I started with a place called Brambletown, built around the wreck of some enormous vehicle that crashed into an icy spire in a time long since passed. The town itself is kept a stunning secret from the Francs, a situation which they take full advantage of. The city has managed to become the hub of a trade empire, and as with all such places someone at the top wants to leverage that influence. But then that's intrigue for another story. For now, here's an introduction to the icy jewel of the Baltic.
Brambletown
"Welcome to Brambletown" the sign reads. And what
a welcome it is. Maybe you've taken the stairs, all 1072 sleeted death traps,
or you've just stepped out of the elevator that groans and shakes every 30 or
so metres. Either way, the first thing you see is the metal cavern of the first
floor and a sad old sign saying 'Welcome to Brambletown'.
This
floor, if you're a business owner or street urchin, is where all the magic
happens. The first elevator load arrives at 6 AM sharp and the first carts and
truckstalls come rolling out of it. In a matter of minutes, they've parked at
the far end of the floor and are open for business. The people come flooding
down from the half dozen stairwells and buzz about the first few stalls like
bees on tight schedules. By 6 30 the second elevator load has arrived. The
chefs of Brambletown have all bought the day's fresh foods and the market
starts to fill with the merchants, who will spend the rest of the day wandering
about the floor speaking with the roaming truck vendors. They buy from one and
sell to another, with a tidy cut in between. When the more scarce goods arrive,
like petrol, apples or wool, they buy up the whole lot and sell it slowly over
the coming weeks, having monopolised the supply. With their silver tongues and
golden watches they quietly raid and plunder the marketplace.
It will
be 8 AM when the rest of the Brambletonians arrive. The tempo of the market
reaches fever pitch, and it rattles and shakes the floor for the rest of the
day. The pickpockets dart about in the shadows of the stalls, trying to make up
what they lost by failing to pick a merchant. Meanwhile on the floor above, the
merchants all stand on soapboxes calling out across the metal halls for the
best deals in Brambletown. Their gift of the gab shines through here as they
work in pairs, one auctioneer riling up the buyers and one dealer raking in
money hand over fist. Between the two floors enough noise is made to shake the
icy spires on which the wreck of the Bramble
sits, but the ice has held for 500 years, and it'll hold for as long as Frost
is harvested. It is that Frost that has driven everything that has happened
here. From the settlement of Brambletown, to the construction of the elevator,
to the invention of the cloudskimmer.
The
newcomers climb to the upper levels, where the walkways weave in and out of the
ice through great steel caverns. Some will come for the restaurants, some for
the shops, some for the mechanics. Only a few of them will bother looking up at
the clouds. They seem to stretch out for miles, and never once have they abated
to show the blue sky behind them. Endless grey, like mud-mixed snow. These
people stop looking, before the misery of the sight consumes them. Grumbles
about how they could never stand to live here escape their lips as they shuffle
away from the sky. All the more's the pity for them. If they could stand to
look those crucial moments longer, they would notice something. They'd see the
way the clouds don't curl and drift, the way they sit stagnant in the sky. The
clouds are no clouds, they are Frost. The best kept secret of Europe.
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