The walkway is not suspended in the air by ropes, nor by chains, nor by struts. It is held, perfectly still, by the Daughters of Ceron. They serve as the way up, too. Up into hands, little sheep: up onto shoulders, strut confidently from us onto our steady ground. The walkway itself is a figure-eight, an hourglass, a place to walk until walking is no longer required.

Behold your husband, Vasillia of the Grav-Rail! Take him in from a distance; know that he will strut down the walkway until you could reach out and pinch his cheek, should you so desire. Naturally, given his body shape and the demands of fashion, he is wearing a robe- but it is the details that matter! This robe is the sumptuous maroon of a courtier from Tellus, and the orange-gold thread woven subtly into the robe shifts as he moves, shimmering and evoking the kitchen-hearth that is his domain. From his belt hangs a purse and counterweight; the counterweight is the pale white of a void-monster's bones, carved into the shape of Hestia sitting upon a cloud. A fan, similarly, is designed to be tucked into the inner pocket.

Out with it, Dolce! Flash it, let it be shown! On its white silk is a noble sigil from a world far, far behind us now, one which will serve well enough as the emblem of the noblewoman who sits in judgment. Beneath it are the tools of the chef, crossed as noble arms--

And which tools are these again, proud and extremely comfortable Dolce? Do share with us as you walk, coming and going, letting your lovely wife see you so warm and cozy from all angles. Let her see how the robe complements your frame; let her see the fuzziness of the boots, which are still able to stand up to any dropped knife; and let her see the flower that has been pinned delicately to your curls. Let her see all this, Dolce, and let her know that Ceron shall most definitely win the Contest of Fashion!