are being damaged by “small, metallic beasts with nothing all microchips and no good”.
There’s magic here; even those who’ve never been exposed to anything supernatural, they can feel the magic tingling in their skin, in their fingertips. Blue sparks fly from the light bulbs hanging from Marillian Spyre’s roof, wherever that may be, and you can see those sparks around the golems’ eyes whenever they initiate contact with others of their kind- but the magic here is not indigenous to this world. It is residual magic, filtering in from other dimensions, from other universes. It’s dangerous magic that can’t be controlled, can’t be avoided.
Marillian Spyre is a city that depends on the sometimes rare kindness of this magic. It is the magic, the magic that attached itself to the city and stayed, instead of flittering through idly, that keeps the light bulbs going through the time that’s considered “day”, and switches off during the time called “night”. The rest of the city depends on oil lamps and candles, but that’s alright. As long as there’s something they can call a sun, everything’s alright.
The city is a patchwork of eras; some buildings stretch high above the people bustling through the streets, which are coated thinly in fine clay-coloured dust, kicked up by quick feet, slow feet, leisurely feet. Other buildings are small, stout but sturdy looking. Some of the tightly packed edifices are crafted from brick, others from sandstone, metal and wood. There doesn’t seem to be any difference or division between social classes of any kind; a perfectly built, new looking block of apartments stands next to a small, shabby looking brick complex, where paint is peeling on the front door and the steps leading to the entrance creak as thought they were old bones and joints.
Golems swoop overhead, occasionally flitting through the crowds, with the odd clumsier kind knocking over various items of the market, eliciting several shouts by angered stall holders, whose goods are being damaged by “small, metallic beasts with nothing all microchips and no good”.
There’s magic here; even those who’ve never been exposed to anything supernatural, they can feel the magic tingling in their skin, in their fingertips. Blue sparks fly from the light bulbs hanging from Marillian Spyre’s roof, wherever that may be, and you can see those sparks around the golems’ eyes whenever they initiate contact with others of their kind- but the magic here is not indigenous to this world. It is residual magic, filtering in from other dimensions, from other universes. It’s dangerous magic that can’t be controlled, can’t be avoided.
Marillian Spyre is a city that depends on the sometimes rare kindness of this magic. It is the magic, the magic that attached itself to the city and stayed, instead of flittering through idly, that keeps the light bulbs going through the time that’s considered “day”, and switches off during the time called “night”. The rest of the city depends on oil lamps and candles, but that’s alright. As long as there’s something they can call a sun, everything’s alright.