sorrow found me when I was young
Worship. Stars. Revolution. The future is burning.
The City is the power, the city is alive and older than anybody could imagine. The city is light and spires and humanity running through the same spaces for aeons. The city is angry. It is ruled by the God Queen in whose throne the ancient alien power of the gods are bound, who holds the power of the city in her conductor hands, in her sparking, untouched heart. Her brother, the shining warrior prince, is the iron fist to her divinity, and is brutal as only the old gods were, with a mind like the shining vault of heaven. Together they are of an ancient dynasty with secret knowledge of forbidden ceremonies, who hold dominion over all understanding of the heavens and the electrical soul of the roiling City.
But their doom is lurking in the shadows, dancing in blood and guerrilla tech in the underground: the wild, joyously violent messiah who will tear apart their rigid and ceremonial rule, who leads an ecstatic hedonistic cult that threatens the civilized and stagnant peace of the city. In this, he walks hand in hand with his mad scientist who lives in the guts of the City, who shapes and reshapes bodies with savage surgery and living metal that when they dance in revelry; so too might the City, and together they will show the people the forbidden way to the stars.
The City is rising.
Richard Dorson, “A Theory for American Folklore,”
American Folklore and the Historian
(University of Chicago Press, 1971)