The Man the City Worships
The golden afternoon gently drifted into evening, tinting the vast plains in patches of warm amber and rose. The sun, a molten jewel rimming the horizon, bathed the sky in gold and orange as it started its journey behind the gentle hills. A gentle breeze swept over the open plains, sweeping through wheat and wildflowers, bearing on its surface the far-off aroma of rivers and soil. It teased the silver pennants of a passing caravan that cut across the golden terrain like an ebbing dream.
At the head of this great procession rode the center of it all — a resplendent silver-blue carriage, inscribed with moon designs that glimmered in the dying light. Drawn by four Windsteeds, tall and regal beasts with white coats streaked in sky-blue, the carriage glided as though it were lighter than air — gliding, not rolling. Horse hooves barely made a sound as they struck the cobbled road. Even the ground beneath seemed to provide silent deference.
