Vast fields of green, monsterous factories that belched smoke and steel, the crackle of Magick between towers of clockwork. Stuck in the past, the Proper people said. Worse than being from the Ranges, worse than being a barbarian, worse than being a slave. To be forged of copper and smoke was as good as a sin, but they did not care. Without them the country would crumble and so those of the reaches took pride in their savagery.

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