Arda, Kalessin, outside the Shining City
The motors of the AAAC-227 Light Diplomatic Seaplane whirred gently as it descended slowly through the mists of Kalessin. The Pilot, Gennadi Zinoviev, looked worriedly over his shoulder at the Ambassador, Nigel Birgmingham. Strangely, the Ambassador was yet unshaken by the experience of travelling through Arda - his attention sunk entirely into his Trains of the World book.- for him, it was nearly a collector’s manual .
In fact, a lot of the pictures of the locomotives in it were already ticked off in blue - meaning Ambassador Birmingham already owned a copy of it, in the form of a die-cast 1/72-scale model Those models where what filled up the majority of the large black suitcases the young man had rested his legs upon - so high his feet were almost on level with his head. Menelmacari maglevs, Tarasovkan monorails Midlonian narrow-gauge - all the major train lines in the world were reflected in those suitcases.
Speaking of narrow-gauges - the ambassador was talking of them now - the excitement made his slighlty plump, intelligent face look somehow beatiful, especially when he moved his hand to remove his black, straight hair off his brow. "…but yes, those Hogsweati are idiots. They could have installed narrow-gauge like we did in Allanea. Narrow-gauge trains are the symbol of civilisation -the ultimate in public transport. I hope the locals have narrow-gauge trains - otherwise it would be truly horrible. Like the bloody buggers on Atlantic Island that decided they could be different then the rest of the Confederacy and use wide-gauge. Terrible, I say. Abominable "
Zinoviev shrugged. For some reason, Allaneans tended to appoint strange people as Ambassador. What was the logic in that he did not know - but that was what they did. He was lucky, he supposed, the ended up with a train-fan - it could have been a metalhead. Probably would do better in this environment, actually - thought Zinoviev.
"I think that train gauge is not what should worry you right now, Mr. Birmingham."
"What should, then?"
"The fact I am trying to land in this fog. Now hold on to something."
imported_Kalessin
16-07-2005, 00:43
The mists were not merely static formations of suspended moisture. Rather, they shifted and turned constantly, ripples and swirls eddying through their substance. Within, faint half-tinges of colour flickered, from the barest suggestion of a malign crimson, to an almost imperceptable hint of a rich, royal purple. And to those who looked most carefully, for an instant, distinct faces could almost be seen peering out from the mists, before flowing back into the whole. Some were twisted with bitter hatred, their eyes wide and staring. Others smiled quizzically, as if surprised, or curious, while others had eyes that sparkled with outright mirth, as if they were laughing at these petty beings, that needed to harness the minerals of the earth in order to fly. And throughout, lighting, in bright, surreal shades of violet and rose crackled and arced, just feet away from the wings of the passing craft.
Relax
Zinoviev tensed up reflexively, as he continued to wrestle with the controls of the seaplane, barely avoiding the fluorescent bolt of pink lightning that had suddenly shot across their path;
"Did you just say something, Mr. Birmingham?"
"No. Nothing."
Relax, just relax your mind, and let me help you.
The voice was as smooth as silk, and seemed to come from inside Zinoviev's own head, whispering at him from between his ears. Yet it had a strange, slightly alien tinge to it. It was like a stranger was living inside his very mind, and speaking the intimate language of his thoughts with perfect fluency, but in a faint foreign accent.
He gritted his teeth, as he muttered irritably to himself.
"That's all I need, first this wierd mist, if that's what it really is, and now I'm hearing things too!"
Relax. Just lean back in your chair, and empty your mind of fear. Think only of steering your craft, empty your mind...... and let me take control....
So engrossed was the Ambassador in his hobby that he never noticed when Zinoviev's eyes went blank and dead, his arms beginning to work at the controls with mechanical certainty, and his mouth hanging laxly open, a small rivulet of saliva dribbling down his chin.
Eventually, the craft emerged from the mist directly above the high, white cliffs of the south coast of Kalessin. Once past the cliffs, they found themselves flying over a vast, barren wasteland. vast, barren wasteland. The earth was scorched and no living things could be seen for miles around, with the only sign that life had ever existed in this place the occasional withered, stunted, burnt out tree. To the west, the wastes ended at the borders of a great forest, which continued on further than the eye could see, while to the north, a tall range of snow-capped mountains towered up, like a row of jagged teeth, tearing at the grey, cloudy sky.
At the eastern edge of the wasteland sprawled a vast city, which curled around a magnificent natural harbour. This city was of a size that matched even the greatest conurbations of mortal man, and over it, mighty Dragons of all colours, strident red and poisoness green, striking blue and shining gold, circled in a dance which was more graceful and noble than one ever devised by any mortal choreographer.
The outer slums which formed most of its area were composed of millions of squalid wooden huts and crude hovels of brick and stone, and were dominated by four gigantic concrete edifices, each surrounded by hundreds of meters of barbed wire and other such defences. Towards the centre of the city however, separated from the outer city by a vast wall, thousands of towers, in as many colours as the mind can imagine, spired upwards towards, or even through, the clouds, some shining like miniature suns, others bathing the area around them in pastel warmth, and others glowering with eerie menace. In the very centre of the city, a great golden palace shone like a beacon, its central tower dwarfing all the buildings clustered around it.
Slowly, the plane lost altitude, floating down toward the barren plane, before eventually making a smooth landing some twenty miles from the outskirts of the city. As the engines ground to a halt, Zinoviev jerked upright, his eyes refocusing, and looked around in bewilderment.
[OOC: Ahem - was in a hurry, so nicked a bit (ok, a lot) from the Metus conference thread there. Hope you don't mind the brief 'character-borrowing' there!]
Birmingham never did notice what happened to his pilot - he merely noticed that his flight became better - it felt somehow smoother, for some reason. He didn’t mind - he loved it. It enabled him to engross himself deeper in his book - reading about diesel-electric locomotives, Mark III carriages, and Martian Standard Maglevs [MSMs]. While at first he was concerned as to what kind of rail and track he would proposed to the Kalessians to lay, now, he was merely interested in the book itself. Sometimes he was even reading out ‘choice bits’ to his pilot - though even if Zinoviev were in a state of full awareness, he would not be able to understand train fan humour. Probably nobody can. Not even other train fanboys.
As the plane approached it’s landing point, as chosen by the strange native beings of the mists, the modular seaplane extended its secondary landing gear - the set that was intended for landing on dry land, rather than on water. With the expert piloting of the infernal locals, the plane slid to a stop rather calmly, without even disturbing ambassador Birmingham’s reading. Only five seconds after the plane stopped completely did Birmingham lower his book, looking quizzically at Zinoviev - who, by that time, was out of his reverie. ‘Wow.’ -said Birmingham. ‘We’re already there? You really are some pilot, man! You’re the thing, dude!’ Then he walked up to the window - and froze in amazement, looking at the sky.
As Zinoviev woke up and realized Birmingham never noticed his moment of distraction, he decided to just omit mentioning that - let Birmingham think that he landed the plane on his own. He was not sure how his boss would take the fact his pilot was possessed by strange necromantic entities while flying with him on board. He thus walked up to Birmingham and looked out of the window as well - and froze as well, looking in shock and awe at the beautiful - yet fearsome - forms circling the sky, living lightning in red, green, blue and gold, mighty and graceful at the same time, living visions of death - and eternity, destruction - and guardianship, the dragons of Kalessin. And they realized why the dragon was a symbol of Arda, eternal - and yet destructive, horrifying - and yet strangely beautiful and seductive.
Birmingham, half-whispering, began to recite a poem:
Have you ever stopped and wondered
as the clouds flew by over head?
How and why do dragons smile?
Do they smile as they fly,
catching the swift updrafts?
Do they smile at the dolphins flying high
in the depths of the waves below?
Effortlessly gliding a pace
through wave or air, do they smile?
It was then that he saw the Kalessian reception approach.