A young man with a grotesque metal leg limped into the city of spires, the City of the First People, where the structures gleamed like silver but grew like trees. The metal denizens slid furtively about the living foundations, curious but frightened. Then one, braver than her siblings, and lovely, came forward to meet the traveler.
“What is your name?” asked the young man, makeshift foot missing a step. (He had been told that “the good go to heaven and the bad go to hell,” but he kept forgetting to lead with his good leg).
“Amber,” replied Amber.
“I want to send a message to my friend,” requested the young man, trying not to wobble. “I’m worried about him.”
Dark Amber leaned in intimately, coiling about the young man like a glittering confessional. She listened, and when the young man had finished, she soothed, “He knows. But for you I will cross the uncross-able distance, and tell him.”
The young man felt her smooth strong flank beneath his outstretched hand, lending him balance, and he fell into the scent of incense.