- Joined
- Jan 5, 2012
- Messages
- 1,253
- Reaction score
- 93
The air held a metropolitan twang. Carbon dioxide, the thin haze of labor suffused the air, clung to sweat with an oily sheen. The sounds: the pattering of feet and buzz of engines overhead, of the spaceport writhing to each sonorous note of life that passed it by. They played and wove through with subtle vibrations. Bounced off walls, saturated empty space and quiet with a constant presence. Inescapable.
Manaan wore itself in spires. Domes sitting atop the waves, an endless ocean that unfurled below. It was a sight to behold, from the glister of ultrachrome and dull and gilded duracrete to the stray beacons guiding in cargo and a stream of passenger freight. The beck and call of city life thrived, stark in contrast to the gentle oscillations that set the world in motion. Powerful in its bearing, in salience to Alcyone's wandering eyes.
The slip of a woman carried herself well above the assembled Selkath, aloft of the mucus that permeated their skin; she swathed herself in velvets and silks, a myriad dress that enmeshed color with frivolity and refused to bequeath even a breath to fashion. She clashed to the onlooker. To the passerby, the denizen, the foreigner alike. And it suited her thus.
An elevator brought her into the city's underbelly, crammed in with a dozen others draped about the slim, transparisteel cylinder. It took them from the surface, deep under the waves, to a dome. Embellished walls, magnetic fields, and a haze of holographic light paid her welcome: the ambiance began before the spice touched her lungs. Psychedelic bass beat rapture to her ears, uplifted the feet that kept her pace. Rooted her in a walking trance.
When she hooked her nose to the air, she caught her first whiff. A blend of translucent smoke laced with spice, gritty particles that assailed her, irritated her eyes.
She smiled, nonetheless, and moved. Gave herself to the gathering, the little club hidden beneath the waves. A dome, a bubble erected for the pleasure of those small enough to know: it was filled, packed at the hip with flesh of all shapes, of all smells. Culture bleared in the dimly lit haze. Firaxan sharks dusted the viewing platform. Close enough to touch, to pierce the fixture separating them from a pressurized death...
She reached for it. Impulsively, reflexively. She reached for the divide just shy of those sharks. And her hand slipped right on through.
Manaan wore itself in spires. Domes sitting atop the waves, an endless ocean that unfurled below. It was a sight to behold, from the glister of ultrachrome and dull and gilded duracrete to the stray beacons guiding in cargo and a stream of passenger freight. The beck and call of city life thrived, stark in contrast to the gentle oscillations that set the world in motion. Powerful in its bearing, in salience to Alcyone's wandering eyes.
The slip of a woman carried herself well above the assembled Selkath, aloft of the mucus that permeated their skin; she swathed herself in velvets and silks, a myriad dress that enmeshed color with frivolity and refused to bequeath even a breath to fashion. She clashed to the onlooker. To the passerby, the denizen, the foreigner alike. And it suited her thus.
An elevator brought her into the city's underbelly, crammed in with a dozen others draped about the slim, transparisteel cylinder. It took them from the surface, deep under the waves, to a dome. Embellished walls, magnetic fields, and a haze of holographic light paid her welcome: the ambiance began before the spice touched her lungs. Psychedelic bass beat rapture to her ears, uplifted the feet that kept her pace. Rooted her in a walking trance.
When she hooked her nose to the air, she caught her first whiff. A blend of translucent smoke laced with spice, gritty particles that assailed her, irritated her eyes.
She smiled, nonetheless, and moved. Gave herself to the gathering, the little club hidden beneath the waves. A dome, a bubble erected for the pleasure of those small enough to know: it was filled, packed at the hip with flesh of all shapes, of all smells. Culture bleared in the dimly lit haze. Firaxan sharks dusted the viewing platform. Close enough to touch, to pierce the fixture separating them from a pressurized death...
She reached for it. Impulsively, reflexively. She reached for the divide just shy of those sharks. And her hand slipped right on through.