The older man continued to sit atop his worm-eaten wooden chair, the scrapes and dents catching the running oil lamp's light as he shifted from side to side, heavy boots thumping against the beaten and worn wooden floor. He continued to shift as those around him held their breath, many of them the younger children of the small village. He has commanded all their attention, all their respect as more and more shifted their seats away from the beaten metal of place seating, desserts left untouched a midst the cramped quarters of the hall. He looked from side to side, the flickering of the oil wick ran shadows along the man's face, his features seemingly growing older over the course of the evening, the pronounced cracks of his skin hanging heavy under eyes. One such eye continued to scan the room, watching as the kids and parents of the community drew closer, some with curious faces, others eager to hear of stories of times long past. He closes his eyes, before once more opening them, the singular blue eye focused with the sparkle of the light, the other dull and blanched with time and blindness. He bit at his lower lip but a tiny bit, before parting his cracked lips to speak.
"We celebrate this day, the day of founding, much like those many before us" he said, his voice cracking as his vocal chords worked, having spent most of the night in silent recluse from the rest, thinking of what to say on this evening of all evenings. "The time of founding, was the time of harvest, and on this day we honor those whom have come before us, those who had made what we have today possible." He looked around the room, his eye going through the crowd, parents nodding approvingly, children droopy-eyed and tired after a long day of celebration. "But enough of that..." he said, the tone changing in the room to one more serious, more sinister.
He cleared his throat, the sounds echoing off the half timbered and plaster walls as he did so. "You have all heard of it...? Haven't you?" he said on keen ears. "The legend of how we lost our wings?". Silence once more, punctuated only by the sound of the old man shuffling, talking a sip of his dark red wine, the clanking of the metal goblet hitting the table once more. "Upon Wings of Fire the gods flew, their realms the sky. It is from the heavens, the grand streams of air currents, that the world begun to take it's shape." he paused once more.
"It all begun with Isha, the maiden of humanity. For she was unlike the other gods who fought among themselves. She quickly grew bored of their ways, and aspired to more than the solitary life of her own. From an Angel's breath we were born, breathed into life from the essence of a god herself." He paused once more, the retelling of a myth that has been as old as humanity itself. "It did not take long for the Gods to notice our puny forms flying around the skies, mere gnats to their presence. It wasn't long before we were made the play things of the gods, fighting imaginary wars in the heavens under the different allegiances of the gods, yet Isha would have no more of this. In the dead of night she cut the wings of her children, letting them fall on the winds of her whispers, scattering us to the lands below. It was said we rained down upon the earth as stars from the heavens" He paused a long while, the telling of the story rough on his parched throat.
"Many awoke to new lands yet tread by man, the many creations of Isha having long since lived on the grounds below, her own love and essence being the living, breathing Earth itself. On a warm season's breeze, the children could hear her whispers still, rustling through the leaves of trees. It was maddening, sorrowful even, her children longing to see their progenitor once more. From the lands they made their dwellings, from the animals, their food. It was by expending the creations of their very Goddess that they developed the powers of the Gods themselves. They continued to grow, learning, experimenting, magic even." he stopped speaking again.
"Upon entering the heavens once more, on wings of fire of their own, they were confronted. The Goddess Isha was crestfallen. Before her were the forms of her children, with wings once more. Where kindness and love had been the practice of her creation, curiosity, power, and magics had now ruled the minds of her closest creations. Her children, the ones she sought to protect by casting them from the heavens without wings, those that she wept over every day since their banishment that the heavens themselves rained her sorrow down, had destroyed her creations on their journey to reunite with her. Her heart was shattered, her very essence broken as the goddess known as Isha begun to dissipate." He let the story sink in. Some of the kids already yawning at the ancient tale, caring little for the cautionary tale that he now told.
"It was with sorrow on her lips that the Goddess Maiden disappeared. The other Gods grew furious, their vengeance smashing apart the earth with great bouts of strength, the very essence of the Goddess's soul reverting to winds of magic, whole sections of the broken land floating on the whispers of a dead Goddess. The humans once more were cast from their heavens, their powers sealed, their wings rendered useless. Once more they fell from the heavens, not to the earth below, but to grand islands floating on a turbulent sky, the firefly like glows of residual essence floating on the breeze as the islands continued to hover in place, the fragmented earth now nothing more than a sea of floating islands. From the heavens the Gods descended, ready to end all of Isha's children. None could say for certain what it was that stopped the gods, or what scattered the islands across the remnants of the Earth, to this day some hold it truth that the Goddess of Isha, the Goddess of caring, could not bear to see her children and creations destroyed, and whisked us away on her final dying breaths, the breaths of an angel." he finished the last of the story.
The kids were mostly asleep, uncaring. Adults too, were uncaring, yawns escaping their lips, others picking at plates with forks, bored at the stories of the founding that were told every year. The older man sighed, the veteran of many tellings, and decided to wrap it up. "On days like today, the descendants of Isha continue to live much the same way as they have then, counting the blessings of our Goddess for the gifts they were. The ground beneath our feet, the blades of grass moving to her whispers, the animals we eat. sixty years ago this settlement on this island was made. We thank those that had come her on flying ships, who worked to reclaim a maiden island of our own, who turned it into one that could sustain life. Good night everyone, and sweet dreams to all" he said.
The older man got up from the chair with a hobble, stumbling as he did so, one of the adults running to his side to grasp at him from under his arm, steadying him. The two walked from the room, the people gathering loved ones and their belongings from the hall. "A beautiful telling, Isha would be proud" the adult said. The old man simply muttered under his breath. "Isha's in her Heaven, all is right with the world".
The world is not as you and I today know it, nor will it ever be the same again. The world is but a scattered collections of islands, floating on ethereal energy. During the heaviest of storms, during the greatest lightning and gusts of wind does one truly get to experience the wondrous energies that keep the islands afloat, green fire-fly like light floating lazily above the ever-turbulent clouds below. Much of the world is but maiden islands, islands that have not yet been claimed by mankind, the process of reclaiming such an island costing large amounts of materials, manpower, and money.
That is not to say that the population of mankind does not strive to claim them all, nor does it exclude their thriving nature as they continue to live out on their islands. It has been like this since as long as anyone can remember, has always been like this, the islands hidden by rolling cloud cover, the sun and even more clouds above, and the ever present storms below.
Plying their way through the skies are ships constructed by the New World Order, ships made of simple wooden frames and canvas. Upon the magic aether they float, the winds driving their canvas sails forward as they are used to colonize more islands, shipping supplies to islands of needs, trading, or imposing the will of the unified government. They are invaluable ships, their construction a closely guarded secret of the NWO, the cores of the ships under guard at all times by the engineers and soldiers of the NWO, regardless of who own and operates the ship.
The NWO is a multi-island assembly that is a representation of the many islands scattered through the world. They rose to power on the back of their airship technology, and continue to safe guard the interests of all island-states that their members are drawn from. They continue to act as mediator between the different islands, going so far as to employ crippling sanctions (to which they hold the most power holding the largest fleet of airships), as peace keeper, and in recent times are the main fighting forces against pirates that pillage at their leisure on captured air ships.
There are still many independent nation states/fifedoms/ and neutral cities scattered across the world, and many fights still break out in the turbulent age of the pirates.
The majority of the setting is pretty much a fantasy world, set on the global stage as a whole. There will be a lot of political maneuvering, intrigue, fighting, infighting, and drama. The story is going to be completely free-form, and per usual I am going to try and make it as flexible as possible to suit my players, rewarding good role-playing with even better story telling. A few things that need to be covered in the setting are as follows.
Technology;
This is going to be fantasy style, during the age of the early renaissance. Science as a whole is on the upswing, clashing with older established religious organizations. For the first time fields such as medicine (very rudimentary), mathematics, arts, etc. are starting to finally emerge. Airships follow pretty much old style naval guidelines, ships that are made of wood, with canvas sails, and gun powder cannons.
Gunpowder is fairly new, the rise of fire-arms starting to occur. Fire-arms are not so widely spread as of yet, but can be attained, simple gunpowder weapon firing muskets. A lot of people are still superstitious resorting to tried and true tested methods of combat, such as metal close combat weapons; the axe, sword, etc. as well as traditional ranged weapons, crossbows, bows, and slings. Armor exists, but has begun to fall in use, the new gunpowder weapons tearing clean through them. If any is worn, it usually ornamental, or function, such a simple breast plates, helmets, vanbraces to provide some protection, but keep weight down in the ever changing battle field.
Culture;
Pretty much as described above. The sciences are on the rise, and they are doing things to dispel many of the previous beliefs. While only a vocal minority, the impacts of the technology is already being felt through the world. There still exits feudal systems of sort depending on the island, and the city construction is much like it were in the renaissance. Walled cities and strongholds continue to exist, but it's the age of art and wonderment, beautiful monuments and structures being built for purposes other than war.
Magic;
Some individuals can tap into the energies of the world around them, using powerful feats of magic. However this is banned by all governments of the world unanimously. They tend to devolve mentally, and physically, becoming dangers to everyone around them. They are held with superstition, the sciences unable to explain why, or how people are able to tap into the energies, or why they continue to devolve and die at a fast rate, those tapping into the ethereal energies dying at a young age in their middle twenties.