THE SUNDERED MARCHES are not safe or simple; they're alive.
Revolution is in the air. Not an uprising of liberty alone, but also of industry, finance, agriculture, and society, each change forking into three others like an unending chain of lightning.
The empire demands saltpeter and gold, but takes blood and steel too. The rebellion asks pint-sized pipsqueaks to strap rockets to their back and fly; many never come back. The moon bleeds, the pen is mightier than the pistol, and wandering witches live on leather and lightning.
The soil of Alovis, from the lowest point of Lanva Crater to the peaks of the Meteoras and the Vencht Mountains, is riven with good and evil. What few roots find purchase in the prairie soil drink deep of both; life chases power like a lonely weed turns to sunlight, even if only to see another day's dawn.
What people and empires do for that light, the lies they tell themselves over it, and how the very best and worst of those lies spring up from truths – that is what the Sundered Marches, and every single nation of Alovis, is about. It's the story of every skyship, it shadows bandits, buckaroos, and banshees, and it sings with each note in a cosmofonist's score.
There's a war on, but there's a world still living around it, too. Hold on to your knickers, friends; it's going to be one wild ride.
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A soft and silent white blanketed the buildings and roads of Kipenzenia, uniting the old Verwaltung’s Palace and the new Jugendstil apartments alike under an intimate serenity. On an ordinary day, this would have been beautiful enough. Knickers found every day in the city fascinating. Once a nexus of the Red Death, Kipenzenia had already returned to being the heart of imperial aesthetics.
Today epitomized that. Snowflakes sparkled through a bright blue sky; as the diamond dust danced bashfully away from clouds unseen, they passed beneath the sun’s gaze and blushed rainbows in the passing.
It was the second most beautiful thing that Cadet Nicodemus Rose had ever gotten to appreciate in his life; he also appreciated that he got to appreciate it from the inside of a large picture window.
The reality of snow was a touch messier than the appearance of it.
His preference for skin-baring outfits was meteorologically unideal in local clime.
Also not ideal to do fine stitching with cold fingers.