Iron Rain and Steel Dreams

"When age fell upon the world, and wonder went out of the minds of men, when grey cities reared to smoky skies tall towers grim and ugly, in whose shadow none might dream of the sun or of Spring's flowering meads; when learning stripped Earth of her mantle of beauty, and poets sang no more save of twisted phantoms seen with bleared and inward-looking eyes...."

--H.P. Lovecraft, "Azathoth"

I wish I could draw. There are so many times that I could communicate so much better if I could just sketch out the picture in my head. Alas, it is not meant to be. Instead, even my stick figures invite mockery, and so I am trapped with mere words to express the vivid visions in my head. So I shall do my best to wrap you in the cloak of dreams and carry you away to another place, a place of metal and gears, clanking machines, and hissing steam. A place where the lightning crackles overhead while the unwanted refuse dangle from makeshift shelters over the darkened city streets. A place where the dead walk the streets, reanimated by the power of a harsh god. Behold, the Citadel.

For me, the Citadel has always stood at the center of Alyria. All the other elements and cultures I devise are always in some way related to this massive fortress of iron. This is altogether fitting. For if the Sea of Mist expresses the depth of beauty and wonder in this fantasy world, then certainly the Citadel is its ugliness and pain. The Citadel is not evil, to be sure, and yet it holds within itself the sum of a thousand thousand suffering souls that struggle and cry out for release, oppressed by the grim necessities of their harsh existence. Come. To behold is better than be told. So come with me. Step out into this iron rain and feel the weight of the city.

It is never quiet here. The peace of the wilderness does not enter these darkened streets. Rather, the noise surrounds us. The bustle of the crowds, even at this late hour, blends with the banging and clanking of massive machinery. Overhead the storm vents its fury on the Four Archways, which once supported the old dome of Kryshana. Lightning dances and crackles far away above our heads, the crashing and roaring adding to the din.

It is never completely light here. The sunlight rarely penetrates fully to the crowded streets of the Citadel. The decaying metal buildings block the light, as do the ramshackle shelters of the Web, suspended from the four Archways that rise into the sky far above the streets. Yes, I see that you are curious about the Web. Curb your impatience. The Web is filled with many outlaws, and even seeking to find an entrance can result in more trouble than you think. We shall search out the Web at another time. There is more to be seen down here.

I see that you have noticed the street lights. Yes, they are indeed electrical. The Keepers have provided them, although you might be surprised by what they believe concerning such technology. What if I were to tell you that each of those lights, as well as all these machines around you, are expressions of the Divine Image, and that the electricity that powers them is a portion of the Divine Essence? Not quite what you were expecting, is it? Oh, I would keep my opinions to myself, if I were you. The High Lords profess the Keeper religion and support the Citadel faction, so blasphemy against Pheric, the god of iron and thunder, can be an offense punishable by death.

Let us walk as we speak. There is something that I would like to show you, and time is short. The Citadel was not always as you see it now. When the original colonists built this place, they named it Kryshana, and it was a place of beauty and knowledge. Many gardens grew in this place, and the libraries sprouted books as quickly as the apple tree buds. The atmosphere was still poisonous, and so the colonists raised the Archways to support a crystalline dome to keep in the precious air. Even when the atmosphere was purified the dome remained. I am told that the city shone like the sun and when seen from afar appeared to be a diamond of surpassing beauty.

Such a monument to beauty and peace could not be permitted to stand. It is here that the dragons vented most of their rage during the Rape. It is here that the killing plague was released. It is even rumored that it was here that the Lord of Pain met his downfall at the hands of a common soldier, driving the dragons back into the Sea of Mist and ending the Rape. Before the dragons came, Kryshana was a beauty and a wonder. In their wake, it was a smoldering ruin. The beautiful dome was cast down and shattered into a thousand pieces. Legend claims that the crystal rain sounded like weeping as the city mourned her lost children and her own death.

Not all was lost, though. Many of the best military units in Alyria had been stationed in Kryshana, and through their valiant efforts much was saved that would have otherwise been lost. Elsewhere on Alyria, entire settlements were destroyed or blasted back into the Stone Age. Yet in the ruins of Kryshana the remnants of civilization survived.

The needs of survival dictated much over the next several years. The surviving military commandants set up martial law for "the duration of the emergency", but as time went on and the emergency did not seem to end, they settled into their role as dictators, taking the title of High Lords. Then Kryshana was renamed and was called the Citadel, for the High Lords meant it to stand as a fortress against the dragons, should they return.

It seemed as though this vision would not be accomplished. Their resources were few, their dangers many. Surrounded on all sides by savage tribes, they seemed hardly capable of defending themselves from raiding bands from the wilds outside the city, let alone an incursion of horrors from the depths of the Sea of Mist. This all changed with the coming of the Keepers.

The Keepers had survived the Rape by withdrawing into their caverns with their terraforming machinery. Now that the danger was past, they were beginning the process of re-establishing contact with the outside world. Time had changed the Keepers as well. Gone were the engineers and scientists acting as caretakers to the machines of terraforming. In their place were priests of a dark and mysterious god, messengers of Pheric, and the bearers of wondrous powers bestowed on them by their god. They even claimed to be able to raise the dead to life. The High Lords beheld the Keepers' powers and they lusted after them. The solution seemed simple. The Keepers sought worshippers for their god; the High Lords sought power for their visions. The calculus of political advantage dictated the solution. In an amazing event, all five High Lords were swept with religious fervor and embraced the Keeper religion, making it the state religion of the Citadel. Dissenters were dealt with harshly.

It is largely because of the Keepers that the Citadel is what it is today. They were given land in the center of the Citadel in order to build a temple to Pheric. But soon there were other buildings being built. Factories. Power generators. Refineries. All clanking and hissing throughout the night, belching their fumes toward the sky. But that is not the worst offense. Come. We are almost there.

Behold the Keeper temple. Truly an impressive building, is it not? But do you see what surmounts the highest tower? A clock. Louder than the crowd's hustle and bustle, louder than the hissing and clanking, louder than even the thunder, is the tolling of that iron bell. Every hour, on the hour, that clock sounds the time. Hsst. It is about to speak.

Can you not feel it? The weight of all that time, resting on your shoulders? Never a chance to stop or stand. Never a chance to dawdle or ponder. No, the insistent tolling of that bell crushes all such activities. It commands obedience, it demands conformity, and it crushes those who do not obey. Just stand here and feel the hammer blows against your soul.

That is what it is to live in the Citadel. To be surrounded by gears and machines, screened from the sun, and to slowly and painfully become a gear yourself, a simple cog lost in the vastness of the Machine. Can't you feel these steel dreams closing in around you as we speak? The chains of time binding you to the harsh grindstone of progress?

There is more to see here, but it must wait for another time. For now, stand and listen to the iron rain pelting down from above and dream a desperate dream of light as the weight of the Citadel presses down upon you.