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Cascadia The Waterfall City rests on a floating chunk of landmass nearly three-hundred feet in the air above Richimon Lake. Stretching a mile high and ten wide, Cascadia is a mix of old and new construction. Along its sheer cliff faces lies the hanging remnants of ancient temples to wind, raging waters and storm and hundreds of openings for violent waterfalls and ancient tunnels. The tunnel network fills the entire core of the island: part ruin, part illegal slum and part criminal underbelly dedicated to black markets and hideouts. The catacombs all head towards the rip in the material plane that keeps Cascadia suspended. This rift is a sphere of storms, wind, and howling rain that fills the tunnels at its base with the water that provides the falls.

A third of the modern cliff face is overtaken by the major airshipyards, a sprawling construction with piers that reach a mile into the open sky. Torrents of lightning dance across their lower reaches, signs of the elementals powering the veritable army of cranes, saws and forges required to build airships. Thick webs of of steel suspend half-finished airships, and tens of thousands of magical lights keep the shipyards operating clean into the night. From the shipyards hangs hundreds of massive pennants and banners proclaiming the individual teams and classes of ships built at each segment.

Along the upper quarter of the cliff is the ring of ports and warehouses that power Cascadia's economic might. The vast majority of Imythess's airship trade stops or stays overnight in Cascadia's merchant docks, and the sky about the Waterfall City is chaotic swarm of airships coming and going. The trade is kept barely in check by towers checkered with powerful lights that issue signals to the surrounding ships, guiding each one safely into dock. The city sprawls above this, coating Cascadia with a vast webwork of buildings housing the wealthy, the families of Cascadia's oldest tradesmen and business. The narrow streets are strung with webs of colorful flags and artistic signs for each business. The city is remarkably safe thanks to the presence of small Air Navy outposts dotted along the city.


Joined: June 22nd, 2017, 3:21 am

May 24th, 2018, 4:19 am #1

(OOC: This brief tale is from Pyx's youth.)

Pyx waited outside the schoolroom, his gangly form a taught bowstring of nervous energy. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, placed his hands in his pockets and pulled them back out, ran his hands through his hair, and paced from side to side. A thrush sang exuberantly in the gardens nearby, and the loose stones that lined the path clacked lightly beneath his feet. The bird's sweet song was a delightful herald to his afternoon, and he smiled eagerly. All was certain to go well.

She stepped outside the door; the light of his earth, the first thought of his day. She wore a purple dress, and silver beads in her dark hair. They had shared a classroom for two years. He had loaned her a quill, and she had liked his flute-playing. She had helped him with an assignment, and he had shared his mother's baking. She was the cleverest girl in their year, and a goddess to mere mortals compared to all the rest.

Now was his chance; he was lucky, she was alone. The thrush sang eagerly, delightedly. Pyx had planned his request, it would be perfect. Good afternoon, my lady, with a charming bow, presenting flowers. Might you do me the honor of accompanying me to the summer picnic?

She approached. Their eyes met in passing, as those of acquaintances will, and she smiled politely. Pyx stepped forward with purpose, and presented her with the flowers he'd plucked from his family's garden that morning.

The girl stopped, looking in surprise at Pyx. His hair was a mess from his restless fussing. The flowers he presented had been picked too long ago and had wilted terribly, their heads sagging and petals falling to the ground. She and Pyx both realized the sad state of the bouquet at once, and Pyx stuttered regretfully. "Um," he said, blushing bright red. "Sorry. I- I guess I'm not very good with flowers. They're for you. Or they were, if you want them, though you might not, now."

She stared at him, perfectly still. He stuttered on. "I wa- wanted to ask if you would... that is, it would be an honor... would y- you accompany me tomorrow, at the picnic?" Perhaps not as graceful as he had planned, but what did that matter? The question was out, and his heart raced in anticipation. She was his friend, his light, his match. She would understand.

She walked away as gloriously as she had come. The thrush continued its song eagerly, its delight contrasting so vividly with his despair that he hated it with the utmost intensity. In a rush of frustration he picked up a stone from the path and hurled it haphazardly in the direction of the bird.

Its song stopped.

Pyx froze. He somehow knew the foolish, horrible thing he had just done. He walked to where the body of the bird lay lifeless on the ground. It was his fault. She had seen through his unworthy character, she had been right to walk away. What a fool he was.