Oh. My. God. Just... really. Thank you, thank you, whoever you are. This is unbelievably more beautiful and dark and terrible (in the good sense of the word, you understand) than I had hoped. There's so much about this that I adore that I'm not really certain where to begin.

As some others have said, there's almost a Biblical feel to this, yet more than that I get the overtone of other ancient texts; Gilgamesh comes to mind, what with the opening invocation to the reader to feel the city, to see it and revel in it. There's so much of the glorious tone of the epic wrapped up in this that I nearly can't stand it, it's so lovely.

And the legend of Kidrash! Be still, my heart! And the fact that it's the city, o God, it's the city that's speaking. And then this happened:

I am the slave digging sewers in the streets. I am the pleasure girl who warms her Tarkaan's sheets while longing for her native Galma. I am the young Prince Rabadash, pacing restlessly in his bed chamber, spoiled, unhappy, and petulant; I am the Great Vizier lying at the feet of the Tisroc (who shall not live forever; I have seen his fathers and forefathers perish, one by one) and secretly hoping for his master's demise.

And it was lovely. Beautiful, beautiful. Thank you so much!