Weeks at sea. Canvas sails, groaning timbers, the stink of salted meat and men packed too close. The captain swore our vessel was seaworthy, but every storm felt like a coin toss, and the crew whispered that the gods only half-watch these waters. We passed one of their ships mid-crossing — an Atlantean liner, sharp-edged and iron-clad, its belly stacked with containers filled with who knows what. It moved like a predator through the waves, pulled not by wind but by some humming core of Arcanum. The men spat when they saw the insignia burned into its prow: Vollstadt Universal. The world’s richest corporation, stamped across steel. They produce anything. From sewage pipes to uniforms, from hammers to sewing needles. If the item is useful and has a market the VSU will make it and bring the wealth back to its shareowners on the island. They are the reason why my family lost their jobs at the factory back home. They are the reason why I'm looking to find my fortune in Atlantis.

First it was the light. At night, a pulse on the horizon, faint at first, then brighter, steadier, a rhythm that caught in my chest. Not a beacon. A heartbeat. The Arcanum Star. The tallest lighthouse in the world, some said. But no lighthouse ever looked back at you.

At dawn, the skyline revealed itself. The Arcanum Star still visible in the bright morning sun, set on top of The Astral Needle - the Wizards Tower.. The Tower Beyond.. The Godcoil. It has many names, but it's still not clear how it, or the star, came to be. Some say that it was build by the Wizards, others say that it was built by the gods at the beginning of the time. Some even say that it is a remnant of the Other Gods, those who warred the Heavens, and lost. What ever is the case, it is hard to watch at the tower directly. The star draws your attention, and the tower itself flickers. Like it's trying to evade my gaze?

The Needle is surrounded by The Spires, gilded and impossible tall buildings, second only to the Needle. Rising above the glass towers and skyscrapers of Downtown like spears. To the south, I saw the jagged rim of the Caldera, the ancient volcano is glowing faintly with orange and red smoke and cable cars strung like threads against the mountain’s face. And in between — endless streets. A sprawl that seemed to stretch forever, growing outward as if the city itself were alive, creeping to the very edge of the sea.

By the time we entered the Islands inner bay, the water was crowded. How big my ship had seemed back home. How tiny it felt as we were flanked by Colossal life-ships — floating towns strapped to the backs of leviathans — lurked between navy warships bristling with cannons. Cargo barges the size of palaces competing with seagulls for sky-space, while airships wheeled lazily above, sails catching currents no sailor could see. The closer we came to the docks, the louder it grew: gulls shrieking, engines hissing, sailors shouting in tongues I didn’t know.

Customs was chaos. Paperwork in triplicate, blood-pricks to prove identity, and a cleric who sniffed at me like a dog and muttered “clean enough.” On a warm Pier street flanked by palm trees heaving in a salty ocean wind, A street vendor clanker pressed something sweet and spiced into my hand before I could say no. A fungril child with moss on his skin stared at me until his spawn pulled him away. Everywhere, eyes. The city didn’t just breathe. It listened. And the Arcanum Star pulsed overhead.

Intro

Arrival in Atlantis is overwhelming for outsiders. After weeks on primitive ocean ships, the first sight is usually an Arcanum-powered trade liner or warship, sleek and modern compared to the rest of the world’s fleets. The city’s skyline is a vision of contrasts: the skyreaching Spires of the corporations and oligarchs, the fiery rim of the Caldera, and the Astral Needle, crowned by the Arcanum Star — visible for hundreds of miles, like a living lighthouse.
Inside the Inner Bay, the chaos of trade becomes real: trade ships, both arcanum powered and common ship of the line, life-ships, warships, airships and yachts crisscross in organized anarchy. Atlantean coast guards patrol and are on a lookout for trouble or smuggler speedboats.
First steps on Atlantean soil mean facing divine customs, administered by the clerics of Scrollbound -class who are the bureucratic life blood of the city administration and the hand of the Circle of Thrones.
Past customs the streets are hot and teeming with curiosities both wondrous and unsettling. At the sunny beaches the youth are playing beach volley and eating ice cream under the heaving shadows of the palm trees. In the ever dark alleyways it is as easy to get your throat slit for a few sigils, as it is to buy a new identity or get a witchfire-tattoo. To newcomers, Atlantis is promise and danger made flesh. The Arcanum Star looms above, indifferent but you know that the city itself has taken note of your arrival.

References

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