The People have lived in peace in the City for thousands of years. One day, we'll get out of this fucking jail. Together our gifts work in complement, creating prosperity.

The only things uniting the People are mutual hatred and a tendency towards insanity.

In the south, the People of the Source gain all that we need from the rocks and plants of the earth. In the south, the clans meet in eternal Dwarfmoot, endlessly discussing what it means to be Equal, so that all dwarves can be Equally the same while the world moves on without them. In the north west, the People of the Yoke take those gifts and rework them into the day to day items of our lives. The Erlking rules the Elves with an iron hand, forcing them to cobble endless shoes and sew endless reams of golden silk, until rebellion turns the tables and the cycle starts anew. In the north east, the People of the Change transform the world around them, creating ever more pleasant arts and ingenious inventions. The fickle Fairies shift with every change in the wind, rotting in their much beloved chaos, and if you find a diamond in their dung heap once a century you're lucky. And in the Neutral Ground at the center of the City, those who wish to promote understanding between all the People live and teach and trade. And in the Pit, the misfits and criminals struggle and starve, with the Councillors barely able to keep them in check. Soon, the Witness will arrive, and the Century Festival will begin. And now our jailers come to reinforce our bonds, and we have to smile and pretend to like it.

The commander turned and the order went out. "Blow it up. Nukes, if you have to." The room watched as the pilots targeted their missiles on the impossibly large flying thing, relying on their radar and cameras, because to their eyes it looked like they were shooting at nothing. Twenty seconds later, everyone in the room fell over, grasping their heads in pain. When the commander could see again, the object was gone from the screens, and the panicked voice of one of the pilots could be heard over the radio. "Sir! Sir, there's a giant city down there! Must be millions of people! It's, I think it's shoot-" The planes were all down. Turning to satellite imagery, the commander swore, softly.

The death of the Witness is a tragedy, but the Festival will go forward, and the Peace and the Treaty will be maintained. The apekin have unleashed the war, and as our chains crumble away we will do whatever it takes to claim our rightful place in the world!

Welcome to the City. We hope you enjoy your stay.