What hits you first is just how much space there is. There’s extra air packed in between every moment. It feels like floating, like hovering, your feet not actually touching the ground. And, after that, the mood: light, atmospheric, wrapping you in a glimmering fog—and underneath, a threat. Danger, speed, and violence.
It’s a wallpaper place and also straightforward, the true nature of how things work pasted over by a paper-thin veneer. Your understanding of the place slips in sideways through the cracks, in sudden semi-conscious revelations. Signs and symbols point to vast nebulous looming webs of power and money, swirling invisibly through the atmosphere but always knowing just exactly where and how you are.
In the North, life is art, and culture, and power. The delicate monuments of empire have been gilded again, are painted and renewed every year. In the air hangs a soft cultivated refinement, a hovering stillness, velvet over an iron glove.