by Guest Tue Aug 21, 2012 11:22 amPrologue.
The noise of The Yard was deafening on the best of days, most people who didn't live their entire lives there couldn't stand it, even if they were taking the paddle steamer down the Thames people would step below deck or covered their ears, not that many people went down the Thames anymore, the smell of the polluted water was enough to keep en the rats away.
London was different to how the artists and great visionaries had perceived the city would look at the turn of the century. The few factories that sat on the North and South bans of the Thames multiplied over and over to the East and West changing the skyline to a mess of tall chimneys belching huge plumes of smoke that covered the city in a dense smog that sat in the tight streets of the The Yard slums night and day.
The Sprawling maze of tight, wet, dirt filled street stretched for miles between the huge factories that lined the back of the Thames. The Yard the inhabitants called it, a slum of immense size, housing countless numbers that made up the workforce for the giants of industry.
All year round a heavy smog settles in the streets and houses that took up all the available space. Although houses were a very loose term to use, they were made from cast off from the factories, cinder blocks, uneven wooden planks, sheet metal, mud from the river and straw and hair from the stables that housed the horses and donkeys that were used to transport good to the many aerodromes that sent the goods all over the world.
The houses were all different shapes and sizes, some were squat and others were a few stories high. Each and every house looked as it were on the brink of the collapse, like a strong wind would send them crashing onto the houses below and around them. More often than not this accident occurred, causing debilitating injuries and a lot of times, Death.
Death was a constant in The Yard, and everlasting reminder of their place in the world. No one cared if someone from the Yard died, their bodies were wither unceremoniously dumped into the river or burned and their ashes scattered n the slag heaps. Some, after a time, began to even worship death and this was the beginning of the end.
The Yard existed for decades, for some, it was all they had ever known. During its expansion and final domination of the river banks much had changed in the world. Technology advanced at a rapid rate, driven by steam, steel and the cog. Machines that could fly, machines that could walk and armor that made the wearer almost the invincible were but a few things that had happened during this revolution. All of this ingenuity was fueled by the factories and the workers of the yard.
The hooded man wandered through the permanent mist that settled in the tight streets. His trench coat flapped behind him slightly as a breeze swept through the street. It was quiet, too quiet for the yard, the background noise of the nearby steel mill was there, it was always there, but the din of people, the screaming children, the shouting drunks and even the mewling of beggars was conspicuous by their absence. The man reached across his body to the leather belt and holsters that he wore almost all of the time and drew one of his revolvers, the familiar sound of metal scraping the leather focused his mind.
The noise of The Yard was deafening on the best of days, most people who didn't live their entire lives there couldn't stand it, even if they were taking the paddle steamer down the Thames people would step below deck or covered their ears, not that many people went down the Thames anymore, the smell of the polluted water was enough to keep en the rats away.
London was different to how the artists and great visionaries had perceived the city would look at the turn of the century. The few factories that sat on the North and South bans of the Thames multiplied over and over to the East and West changing the skyline to a mess of tall chimneys belching huge plumes of smoke that covered the city in a dense smog that sat in the tight streets of the The Yard slums night and day.
The Sprawling maze of tight, wet, dirt filled street stretched for miles between the huge factories that lined the back of the Thames. The Yard the inhabitants called it, a slum of immense size, housing countless numbers that made up the workforce for the giants of industry.
All year round a heavy smog settles in the streets and houses that took up all the available space. Although houses were a very loose term to use, they were made from cast off from the factories, cinder blocks, uneven wooden planks, sheet metal, mud from the river and straw and hair from the stables that housed the horses and donkeys that were used to transport good to the many aerodromes that sent the goods all over the world.
The houses were all different shapes and sizes, some were squat and others were a few stories high. Each and every house looked as it were on the brink of the collapse, like a strong wind would send them crashing onto the houses below and around them. More often than not this accident occurred, causing debilitating injuries and a lot of times, Death.
Death was a constant in The Yard, and everlasting reminder of their place in the world. No one cared if someone from the Yard died, their bodies were wither unceremoniously dumped into the river or burned and their ashes scattered n the slag heaps. Some, after a time, began to even worship death and this was the beginning of the end.
The Yard existed for decades, for some, it was all they had ever known. During its expansion and final domination of the river banks much had changed in the world. Technology advanced at a rapid rate, driven by steam, steel and the cog. Machines that could fly, machines that could walk and armor that made the wearer almost the invincible were but a few things that had happened during this revolution. All of this ingenuity was fueled by the factories and the workers of the yard.
The hooded man wandered through the permanent mist that settled in the tight streets. His trench coat flapped behind him slightly as a breeze swept through the street. It was quiet, too quiet for the yard, the background noise of the nearby steel mill was there, it was always there, but the din of people, the screaming children, the shouting drunks and even the mewling of beggars was conspicuous by their absence. The man reached across his body to the leather belt and holsters that he wore almost all of the time and drew one of his revolvers, the familiar sound of metal scraping the leather focused his mind.
