A death of flowers
London, England. 2012
A city of contrasts. Great beauty strident across the Thames sitting upon the throne of Imperial England. The seat of the commonwealth sparkling in a global community, speaking of peace, progress and civilisation. An ideal, a beating heart to a populace some 70 million strong, living breating people eating and living from city to village, towering apartment block to mansions in the forest.
London sits at the heart of it, straddling the artery of trade with it’s beating pulse driving human consumption day in and day out. Nybbas strikes the skylines and beelines of the workers, billboards crying out the capitalist intent, soaking in the glory of a million drones plodding along selling their souls for a coffee machine, a table and a slice of city life. Sweet Andrealphus makes his rounds of the slutslums of Soho, infecting the denizens with an unholy lust for flesh, sex and violence, corruption seeping from his domain as it spreads its inky fingers across the people. Baal steals thousands of souls a night through drugs and gangs, and above it all from one of these towers sits Kronos, planning, plotting…preparing.
There are many cities in this world, but few draw so many demons as great unfaltering London, ever strong, ever falling.