Verdant Morass

Verdant Morass: 

From the stellar heights, the moon of Verdant Morass is a bitter lemon green pearl swirled with emerald highlights and the flashes of yellow storms wandering the upper atmosphere.

But from the streets and narrow alleys of the Vee, the sky is only a few bare strips glimpsed between the high walls of its myriad factories and fuel refineries, its Union Halls with their attendant residential enclaves, the Bureaucratic Union’s Rococo citadels and the distinctly Brutalist slabs of the Foreman’s Offices. If you want fresh air on the Vee, sniff some of the abundant Morass Moss throwing the only shades of colors onto its industrial silver and grey palette as its life cycle shifts from the verdant green that soaks up air born toxins and exhausts the only air that keeps this moon alive, into the dangerous, luminescent yellow that softly wheezes bad air that can choke the lungs in seconds— finally into its last, mere minutes long, gasp of scarlet red, a moss that produces nothing at all except a flavor that rivals the rarest truffle.

This is a place for workers, hustlers, the broad shouldered and tight lipped. This is a place where the most important information to know about a person is what Union they’re with and what shift they work— every first shifter, after all, is dependable, brusque and arrogant, every second shifter, an indispensable martyr and every third shifter either the hardest working fellow you know or sleeping through 8 of their 10 hour shift.

Morassians work.

They fight for every advantage.

They don’t take shit.

And if you have something to say about the Verdant Morass, it damn well better be nice.