The story of capitalism is one of great riches and great poverty. The Dutch Democratic Republic has great riches a-plenty, and many of it's citizens can indulge in whims that the citizens of other nations could only dream of. For wealthy financiers, successful writers, brilliant entrepreneurs, hard-working civil servants and skilled workers, Knootoss is the paradise of small dreams.
No wonder, then, that organised religion has become something of an eccentricity. It is easy to be rational on a full stomach; there is no need for Gods when one has been taught, from birth, to rely upon oneself. These Knootians, the secular elite, are the ones who usually feature in the stories told about that country. The politicians. The traders. The back-room dealers. This story is not about those people.
For under the smokestacks of Rotterdam, a different kind of people dwell. Poor, unskilled, desperate, people. Those who somehow fell behind, and do not have the skills needed to contribute positively to a 21st century post-modern, post-industrial society. These people are largely forgotten by their more wealthy fellow citizens. Indeed, it is common for a well-to-do Knootian to have spent more time abroad than in a 'bad' neighbourhoods that might lie just a few blocks away from their swanky city apartment.
Rotterdam South is such a bad neighbourhood. As part of the seemingly endless conurbation that had swallowed up the heartland of the Dutch Democratic Republic of Knootoss it was home to many immigrants, unemployed former factory workers and ex convicts. Although crime was kept under control by a large police presence and state schools that were open 24 hours a day, feelings of resentment were not kept in check nearly as well. Followers of the Order of the Invisible Hand would not show themselves here, at least not openly. Elves would take care to hide their pointy ears, if they absolutely had to visit. Fortunately for the elves and `handists´, no well-to-do citizen ever had any reason to visit Rotterdam South.
