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That which i hoped to convey in the story Atop the World has proved more than that story could convey. It is my honor to alter the vessle therefore, and the new version begins 50 years preceding the first, and chronicles the rise to conflict as well as providing a vivid description of the world that i created.
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In the far north few trees dare mar the icy perfection of the tundra. Such animals as there are cling desperately to these and are left without help the further they dare from them.
Man is more than an animal though, and needs no comfort from the meager northern woods. Fort Prince of Wales was conceived in this harsh landscape, an insult to the territorry that sought mankinds imprisonment to the south. It is far from a large city, Fort Charles to the south outdoes it in that respect easily, but it holds a mystical aura that it's citzenry finds inescapable. That palace of stone atop the ice, their ancestors had dared the snow to destroy their masterpeices, the winter had yet to respond.
Which is not to say that there had not been attempts on the city's existance by nature, Blizzards often laid waste to the plans of inhabitants. The city never submitted, it was the eternal echoe of the indomitable will of one man.
In any other nation it would have been an insignificant city, even in the Hudson Republic it could easily have been forgotten. Priceless perhaps to those who wherein resided, but meaningless to tax collectors and the cold beuracrats of the nation. but Fort Prince, as it was called for shortness sake, was the epicenter, the very heart of the empire the first ina long line of settlements by a people who were not daunted by any obstacle the tundra may place before them.
Samuel Watson lived here, he was an unremarkable citizen in a barely remarkable town, he stalked the booths of the marketplace he had no job anymore freeing hos mornings to watch the great flame in the sky rise victorious above the ice as he cruised the shops, selling and buying at maddening rates, some places sold paper at lower prices than others could match, he bought the goods at their cheapest and sold them where those with more expensive prices reigned. He made little profit this way, but he stayed alive, which was more than he could ask from a beggars life. He noticed a shop with a long sheet draped over the front. It piqued his imagination and he quickly found himself within it. Behind a long table, stacked with luxuries from afar stood a man, his skin the dark color of the far south, a Cuban Watson surmised. The black man smiled at his first customer.
"How may i interest you?" the Cuban guestured at his table, moving his palm back and forth, indicating the prizes he sold. Sam couldn't remember the last Cuban in port.
The merchant noticed a cigar, the Confederate flag printed as a trademark on the wrapping. He lifted one of his own, which bore no mark.
"Put that crap away," he indicated Watson's cigar," try this, when you like it you may buy the box."
Watson took the cigar, offering it to the Cuban to light, a chance not squandered. He inhaled some of the greatest smoke he had ever dreamed of.
He remembered the price of the Confederate cigars, that seemed ashes in his mouth compared to the Cuban, he inquired the price.
"Three shillings a box," to Samuel's shocked expression he replied," to be honest they cost only one in Cuba."
The money was gladly from his purse, and Samuel began to inspect the table anew.
"Perchance an orange?" the Cuban asked, after Watson had searched for a while, removing an orangish ball from under the table, 'I have oranges the likes of which will make you wish never had before tasted one, for those before blasphemed the taste mine presented."
Samuel had never tasted such a fruit before, and he smelled it cautiously, noting the odd scent. There were those who would kill their customers and loot their meager belongings he thought, his eyes glancing towards the sheet over the front, he took the fruit and bit.
"You are clever with words," he noted to the merchant.
"I should hope so, i spent my youth perfecting them on the continent."
Samuel had never left his home city.
"Where have you been?"
"Mostly the United States and Texas, but a magical foray into Quebec and a disaster in the Confederacy."
"What happened in the south?" as soon as the last word left his lips and he saw the look on the Cuban's face, he wished the words back.
"I was mistaken for a runaway," he rolled up his robe's majestic sleeve, revealing a well muscled bicep and a group of scars that seemed to continue well into the robes.
Stunned, Samuel found no words. he finally changed the subject,
"You have your own ship?"
"Yes," and to the question asked only by Watson's dream taken eyes, "you will have to earn your keep."
A promise later Samuel Watson stood on the brink of a brave new world.
-
In the far north few trees dare mar the icy perfection of the tundra. Such animals as there are cling desperately to these and are left without help the further they dare from them.
Man is more than an animal though, and needs no comfort from the meager northern woods. Fort Prince of Wales was conceived in this harsh landscape, an insult to the territorry that sought mankinds imprisonment to the south. It is far from a large city, Fort Charles to the south outdoes it in that respect easily, but it holds a mystical aura that it's citzenry finds inescapable. That palace of stone atop the ice, their ancestors had dared the snow to destroy their masterpeices, the winter had yet to respond.
Which is not to say that there had not been attempts on the city's existance by nature, Blizzards often laid waste to the plans of inhabitants. The city never submitted, it was the eternal echoe of the indomitable will of one man.
In any other nation it would have been an insignificant city, even in the Hudson Republic it could easily have been forgotten. Priceless perhaps to those who wherein resided, but meaningless to tax collectors and the cold beuracrats of the nation. but Fort Prince, as it was called for shortness sake, was the epicenter, the very heart of the empire the first ina long line of settlements by a people who were not daunted by any obstacle the tundra may place before them.
Samuel Watson lived here, he was an unremarkable citizen in a barely remarkable town, he stalked the booths of the marketplace he had no job anymore freeing hos mornings to watch the great flame in the sky rise victorious above the ice as he cruised the shops, selling and buying at maddening rates, some places sold paper at lower prices than others could match, he bought the goods at their cheapest and sold them where those with more expensive prices reigned. He made little profit this way, but he stayed alive, which was more than he could ask from a beggars life. He noticed a shop with a long sheet draped over the front. It piqued his imagination and he quickly found himself within it. Behind a long table, stacked with luxuries from afar stood a man, his skin the dark color of the far south, a Cuban Watson surmised. The black man smiled at his first customer.
"How may i interest you?" the Cuban guestured at his table, moving his palm back and forth, indicating the prizes he sold. Sam couldn't remember the last Cuban in port.
The merchant noticed a cigar, the Confederate flag printed as a trademark on the wrapping. He lifted one of his own, which bore no mark.
"Put that crap away," he indicated Watson's cigar," try this, when you like it you may buy the box."
Watson took the cigar, offering it to the Cuban to light, a chance not squandered. He inhaled some of the greatest smoke he had ever dreamed of.
He remembered the price of the Confederate cigars, that seemed ashes in his mouth compared to the Cuban, he inquired the price.
"Three shillings a box," to Samuel's shocked expression he replied," to be honest they cost only one in Cuba."
The money was gladly from his purse, and Samuel began to inspect the table anew.
"Perchance an orange?" the Cuban asked, after Watson had searched for a while, removing an orangish ball from under the table, 'I have oranges the likes of which will make you wish never had before tasted one, for those before blasphemed the taste mine presented."
Samuel had never tasted such a fruit before, and he smelled it cautiously, noting the odd scent. There were those who would kill their customers and loot their meager belongings he thought, his eyes glancing towards the sheet over the front, he took the fruit and bit.
"You are clever with words," he noted to the merchant.
"I should hope so, i spent my youth perfecting them on the continent."
Samuel had never left his home city.
"Where have you been?"
"Mostly the United States and Texas, but a magical foray into Quebec and a disaster in the Confederacy."
"What happened in the south?" as soon as the last word left his lips and he saw the look on the Cuban's face, he wished the words back.
"I was mistaken for a runaway," he rolled up his robe's majestic sleeve, revealing a well muscled bicep and a group of scars that seemed to continue well into the robes.
Stunned, Samuel found no words. he finally changed the subject,
"You have your own ship?"
"Yes," and to the question asked only by Watson's dream taken eyes, "you will have to earn your keep."
A promise later Samuel Watson stood on the brink of a brave new world.
Definitely improved and a very interesting start, this looks like being a real corker of a story. 
Christmas is the best time to write stories. While mom's cooking up the turkey and dad's cleaning up the ripped-up wrapping paper, you can be working on your story! I'm thinking of doing one more short Christmas story in my Bush adventure series about Powell's Christmas party.
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