The time was then, as it always was; and likewise, the place was there. The "then" was a Monday?Monday, February eighth in the year fourteen-eighty-five, specifically?and the "there" was the town of Harper's Hope, which was located smack-dab in the middle of Northern Grat-land. "Glorious" was a word that accurately described the state of affairs in Harper's Hope (others included "brilliant", "wonderful", and "doomed"):
Grat-land?and, on varying levels, the entire world? was in the midst of a magnificent renaissance: it was a time of prosperity, invention, and upheaval. Almost overnight, a storm of technology had flown to and from Grat-land's rural borders, bringing in the new and sweeping out the old without as much as a tip of the hat. The times were so fast that there wasn't time to grab your belongings before you went to catch up, and those who tried were going to be left gnawing on the dust.
Harper's Hope was the epitome of a city on the ever-shifting cutting edge: just like that, the unfinished houses had been torn down and replaced with stone and mortar, and those that were completed were either rapidly bricked over or painted to look like they had been. Before anyone really knew what was happening, the well-trodden dirt paths became sweeping stone roads; the modestly done chapel became a looming cathedral; the communal sundial was knocked over, and in its place a tower with an automated clock-face was plopped down.
Innovation had hit everyday life in Harper's Hope like a storm: nearly every house in their three-hundred-or-so person community suddenly had its own water pump and wood-burning furnace; the medicine man's disorganized shack abruptly became stately and well-organized office; while the tailor suddenly found himself filling out orders for cloaks and hoods instead of breeches and vests; and the farms all had great big wooden silos and automatic watering. Most notably of all, a sprawling thirty-room town hall had, over a single week, sprung up on the Northern edge of town and brought a self-appointed mayor to go with it.
There were blacksmiths and sawmills coming and going all over the country, and Harper's Hope had three of the former and one of the latter. Outside of the town, a massive lumber yard?at which nearly a forth of the men were employed?had been set in place; and a relatively short distance away from that, another fourth toiled away at a mineshaft that had apparently popped out of the ether.
The place had metaphorically exploded, and more people and changes arrived every week. It had grown so incredibly fast that, for well on half an hour after his arrival, Aogen wondered if he had taken a wrong turn somewhere: it had been four months since he'd set eyes on it, and he still remembered it as a one-road-one-horse town.
He found it unsettling: as an apprenticed doctor, he was most at home in the familiar and predictable, and he had always thought that there wasn't a single place on Earth that fit those descriptions better than Harper's Hope. Yet, to his surprise, it had suddenly outpaced his own relatively advanced hometown.
"No matter", he told himself.
He could?and would?work it out as needed. Eighteen new city blocks meant nothing when faced with memory and logic, and Aogen Yonderhill had, in his seventeen years of existence, become quite adept at keeping his head screwed on.
Aogen was many things, most of which the Gratish layman would use to define him. First to be considered among them was his pigmentation: the people as a whole, despite the waves of refinement pouring in from all angles, had yet to renounce skin color as their dominant prejudice. He had, through no fault of his own, been born an albino; and that, according to the dominant church in the area, meant he was actually a demon taking human form.
Because of that, he'd lived a lonely life: as a child, he'd been marked for swears and insults and fight-picking; and in due time, he stopped trying to make friends altogether. It didn't seem at all fair to him when he was young; and even then, halfway into adulthood, he wasn't any friendlier towards it. He didn't feel particularly demonic: as far as he could recall, he'd never burned down a village or exploited the evil in a man's heart. If anything, he though, he was the only innocent person in a world full of monsters.
The second thing people attempted to define him by was his profession: doctors?proper doctors, not the charlatan "medicine men"?were few and far between in Grat-land, and numbered twelve in all. Aogen had, again through no fault of his own, been born to one Doctor Phineas Yonderhill and his happily wedded wife, who?from what he could gather?had died giving birth to him.
The third and final thing people would label him by was his lack of a mother: in the orthodox, simplistic Grat-land, a child of one parent was often thought to be a breeding ground for criminal impulses; and the fact that his mother had died delivering him didn't help to convince anyone of his innocence.
However, contrary to what one might expect, Phineas didn't hate him for surviving where his mother hadn't: if anything, the doctor loved him more for it, seeing in him all that remained of her. In Aogen's earliest years, his father doted on him to no end, stretching himself to the breaking point for his newborn son's sake: and once he'd learned to walk and talk, Phineas had wasted no time in teaching him reading and writing, making sure above all else to instill in him an academic drive.
In his youth, the doctor could not make him friends, but he found him solace in other ways: slaving over a roll of paper for a fortnight, Phineas assembled for him a hundred-or-so-page book of fairy tales, around which all of his dreams were centered. In the comfort of the printed word, Aogen was able to forget the instinctive need for friends, and found it easier to do without them: he didn't need a shoulder to lean on when he was slaying dragons with the mighty elf king Greenhand, or someone to talk to when he was shaking down travelers with the trickster fairy Slightfoot.
Later, as he was maturing into a young adult, Phineas began teaching him all that he knew: over six years, Aogen had delivered babies and conducted autopsies, learned the names and symptoms of over six hundred diseases and viruses, and patched over numerous life-threatening injuries. At first, like anyone, he was bothered by it; but he told himself to be strong like his father and the heroes of his stories, eventually forming a sort of mental barrier. "Jaded" was the best word to describe him.
Last summer had seen his seventeenth birthday, which Phineas said marked the end of his apprenticeship. Technically, that made him Grat-land's thirteenth doctor, but he didn't feel the part.
Try as he might, he couldn't convince himself that he was on equal footing with his father, although he'd been told so many times. He didn't feel that aura of confidence and power that the adults carried with him; he might've been at the appropriate age, and learned the appropriate things, but deep down he felt the same as he had at thirteen?he was one of the "big kids", not a person in his own right.
It was that mindset?the idea that he was a child trapped in the body of an adult?that made his trip to Harper's Hope feel strange. He'd made trips to the town before, but back then it had been so very small, and he'd been accompanied by Phineas. For the first time, he was flying on his own wings, and his fellow blue-jays had suddenly become falcons.
He gulped and compulsively pulled on his hood and gloves, even though they were already on quite snugly. From his spot on the road leading into the city, Harper's Hope seemed gigantic, and each and every person building like a keg of rocket-powder; he could picture the errant twitch of his hair and the chance flick of an eye lining up and outing him to everyone in town.
"Okay," he firmly told himself, "There's no need to get worked up. Just get to Jones's, give him the order, and sack out upstairs. Easy as pie."
He re-affirmed his knapsack's position and took the plunge. Jones's smithy was two blocks into town, so the pressure would only be on for a few minutes. As long as he could keep his face under his hood, nobody would be any wiser.
He could feel his heart beating quicker as he walked down the street. It was just after noon, and the work day was in full swing: he was almost completely alone, but he couldn't have been more restless. To him, every window hid a pair of eyes, watching and waiting for him to show a patch of skin or look directly at them; every alleyway concealed a mob ready and raring to go; every turn hosted a crowd of armed strongmen.
The trip to Jones's shop was short, but nerve-racking. Aogen breathed a sigh of relief when he stepped into the sweltering forge; and a moment later, let down his hood.
On the far side of the empty entrance-cum-waiting-room, the thick oak door that led into the forge proper was closed.
From beyond it, the steady wham of metal-on-metal blasted through the air while fire-light seeped out underneath it. Aogen sighed; Jones was busy, and he had learned some time ago that it was best to not interrupt work that involved noise, magma, and heavy metal objects.
"Wow. I've never seen that before."
He nearly jumped out of his skin as a twenty-something man seemingly materialized behind him, but regained his composure half an instant later. He slowly turned around, one hand already on his dagger.
On the bench next to the doorway, a young man was casually reclining against the wall. Everything about him said one of two things: either "happy-go-lucky-buffoon" or "Hayseed".
The latter was there in full force: his skin was bronzed, his hair was short and raggedy, his beard was haphazardly trimmed, and his expression was one that paradoxically seemed to be scowling and smiling simultaneously. Due to what Aogen could only assume was want of a tobacco crop, the stranger was chewing on a piece of hay, which he would occasionally and (without purpose) adjust with his grimy, calloused hands.
The former impression entered into direct opposition with the image of the average Gratish man: the stranger's posture was lax and his legs were crossed, while his head rested on his hands; and his right eyebrow seemed to be permanently fixed at a slanted angle. All of those traits conspired to give the impression that he hadn't a care in the world, except for studying the man before him.
"That's one mighty strange hair-do you got there, stranger."
The stranger's accent couldn't have been more stereotypically Gratish if he'd intended it to be. Suddenly self-conscious, Aogen pulled his hair out of his face and aloofly replied:
"Yeah. What of it?"
"Nothin'. Makes you look like you just walked out of Bleaker's Wood, is all."
"Oh."
For the moment, Aogen dismissed the stranger's credibility as a threat and sat down on the bench opposite of him. He could feel the wall vibrate ever-so-little with every swing of the hammer. After another moment or so, he said, without really meaning to:
"The Elves in Bleaker's word had red hair, not white."
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could take them back; he'd made a proper ass of himself. The stranger, however, simply smirked and said:
"Not in the version I read, they didn't. I don't really care, though...you don't get many readers of Morbid's around here."
They were referring, of course, to Dr. Morbid's Authentic Amalgamation of Strange and Startling Stories, a fairly large collection of written fables that Aogen, and apparently the stranger, had become familiar with in their time.
After another long silence, the stranger asked him:
"So...where'd you read it?"
Aogen's reply was concise and to-the-point:
"I got it off a travelling salesman back in seventy-eight. You?"
"I found it lying around in this library over in Darkshore."
"Where's that? Darkshore, I mean."
The stranger shook his head and answered:
"Sorry, I forget not everyone's been around like that. It's a few hundred miles from here, on the southern coast of Sutland."
If he were anywhere else, talking about anything different, with anyone except the stranger, Aogen would've ended the conversation there and then. However, his reclusiveness balked before his insatiable curiosity.
"What's it like?" he impulsively asked. "Darkshore, I mean."
Cracking a smile, the stranger nodded his head thoughtfully and answered:
"You're curious...I like that, stranger. You got a name?"
Aogen froze in place: just like that, the stranger had brought up the one thing he specifically wanted to avoid talking about. While he was trying to decide between stopping their chat, lying about his name, or just spitting it out and bearing the consequences, the stranger shrugged and told him:
"If you don't wanna say, I can understand. You can call me M, though; everyone else does."
"Okay...what's the M stand for?"
"You tell me yours, I'll tell you mine."
It was a polite enough arrangement, and Aogen nodded his acceptance. He tapped his toe for a few seconds, and the enigmatic M continued his account:
"You can't understand what Darkshore is like until you understand Sutland; and if you want to know what Sutland is like, let me explain: imagine the most naturally beautiful place you can. Imagine the rolling fields of green, and the massive forests of trees with tops like clouds, and the Healthy, well-fed wildlife; the pleasant and intelligent people, the rows of perfect crops, and the bright yellow sun in the clear blue sky. ...You got it?
"Okay, then. That's not Sutland."
M waited a moment and let his statement sink in. While it did sound like he spent his spare time rehearsing it, Aogen found it to be plenty descriptive.
"Darkshore", M continued, "is Sutland set to eleven...er, so to speak. I've been to plenty of places, but I'll tell you this: you will never, ever find a rougher, tougher, meaner, leaner, rootin'ist-tootin'ist, quick-to-shootin'ist town in the entire world. It's nearly impossible to walk down the street without tripping over a crowd of drunken sailors or some fool on St'weed; and if you go out walking alone at night, I can guarantee you that you'll be mugged at least four times before you've made it around the block."
"...Oh."
Satisfied with his imagination, Aogen let silence overtake them as he attempted to imagine the place M described. It took him all of three seconds to picture it, imagine spending a day there, and come to the conclusion:
"That sounds awful."
M chuckled and nodded, his lips parted in a malformed grin.
"You'd think so, right? But tell you the truth, I don't think there's a grander place in the whole wide world."
"Really now?" Again, Aogen's better judgment was trumped: he was curious as to what the stranger meant?and to a lesser degree, whether he was simply talking out of his rump.
"Yeah, actually. It might be rough around the edges, but Darkshore is, above all else, a land of opportunity. Say, for example, you need some way to support your aged and infirm mother. What are you gonna do? If you're in any other part of the world, you land a job as a woodcutter and end up starving yourself trying to get money together. If you're in Darkshore, though, you take up with the local mercenary gang, and they'll take care of your family while you stab people for them.
"In a town like that, if they're willing to take the risks and face the consequences, anyone off the street can make it big. Take up theft, assassinations-for-hire...you get the idea."
Aogen titled his head, blinked several times, and restated:
"That sounds awful."
"I didn't say it wasn't; I just said I liked it. I know it's not for everyone, but for a guy like me? It's a regular trip to the zoo."
Another moment of sparsely-punctuated silence ensued. Aogen pondered M's statement while the man himself somehow relaxed even more than he already had. The smith's hammering ceased for a moment and was replaced by hissing steam; and then the clanging resumed. After fifteen seconds, Aogen timidly asked:
"Uh...What's a zoo?"
M raised his other eyebrow and attentively perked up his ears?everything else remained relaxed, though.
"What?" He asked. Immediately afterwards, he answered his question:
"Oh, that's right. You don't have those around here, do you? Sorry, I forgot. A zoo is when you have a bunch of animals in cages, and then you let people in to see them..."
As M carried on, Aogen found himself enchanted by his words. He listened intently as he went on and on about cats as big as men and birds the size of horses; and he silently mouthed each of their names as he heard them. There was the camel, which was like a horse with two great humps on its back; and the lion, which was a sort of gigantic cat with a roar that could shake the earth; and there were a dozen other things that M spoke of as commonplace but left Aogen dumfounded in the imagination of them.
As M finished telling of the Vulviti?which, as he described it, was a small, hairy dragon-like creature?the door to the forge slammed open and Jones the blacksmith stepped out. The man?a veritable bear in the term's every sense?held in one hand a large gauntlet, which was covered with several metallic widgets and bangles of unfathomable intention; and in the other, he held out a foot-long box. Even though both of them looked heavy to say the least, Jones handled them like they were feathers.
"Here's your things, Mister."
Jones' voice rolled around the room, giving the impression of contained thunder. M rose from his bench, dipped his head, and took the gauntlet. He momentarily turned his back on them as he snapped it into place, and when he turned again it was hidden underneath his sleeve. The only things that remained to betray its existence were the thin iron rings around his thumb and middle finger.
He raised his arm and experimentally curled his fingers; after a moment, he nodded, reached into his pocket, and handed Jones a fistful of octagonal tin pieces. The Blacksmith gave them a glancing look, nodded, and gave his thanks; M returned the gesture as he turned away.
M slid the box into his knapsack, turned to face the door, and said:
"It's been nice talking to you, stranger."
Aogen silently watched as M opened the door; but before he was gone, he spoke up on an impulse:
"M?"
The hunter turned his head.
"Yeah?"
"If we ever meet again, call me...A."
"Alright, then. Pleasure talking to you...A. Have a good one."
"Er...You too."
M stepped out onto the half-paved road, and the door swung shut behind him with a vaguely ominous thud. As soon as he was gone, Aogen felt a strange sensation?it was remorse, almost. He'd rarely felt that about anyone else, but M had a sort of magic to his mannerisms that inspired it. His departure was not unlike a particularly engrossing book being slammed shut in his face...but a second later, he reminded himself that he was being silly, and shouldn't make such a fuss over a chance encounter with a stranger.
