An echo, a resonance, an alignment. Something that will fade soon.
June 14th, 1349, the Backlund Outskirts
Although summer had begun in Backlund, the grand capital of the Loen Kingdom, the sun had not managed to burn through the grey clouds and pale smog that hung above the City of Cities. Now, as the sun set, it did not seem likely that such a thing would occur. Instead, the clouds seemed to press ever closer to the tops of the buildings and the faint sheen of perspiration on the cobbled streets had begun to glow as the streetlamps were steadily lit.
Any tourist still out on the streets might have commented that such a sight was very evocative of the city's charm – no doubt as they pressed a handkerchief or a scented posy to their noses in order to mask the odour wafting from the Tussock River. Indeed, an easterly wind had sprung up with the cooler evening air and had carried the smell of the river and sewage along its way. Over Backlund Bridge, it entered East Borough and acquired the scent of the unwashed before skirting the smoky airs of St George and continuing on with its journey to the outskirts of Backlund.
However, an unpleasant smell was not the only thing that was travelling eastwards as night fell on the Loen capital. As the streets in the quiet suburb quickly emptied in the face of the latening evening, the impact of a pair of feet on hard cobbles began to echo against the facades of the houses. Soon, multiple pairs – the frequency of the sounds speaking to a pursuit and, from the gasping breaths and occasional wheezes accompanying the footfalls, one that had been ongoing for quite some time.
From the smog at the western end of one particular street emerged a young man, scrawny in a way that signalled one too many lean winters. His shoes were scuffed, his ragged grey trousers a couple of inches too short, and held up by a length of rope disguised as a belt. Above a shirt that could have been called cream at some point was a brown jacket to keep out the night's chill. The ends of the sleeves had been frayed by the constant attention of worrying fingers. A flat cap was pressed down on a head of messy dark brown hair. The only thing that made the scruffy teenager stand out was a pair of strikingly pale blue eyes that seemed to hide beneath dark brows scrunched with exertion. The beads of sweat rolling down from his hairline despite the rapidly cooling temperatures showed how much effort had been expended up to this point.
Only a few seconds after this swift entrance appeared two men who could only be called thugs. Heavyset with thick meaty hands curled into fists, knuckles callused, the two thugs charged through the gloom after their target. Their faces were red and ugly, dripping with sweat. As the pair chased the thin teenager, they occasionally would turn their heads and spit; getting rid of the phlegm and dust accumulated with their long chase. Naturally, chases of such length do not develop for the sake of sport. The young man had, in walking his usual rounds scavenging by the banks of the Tussock River, spotted men from a local criminal outfit named the Parliament Street Gang (a fancy name for an unfancy bunch). Normally this would not be an issue, except for the fact that the gang was dumping the body of a local Member of Parliament's nephew in the murky waters. No doubt the nephew, a renowned profligate gambler, had taken a loan from one of the shadier East Borough lenders and failed his repayments. Such a secret could not be leaked, lest political pressure force Sivellaus Yard to turn their eye toward the gang. An unlucky street urchin was an easy sacrifice to make in such a circumstance.
By this time the chase had gone on for over forty minutes and both the urchin and the thugs were at their limits.
"Eddy you brat! Get back 'ere or I'll gut you!" One of the thugs gasped out. Eddy (for that was his name), realising he was known to the thugs, only sped up at the shout. Feeling like his lungs were on fire and his heart was about to burst from his chest, Eddy ran toward the eastern end of the street; cursing that he'd decided to search alongside that particular stretch of the river for washed-up scraps to sell. His skill at unearthing goods fallen from merchant barges, loose change and river-borne trash from the waters had earned him the moniker 'Riverside Eddy', but at the moment he wished he'd just decided instead to work in a factory and eventually choke his lungs out from the coal dust or break his back every day at the docks (like any respectable resident of East Borough). Anything was better than being slowly and painfully beaten to death by two thugs from the Parliament Street Gang.
At this point, Eddy knew that at least a third of the Borough was off-limits to him – even if he survived the night. The Parliament Street Gang was led by a strict boss. Blue-haired Mitch, a man with a reputation for making sure that loose ends were tied up and, if you believed the rumours, someone with mysterious powers. So, legs screaming for rest, Eddy coaxed another burst of speed from his aching body in an attempt to put some distance between him and his pursuers. However, his chronic malnutrition was beginning to show and the two better-fed thugs were starting to gain – clawing closer inch by blasted inch. Breath hitching as panic rose in his throat, Eddy dashed towards the end of the street where the Backlund outskirts gave way to countryside. Seeing that it was a T-junction bookended by an old stone wall (most likely the remnant of some old, enclosed pasture), Eddy made the decision to put an obstacle between himself and his chasers in order to disrupt them before they caught up to him.
As the junction approached, instead of pivoting right or left, Eddy decided to leap over the wall and into the open land beyond. However, his body refused to fully obey him and, instead of a graceful leap, Eddy caught his shins on the top of the wall and tumbled over messily. Stones, twigs, and old thorns dug into his outstretched hands and drew blood along with the sharp stinging of his battered shins. Cursing, Eddy stumbled forwards, hoping to put some distance between himself and the goons. Ahead was a wood, thick and dark. The spaces between the trees were snared with bushes and brackens. A perfect place for someone to hide.
By this point the thugs had started to climb over the wall, taking more care than Eddy had. There was no choice for the teenager but to trust his safety to the gloom of the foreboding forest. Hopefully, he could lose the men in its depths before finding a place to hide and recover. It was certainly too late to return to his usual sleeping spots in East Borough.
Eddy practically flew into the wood, arms in front of his face to defend against lashing branches; heedless of the one that tore the cap from his head. He ran for a couple of minutes, losing himself in the undergrowth. Head turning back to make sure he had broken line of sight with the thugs, he continued on briefly before abruptly turning and diving off his previous route. Making his lithe form as small as possible, Eddy stayed low and crept forwards; taking care to disturb the undergrowth as little as possible. Finding a hollow trunk and crawling within, Eddy finally managed to rest his complaining legs. He withdrew the old nicked knife from his jacket pocket and clasped it in both hands. Just in case.
His newly found hiding spot was not exactly comfortable. The rotting wood inside the trunk had splintered, the tight fit inside the trunk helping some slivers find his flesh. The enclosed space seemed to amplify the sound of Eddy's heart in his ears, allowing him to hear his rushing blood as his chest expanded rapidly against the surrounding wood. His rapidly cooling sweat had mixed with dust and dirt and coated his stiffening muscles. Within this cosy new home, Eddy listened to the outside - the crashing of the thugs in the forest. An exhausted smile appeared on his face when he heard one gangster shout some rather inventive punishments before cursing him by the Storm. It made sense. The Parliament Street Gang was a violent lot so of course they favoured the Lord of Storms.
Eddy stayed within the log for what seemed like ages, as the sounds outside began to fade and he felt the crawling of centipedes and woodlice on his skin as they once again emerged after the disturbance of his sudden entrance. The smell of rotting wood and rich earth was thick in his nostrils. A silent laugh shook his body slightly. It really had been a miserable evening. With the Gang on the lookout for him, his days on the riverside were over. It was too well-known as his haunt. His best bet would be to stay in the woods for a couple of days and forage for food before finding a new area of the city to scratch a living within. Of course, he would have to find or build a proper shelter. At this point, a night of rain could kill him just as easily as any thug.
Eddy's first thought was to go and find shelter. However, he quickly reined himself back in. The thugs were still in the wood. Although the chase was over, they were still searching. However, as time went by it would become more likely that they would believe he had given them the slip. Not to mention, with the only light being the glimmers from Backlund beyond the thick trees, it was almost entirely dark. Soon, the thugs would have no choice but to return to their boss empty-handed. Then, Eddy would be free to move. Calming his breathing, Eddy realised that the game had transitioned from one of speed and stamina to one of stealth and patience.
Even though his stiff muscles and cramped posture were becoming more and more painful, Eddy persisted.
"One Bill Augustus, Two Bill Augustus, Three Bill Augustus…"
Eddy counted the seconds under his breath, using the folk method of saying the nickname of the Loen Kingdom's Founder. After 2000 Bill Augustuses, voice hoarse and mouth dry with wood dust, Eddy finally wormed his way from the hollow tree trunk. He hissed as his neck and shoulders popped and pins-and-needles started in his right arm. Eddy's legs initially buckled as he stood up, but he caught his balance and began brushing his clothes off. His face set in an annoyed expression as he took in the many tears in his already-worn clothes. The shirt was salvageable, but the jacket and trousers were pretty much ruined. Not to mention he had lost his cap!
"I liked that cap…" he muttered to himself - confident that he was now alone in the wood. Orthos Wood, Eddy recalling the name from somewhere. A small forest, but surely big enough to conceal one teenager.
Now it was time to explore. A safe and sheltered place to sleep would be invaluable.
AN: Ok, hello. This is a complete experiment that I started writing after literally one afternoon of planning. I recently binged LotM and absolutely fell in love with it. So, naturally, being the degenerate I am, I immediately began looking for fanfiction. Having read a few, I came to some conclusions.
LotM fanfiction tends to come in basically two categories. The first category is that of short stories based around unexplored character interactions, new or expanded PoVs, or (most often) some Amon/Klein shipping. Generally, this is probably the highest quality stuff being written. Not only is it nicely self-contained, but it's also fun as a study of the novel's characters - some of which are criminally underutilised.
The second category is more difficult. These are long-form stories based around an SI or maybe OC transmigrators (mostly with meta-knowledge) who interfere in the plot. This comes with problems. No matter how well they are written or how engaging the OC is, the issue is that the core of LotM has been compromised. The mystery. The mystery of the series is a huge part of what makes it so engaging - all the questions we have about gods and Beyonders and Roselle and transmigration and the grey fog etc etc etc. It's certainly what made it so engaging for me.
Ok, so here's the problem. We, the readers, have already read LotM. We know about the Original Creator and the Lord of the Mysteries. We know about the Sefirot and the Great Old Ones. All the mysteries have been solved (leaving alone the fact that a meta-knowledge OC also knows these things and therefore needs a power to protect them from cosmic corruption - therefore devaluing the horror of the Great Old Ones and making the MC immediately overpowered - I'm getting off-track). A LotM with no… uh… M is, well, a bit hollow. Therefore the writer needs to insert new questions into the story. Something to add the Mystery back into Lord of the Mysteries. I don't know if I'll manage that. But I'll give it a go. So, be warned, this will get AU…
My plan is to post a chapter once a week. Hopefully with smaller and less rambling author's notes. Thanks for reading.