Welcome to Amaropolis
The first thing you see when you approach the capital is the wall, a vast man-made barrier of concrete and steel, its so tall it smothers the light on both sides, perpetual shadows bathing anything too close. Outside a vast expanse of barren and cracked earth spreads as far as the horizon in every direction, once before unchecked industry there was an ocean here, now only dust and unending thirst. The hulls of great trawlers and merchantmen lie rusting in the desert heat, like the bleached bones of long dead leviathans.
As you draw closer the desert gives way to checkpoints, towers and fortifications, the urban grey presence of the union army a vivid reminder that the government rules here. Assuming your papers are in order, or you have a bribe handy, the gates will part and you will be ushered inside. Within the embrace of the city wall a new expanse greets the traveler, an unending sea of white and gold.
So vivid is the contrast that newcomers often refer to the sudden flash as “Amaro-paralysis” the weary traveler briefly becoming blinded as the brown and grey of the outside is suddenly replaced by the overwhelming hues of bone and gilt. And don’t assume that extravagance or bad city planning are responsible for this sensory bombardment, rather it is by design.
The capital is a showpiece, and the message is simple, the government is rich, the government is strong and the government is very much still in control. It is an illusion that holds by the most tenuous of threads and they grow more frayed with each passing year; the government hasn’t been in control for a long time and the façade is cracking.
Still for the moment the vast mausoleum of the Boss and the great processionals of Union square hold, even as the rest of the country pulls away from the once cast iron grip of unity. The Boss’s dream died with him, now his successors can do nothing except try in vain to slow the now terminal decline. But to the newcomer such realities are non-existent, truths hidden by a veil of stately dignity and urban beauty, turns out gold makes an excellent blindfold.
So welcome dear traveler, come inside and enjoy all the delights the capital has to offer, oh and don’t fret if the sirens begin to blare, the government assures us we are quite safe from stray missiles, and the bomb shelters are quite cozy. Welcome to Amaropolis, the beating heart of the union, just don’t listen too hard or for too long, because sometimes this once vital organ skips a beat.
The first thing you see when you approach the capital is the wall, a vast man-made barrier of concrete and steel, its so tall it smothers the light on both sides, perpetual shadows bathing anything too close. Outside a vast expanse of barren and cracked earth spreads as far as the horizon in every direction, once before unchecked industry there was an ocean here, now only dust and unending thirst. The hulls of great trawlers and merchantmen lie rusting in the desert heat, like the bleached bones of long dead leviathans.
As you draw closer the desert gives way to checkpoints, towers and fortifications, the urban grey presence of the union army a vivid reminder that the government rules here. Assuming your papers are in order, or you have a bribe handy, the gates will part and you will be ushered inside. Within the embrace of the city wall a new expanse greets the traveler, an unending sea of white and gold.
So vivid is the contrast that newcomers often refer to the sudden flash as “Amaro-paralysis” the weary traveler briefly becoming blinded as the brown and grey of the outside is suddenly replaced by the overwhelming hues of bone and gilt. And don’t assume that extravagance or bad city planning are responsible for this sensory bombardment, rather it is by design.
The capital is a showpiece, and the message is simple, the government is rich, the government is strong and the government is very much still in control. It is an illusion that holds by the most tenuous of threads and they grow more frayed with each passing year; the government hasn’t been in control for a long time and the façade is cracking.
Still for the moment the vast mausoleum of the Boss and the great processionals of Union square hold, even as the rest of the country pulls away from the once cast iron grip of unity. The Boss’s dream died with him, now his successors can do nothing except try in vain to slow the now terminal decline. But to the newcomer such realities are non-existent, truths hidden by a veil of stately dignity and urban beauty, turns out gold makes an excellent blindfold.
So welcome dear traveler, come inside and enjoy all the delights the capital has to offer, oh and don’t fret if the sirens begin to blare, the government assures us we are quite safe from stray missiles, and the bomb shelters are quite cozy. Welcome to Amaropolis, the beating heart of the union, just don’t listen too hard or for too long, because sometimes this once vital organ skips a beat.