Heridor

[Solivagus]

The three moons in the night sky of Heridor shone with a bright luminesence, as if struggling, vainly, to penetrate the thick layers of smog that clouded the skies of the industrial planet. Thier rays caught the sides of the tall towers of the rich and famous that occasionally managed to pentrate the layers of foul gasses, towers stained and pitted by the corrosive air, thier outsides as black and corroded as the hearts of the men who had built them. On Heridor, the only way to fortune and fame was through pain and suffering. Below the smog layer the world was dark and dank, a miserable world lit only by the occasional spotlights of passing Magistratum skimmers on patrol. Light was discouraged on Heridor, darkness was so much more preferable.

 

As one sinks down towards the surface of the world, metal walkways and girders crisscross the sky. Covered in patches of rust, occasionally eaten away by the periodic bursts of acid rain, it was a wonder such walkways supported the weight of the people crossing them. Built out from the metal struts, cafes and shops plied thier trade, desperatly trying to make ends meet so they could pay the buisness bosses of the city thier protection fees. Without such protection, the shop owners knew they would be sent down to the bowels of the city, to the Underhive. The bosses got angry when they weren't paid on time.

 

Deeper down, past all the steel and cabling, below the reach of the Magistratum, below the sight of any but the most powerful, there was the Underhive itself. Built from a mixture of materials, of stone and wood and steel and plascrete, the true scum of the city lurked. Mutants and scag heads, drug addicts pumped high of illeagle narcotics or coming down of off thier high and needing another fix, black marketeers dealing in just about anything one could desire, for a price.

 

And the gangs. Identified by gang tattoos, they stalked the streets of the Underhive in packs, searching for easy prey and enemy gang members, clutching rusty guns scavanged from the dead and improvised pipes and axes, anything that came to hand. Each gang had it's own area and guarded it jealously. The death toll was high when two gangs met, but that was they way of life in the Underhive. It was all anyone knew.

 

This is Heridor. This is a black pit on the outskirts of the known galaxy. And it is here that a hero will rise, to save of damn everything. Here, is where Mazrim Almardar is born.

[WrenWind]

*want more* great job setting the scene. I could almost feel the thickness of the air.