Welcome to Ravenrock, the Flying City.
It took a hundred Dwarven artisans a hundred years to carve the peaks into this imposing fortress, but a thousand Elven Gryphonriders to defend them from the ferocious Bloodfeather Harpies. Elfin magic fuels its defences, burning brightly generations later when the Bloodfeathers are just dust in the wind.
Eladrin flitted through the enchanted city centre whilst human refugees streamed in from the burning plains. Dwarf stone and Fey greenery retreated from Human habitations, mushrooming up overnight in sprawling cramped towns. The Fey fell back to city’s core, the inner circle from where the Elven nobility ruled. The Dwarves withdrew into granite halls, tools tirelessly singing.
Ramshackle dwellings rose and fell, becoming sturdier with age and tradition. Paths became lanes became cobbled streets. The Towers of the Four Gods were raised in celebration, gryphons landing in their highest reaches to bring coded messages to the Windfury nobility. Slack jawed peasants and unworthy nobles gazed upwards at these creatures that soared far above their mundane troubles, and wished for a few minutes of such escape.
And then the Gnomes came, driving creaking wagons of mysterious gear through the high gate and filling the cheaper neighbourhoods with whistling steam, grinding gears and muffled explosions. Out of the fire and destruction came the first balloons, blimps, biplanes and rotacopters, bringing the dream of flight to those with moderate coin and limited common sense.
In the present, trade pours in on the four winds and the city is a non-stop hub for trade, news, debauchery and crime. But where do you fit in?