Hello, and welcome to my first fanfiction. This is just a prologue with the passage from Lyras Oxford which inspired me and a little opener. I apologise profusley for any spelling and grammar errors I've made (Like, I think, my misspelling of profusley) but I have dislexia, little time due to exams and no beta reader so I hope you'll excuse them. Anyways, here you go, oh and if you can be bothered please read and review. Constructive critics are welcome.
"It's easy to imagine how they might have turned up, though. The world is full of things like that: old postcards, theatre programmes, leaflets about bomb-proofing your cellar, greetings cards, photograph albums, holiday brochures, instruction booklets for machine tools, maps, catalogues, railway timetables, menu cards from long-gone cruise liners - all kinds of things that once served a real and useful purpose, but have now become cut adrift from the things and the people they relate to.
They might have come from anywhere. They might have come from other worlds. That scribbled-on map, that publisher's catalogue - they might have been put down absent-mindedly in another universe, and been blown by a chance wind through an open window, to find themselves after many adventures on a market-stall in our world.
All these tattered old bits and pieces have a history and a meaning. A group of them together can seem like the traces left by an ionising particle in a bubble chamber: they draw the line of a path taken by something too mysterious to see. That path is a story, of course. What scientists do when they look at the line of bubbles on the screen is work out the story of the particle that made them: what sort of particle it must have been, and what caused it to move in that way, and how long it was likely to continue.
Dr Mary Malone would have been familiar with that sort of story in the course of her search for dark matter. But it might not have occurred to her, for example, when she sent a postcard to an old friend shortly after arriving in Oxford for the first time, that that card itself would trace part of a story that hadn't yet happened when she wrote it. Perhaps some particles move backwards in time; perhaps the future affects the past in some way we don't understand; or perhaps the universe is simply more aware than we are. There are many things we haven't yet learned how to read." –P.Pullman, Lyra's Oxford
The night was dark and foul, the glistening spires and towers of the collages dripping dashed by sleet which banged against the slates. A man wandering the streets with his bloodhound glanced upwards towards a ray of light emitting from one of the tower windows before pulling is oilskins about him and sauntering on, cap pulled down to keep the worst of the rain off his eyes. He carried on wandering through darkened alleys and winding streets seemingly lost in though and unaware of his destination.
The bloodhound growled, and the man looked up once more and saw nothing but empty space filled with falling water. He shrugged his shoulders again, and pulled his coat round him in another futile attempt to keep out the water that seemed to find the kinks in the oilskin armour instinctively. Then he looked down and seemed intrigued by some scrap of paper on the floor. He bent and picked it up, half disintegrating at his touch. Much of the ink had run but a few words where still legible. The man managed to pick out a few disparate words-New, Audi and A-12 though he struggled to make sense of them without any frame of reference.
He then did something curious. He looked up once more and then reached into his pocket to pull out an instrument. At first glance it appeared to be a miniature telescope or looking glass, with a wooden casing bound together by some unfamiliar process. Its glass was odd, it was evidently not glass nor any other sort of normal lens judging by the orange glint it gave as the light from the aranbic lamp in the corner struck it.
The man raised the instrument and looked up and then gasped at the hundreds of golden particles he saw. Dust. However it was not the very fact that he could see dust that was so amazing, he had seen it many times before through the device, but it was the eddies and whirls that the Dust was twisting into, the patterns in made as it shifted and changed. It was almost as if it was searching, for something, for someone. It was pouring into this world from another in an unabating flow.
The man put his spyglass away and walked away, his bloodhound trotting obediently behind him. And even as he did so another piece of paper blew into the wind and rain, as if from nowhere.