The city in the sky floats on a too black, too high and mostly too heavy cloud. Both emit a constant rain of sewer and trash on everything unlucky enough to be positioning underneath, and especially on the cumulus villages, whose poor inhabitants never get to quietly herd their wooly clouds and make a decent living.
From time to time, delegations of angry villagers come to the city and register a complaint, but no one has the tiniest clue what they’re talking about. The weather in the city is always fine, and only several feather clouds are seen in the sky. There’s no sign of trash and the air is clear, if cold and a bit thin. The villagers, choked, frozen and green with envy, return to their homes empty handed, and spend the rest of their days cleaning the sewer and the trash and trying, in vain, to avoid the course of the flying city.
One day they shall rise up, attack the city, set it on fire, empty it of its inhabitants and push it away, far, far away, never to be seen again. Only then they’ll find out that their own wooly clouds must feed upon rains of sewer and trash, and nothing else. But by then it will be too late.
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