The Lost City Of Avaria.

Chapter 1 - Haven

There was a time, long ago, when we could walk on the ground, free from fear, enjoying the lush world around us. Once we built great cities, made great discoveries, enjoyed peace.

Or so we have been told.

Now other than a few rumoured paradisac retreats the population of the earth is a population of the air. The air cities vary in scale and grandeur, from the great city of Londinium to the tiny taverns plying their wares on the trade routes that criss cross around the globe.

Just as before wealth is measured in steel and coal, but the two wars that devastated the ground below and the air above have taken their tole. The great empires are licking their wounds and new powers arise.

The grand city of Avaria has been lost.

Cast those thoughts aside now as we look upon the city of Haven, one of the oldest of the air cities, shaped like a periwinkle shell it spirals upwards to the great council chambers. The outside of the spirals are taken up by myriads of mansions, like barnacles on a rock they stake their claims on the wealth of Haven. This is the city of the rich, built as it's name suggests as a Haven from the world below. Engineered, before the Great War, out of only the finest steel that money could buy, the waiting list was extraordinary, as were the prices for the limited spaces on offer.

Of course so many illustrious people needed their amenities and no expense was spared. Those who were chosen to cater to the whims of Haven's masters were well rewarded, monetarily and in safety, if not in comfort.

Such is the scene we peer into as a young man rides in a public tram down to the public docks underneath Havens magnificent spirals. It is raining, a soft shower that makes everything gleam gently underneath its caress. Jack Passer rides along in silence, his new duffel bag across his lap with a battered leather satchel on top. He slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose as the tram approaches the busy dock, smoke billowing from its chimney. Jack sighs as the tram slows to a stop, steam hissing around the undercarriage.

As he disembarks onto the well worn planks of the dock he heaves the duffel bag onto his shoulder, he is not a remarkable lad, shorter than average, with his tight black curls freshly shorn to keep them tame. Jack takes note of his sturdy new trench coat as the rain patters upon it, and hopes it is as weather proof as the shop keeper assured him. At least his dark grey waistcoat has his reliable pocket watch safely stowed away. His boots find purchase on the rain sodden timbers, though old and often repaired they are sturdy and definitely waterproof.

He turns towards dock six, specifically reserved for Sammeler ships, those who venture down to the unknown to procure rare goods for the wealthy and powerful alike. Jack trudges down towards the Vivacia as she is being loaded to leave, the captain barking orders to what he views as a slovenly crew fit for nothing but scrubbing toilets in brothels, and glaring at any who hint at taking a break.

Jack finds himself staring up at Captain Schmitt, with his broad shoulders and bushy moustache distinctly resembling a broom. Failing miserably to think of a way to interrupt his tirade, when he turns around.

"Hmph, decided to turn up then laddie. Thought y'd gone cryin home to ya ma first sign of drizzle"

"Err, no sir" he stumbled "Ready for take off, or lift off, or cast off? Or whatever its supposed to be called."

"HaHa Lad ye be alright." his laugh booms from the pit of his stomach and seems to echo through his lungs.

"Its cast off, laddie. Now get on aboard and find yerself somewhere to lay yer head. Then find the cook, he'll get yer to work"

Before Jack can thank him he's off down the dock shouting at another poor soul. Not wanting to interfere, or even worse get called upon to work, he scurries up the rain sodden gang plank to find a small place away from the rain. On board this ageing freighter all is bustle and Jack threads his way through the busy crew and unsorted crates. Towards the bow hides a small door into the bowels of the ship, smiling slightly Jack coughs whilst pushing open the creaky door and steps into the musty darkness.

As Jack settles into his new home for the next few weeks you should know why he is onboard a Sammeler ship. He is after all not the adventuring kind, preferring his journeys metaphorical, and his bed soft. He is a journalist, or at least trying to be. Jack works at the Times of Haven. After spending over a year in the mail department, and a junior reporter getting drunk and falling off a friends yacht, he has finally landed himself an assignment. The department of serialised stories had put through a request for a research trip on the Sammelers, to entertain their wealthy patrons. Authenticity is everything wouldn't you agree.