The faint morning light leaped down from the magnificent golden rooftops of Asgard Palace, landing on the smooth, gleaming Helmets of the tall guards around the square. Then, like children laughing and chasing one another, it slid down their broad armguards, darted between horses' hooves and shoes stained with damp earth, and finally, with the same blazing enthusiasm as the Asgardians, plunged into the spray of the fountains before being flung high into the air again.
A burly warrior dropped from midair and was caught by his comrades, only to be tossed up once more amid cheers. When the young warriors turned around, goddesses in white dresses, balancing water jars and baskets of fruit on their heads, swam through the crowd like fish. They smiled at every guest and placed the flower wreaths from their arms upon people's heads.
The layered buildings in the distance carried the rustic character of ancient Asgard. Back then, before the glorious golden palace had been built, the people of Asgard had lived by their ships. They piled earth into castles, arranged roof tiles in neat rows, and hung their national flags beneath wooden window frames.
Few buildings of interstellar civilizations capable of traversing the cosmos retained such primitive simplicity. Most civilizations had long since stripped away every unnecessary element through countless technological iterations, because they had to compensate for their frail flesh. The gods did not.
Thus, it was quite a spectacle in the eyes of the guests. Many Asgardian residents still lived in brick houses, their wooden doors creaking when pushed open. Yet when countless tightly packed homes piled up along the skyline, they displayed a beautifully ordered sense of density.
Morning light flowed between the rooftops, carefully slipping across the flags strung between them as though walking a tightrope over a river.