The city of Amraterre, located in the Sacred Principality of Amraterre, is an absolutely beautiful sight. Placed on the flat peak of a mountain whose once-craggy surface had been flattened by an act of heaven, it towers over the lowlands and cloudlands below. The shining moons glow overhead with the reflection of the dawning sun, and beneath them is Amraterre the beautiful, unmatched in the annals of the world; from the Bestowal at its center gifted by the angels, greatest of all their gifts, from which flows ambrosia to grant life and health to the city's people, to the shining palaces of the Admiralty, which still reflect the work of those generations of builders that exalted the city for the glory of Those who gave us the chance to win it, and museums swelling with the plunder of a dozen kingdoms shattered and liberated and reforged. Beneath them is the thriving city with its burghers and artisans and ten thousand captains and commodores, in their formal uniforms of red silk and caps of velvet; beneath them are the fifteen great terraces beneath the peak cut into the mountain's walls by the Blessed Champions, six to shelter the city's swelling masses when they grew too great for the peak, nine more to grow the grain that ensures that Heaven's city does not face famine, even in the darkest of times.
Amraterre is all but deserted, now; His Holiness is on campaign, and from the city he has taken the young men, and the middle-aged men, and the oldest youths. Boys and girls play in the streets, But women and old men still walk the city, working the trades of their husbands and their sons, so that there will be something to come back to, when the long, terrible war ends at last.
Oh, and aliens. Aliens are very shortly going to walk the streets of the city, too.