There is a place far from any chartered map, beyond the 'scape of any text, and elusive to any history record. Ever evasive to evidence of its existence, this haven thrives strongly, with no remorse, with no regret. With no pride and no envy of any other, being as lost to the world, as the world to it.

Down through the thick firmament that hangs over the island, the sun trickles in. Bright copper pipes and tall structures slice the dawn into beautiful arrays along the cobblestone roads and avenues. As morning moves over the great city of Vue de Mer, life bursts forth. The blossoms of the many wonderful flowers throughout the wide recreational parks open to drink in another day. Soon the whip of parcels zipping through the delivery pipes fill the air with soothing chimes, like hail falling blissfully on a tin roof. The dam of dusk opens and people pour into the streets, bikes and children wandering in and out of the crowds as they move toward their respective fields to pasture in another day of labor.
Labor in this place was of mutual benefit and not for some gain over another. No ambition reached over another, but all reached as one. Only that the success of one fed another and back again.

With noon came the first grand meal of the day. Today was special, and everyone was preparing for the evening like which they prepared for every year since before any could recall. The Bon festival would begin this afternoon, with grand parades and streamers and cracklers whizzing through the air. Great crowds of people would commerce to the main-streets and fill themselves with the prize calves of every herd, the plumpest pick of every crop. They would trade the best of wares and share the greatest of stories. The evening would be ripe for drinking, making love, singing songs and stowing-away another night in their fabulous land.

Among these hungry working-class was Tawara, a young farm hand, though today he was playing delivery boy. The manufacturing and distribution district of the island was Tawara’s home, but he had come to the city in search of variety. Finding work in a pizza shop wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, but it pulled his weight. He was happy here and though everyone misses their home, he had no plans of returning. The warmth of the Vue de Mer was something to be trifled with. The smells were hypnotic. Of the bakeries, the diners, the meat shops and the flower stands; of the hot water parks where children gleefully splashed. The grass of the medians that split the bike trails in veins throughout the metropolis even smelled wonderful.
The air was many thick perfumes of aroma, one after the other, as Tawara sped along on his steamcycle toward his next client. Coming to a stop just outside of a pastry shop, he propped his bike on its stand and drifted inside.

The place was busy. Lunch rush was heavy here. Donuts and funnel cakes and other powder-covered treats were in demand today. People stocking up on sugary energy to power them through the relentless evening to come.
Tawara spoke up over the crowds:

“Pizza”

The customers surrounding him look staggered, albeit amused. A waitress clambered over with a tray held high, her frilly outfit brushing on guests as she shimmied past. The many drinking glasses barely clinking as she made over to him.

“My cooks must have been craving something a little less sweet for their lunch, I’ll take it.”

Pulling out a couple bills she handed them to Tawara as he presented the pies from his bag. Taking them, she lay the tray on top and wandered away.

He’d had his lunch already before starting his deliveries, with that being the last, it was time for a snack. He took a place in line for the counter that served to-go customers and waited.

Every single meal on the Feather was plain rice, just as it'd been for the past six years. Breakfast, lunch and dinner, white rice -- that's all she had on board. She almost considered starving until she discovered how to make sticky rice. It was more appetizing, and she taught herself how to eat it with chopsticks. It was a little skill the locals on the eastern side of the world showed her in exchange for an ex-miner's emerald. 

She spent days at a time fantasizing about food. It was a good way to forget all she had in the cellar below were sacks upon sacks of rice, among other things like sugar and kegs of water and wine. The wine was her favourite, it was a gift from a British farmer living on the coastline. He had extra, and tossed it into their rice trade for a few more chipped gems. It was evident how much his farm struggled to make ends meet, and she tossed a couple more rubies on the table before she departed. 

It was an interesting life to lead, living on an airship. It meant months of living close to the sun. Sometimes it was lonely, but she knew her safety was assured in the sky, and she enjoyed her freedom of adventure. She was her own person, free to sail the world. 

Captain Avis Cassell, sole operator of the H.S. Red Feather. Yeah, it was a nice title, but the ship was such a clunker she didn't think much of it. However, putting time into the maintenance of the Feather certainly brought a sense of pride; it could withstand anything the sky threw at them. The ship hadn't quit on her yet, even after years of sky travel. 

The Feather was beautiful (albeit rusty), its hull standing at 14 feet and extending almost twice that in length. The hull was a mix of steel and copper with small, circular glass windows decorated with huge gears. Three large balloons gave the ship most of its flight, draped with a tight netting mesh that came down in ropes that connected to various key points along the railing. Four steel windmill propellers extended from the sides of the ship's hull, the two forward ones smaller than the back. Most noticeable on the ship was its large fin rudder at the back, extending a few metres out and splayed with several rods of copper with red leather webbing (it was the rudder's design that gave the ship it's name.) 

Behind the hand-crafted wheel, the back of the ship was raised an extra level with two sets of stairs along the railing that led down to the main deck. Underneath the wheel platform was the Captain's Quarters, closed off with double doors. A copper, hollowed-out mast rose up from the main deck, stopping just underneath the opening of the middle balloon. It gave a continuous flow of hot air to all three balloons from the steam engine below. A steel grating between the wheel and the mast opened to the lower deck where Avis put all her goods. 

With a satisfied smile Avis leaned on the starboard's steel railing, looking out at the vast blue ocean spanning in all directions below them. The hiss of steam accompanied her all her life, and this was no exception. But, up here in the clouds, she welcomed it. The Feather, even if she considered it a clunker, was quite dear to her heart.

The Captain was an excellent navigator, but even she could draw little sense from the coordinates she uncovered on land. Regardless, they supposedly led to paradise and Avis took what she could get. Out in the endless blue their success hung on a sliver of a dream, even if her entire being was invested in that dream. 

Tirelessly the Feather continued their journey forward. 

Lunchtime aromas wafted in the air. The strong scents of sizzling meats from streetside vendors mingled with the flowery aroma of the hundred thousand blossoms that Vue De Mers was privy to raising. Children raced through the streets, happy to be free of their educational obligations for a transient hour, while merchants, taking quick bites of their own lunches, peddled their wares with voices that were growing hoarse. The day was, as always, bright and warm, the sun shining its countless rays down at those who lived below it. It was a wonderful home that Rui-Ling lived in, with the azure sky as his ceiling and the lively streets as his rooms. Clockwork birds ticked and turned, their metallic beaks squawking out advertisements as they glided from one rooftop to the next, engineered to evade any messenger pipes that spanned overhead. Lovely little creations, he had always thought. If he was a more curious soul, Rui-Ling may have wished to dismantle those birds and understand what made them tick, but he was too enamoured by the romance of mystery to do so. Back in his youth, clockwork machinations were bound by gravity. Now, paper wings have granted them the ability to fly.

What a wondrous era they lived in.

Dressed in his usual attire of a loose-fitting white shirt and dark slacks, accompanied by sandles, the young man hefted his rucksack higher up on his shoulder as he greeted familiar faces. Though he still wasn’t on a first-name basis with the merchants that dominated the orderly streets of Chrysanthemum Avenue, he was slowly becoming more familiar with them, with the residents of the new home that he lived in. But today, he didn’t feel like getting lost in the crowd, watching people as they went on with their lives. Today, he was heading to a favorite place of his, to spend the day.

The Hall of Falling Leaves and Flowing Water.

At the far end of Chrysanthemum Avenue, after the crowds have dwindled out and the roads turned into a dirt path, there rested a single, elegant building. Square-shaped with a peaking, tiled roof, it was drenched in Oriental flair. The poetic recital of a romantic tragedy could be heard, accompanied by the lonely wailing of a two-string instrument. From within, water flowed through bamboo pipes, and the chattering of individuals sounded as well, mere wisps of conversation. The grass tickled him as he approached, reaching into his bag to retrieve a full-face mask of a white fox.

The subtle aroma of tea could be heard as he passed through the open door, leading to a view of the garden. On either side was a mahogany walkway, framed by wooden pillars that were locked in place in a jigsaw-arrangement. No glue or nails were used in the Hall’s structure, only pieces that fit so snugly that it was wholly unnecessary. Servers, marked by their dark gray robes, glided past the customers who along the hallways. Occasionally, they would take an order or fill an empty tea cup, with a grace that was neither rigid nor suffocating. In the center of the garden, standing above a small bridge, was the singer of that day, a bird with a feathered mane and vivid topaz eyes. She was dressed in fiery, lively colors, green tassels adorning the end of her robes and golden sashes tied to show off her womanly figure.

Today was a good day to be here, wasn’t it?

Taking an empty seat that faced a rabbit, he relaxed his expression, now hidden by a mask, and spoke the words that began every conversation in that tea shop.

“How do you do?”