Skyrun

Chapter 1; How to prove a point the wrong way.

The sky above the citadel of Janus was a blanket of woven clouds in shades of muddied greys and browns-- thick and seeming to hang with gloomy intent, as though to make such a sight as dreadful and miserable as one could imagine. 

Indeed, it was further aided by the choking smoke and steam that poured out in a dark mist from the plethora of factories that stood wall to wall with one other; stark sentries that lined the streets, faces unforgiving. All of it coming together to paint some horrid depiction that sucked the very life from such streets. Blending together the dull shades above to the reflected streaks of browns and greys below upon the cobblestone paths, the scraping and grinding of gears drowning out the steady drone of city life with their monotonous roar.

It was, quite frankly, one of the most dreadful places one might have the misfortune of stepping into, and yet...

And yet there was something in it. Some hidden charm that was perhaps reflected in the people that swarmed just streets; shards and fragments of colour in the forms of clothes and parasols that stood out against the drab greyness of it all. As though to offer some silent apology of the state of things by offering up their own sense of splendor.

And they were a sight to behold indeed.

Among the most notable within such crowds were the aviators-- their steps proud as they placed their feet upon solid ground, eyes shaded by the dark lenses of gold-rimmed goggles that kept the dust of the air from their lashes. Their shoulders draped with leather coats that hung down to brush against their ankles, the fur lining within shielding them from both the cold winds that swept the citadel streets, as well as those that tore against their airships within the skies.

There too walked finely dressed women and men, cloaked in hues of deeps blues, greens, and scarlet, their hands clutching firmly expensive hats to their heads as the wind threatened to tear them away. And there, gathered amongst them within the various stalls in market squares, were inventors and artificers of all kinds searching through various bits of machinery-- voices raised as they haggled over prices.

 There were city thieves deftly lifting expensive wallets out of rich men's pockets, their crafty fingers never once fumbling. And finally, amidst them all were the red robed Keepers who attended the shrines of their gods, filling the air with an eerie chant that was only just below the sounds of the factories.

Yet above all, it was the sort of day where everything seems unremarkable, just as all should be... Unless, of course, one counted the boy running frantically through the crowded streets, a rather elderly, balding man chasing after him.

The boy himself was coated in a fine sheen of sweat, his chest heaving with labored gasps for air as he roughly shoved his way through the crowd, a leather wallet gripped in his hands. 

Glancing behind him, he grinned at the pursuing gentleman's expression, placing it close to a look of pure rage. Yet what was even more delightful was that he he kept shouting curses at the boy, who continued to run as if his life depended on it.

Which, in this particular case, it very well might.

Turning sharply left, the boy found himself facing a long alleyway, the airship dock just in view with his group of friends waiting for him not ten feet away, just as they said they would be. And indeed even from such a distance he could see their lips pulled wide in mischievous grins as they waved him over, beginning to cheer him on just as the old man came careening around the corner-- shouting ever the louder and waving his arms in a frantic manner as though he was attempting to take flight.

Sprinting toward his friends-- who also began running once they caught sight of the large man barreling down on them-- the boy led them through the airship docks, knowing every twist and turn as though it had been ingrained in his memory.