Preface
What is Laloym? Where does it come from? And what might it do for me?
Attempting to answer these questions by way of direct proclamation would be neither enjoyable nor effective. It would be like spooning flour, butter, sugar, eggs, and baking soda into one’s mouth and hoping they become a cake in the stomach. I would prefer instead to share with you an important story—a “word cake”, if you’ll allow me to put the icing on this half-baked analogy.
We humans have always viewed life through a narrative lens. We enjoy stories, we learn from stories, and we live stories. Far from being a mere human quirk, storytelling is the means by which meaning penetrates our psyches more deeply—past the point of verbal comprehension, down to the level where it can be truly felt. It gives us the freedom to find and extract meaning for ourselves, which in turn makes the embedded meaning more, well… meaningful. One might think of it like the difference between unpacking a sword from a box and pulling it from a stone.
What follows is a myth that will be revealed one chapter at a time. It contains a mix of prose and poetry that I hope you’ll find both entertaining and stimulating. And while each line has been crafted slowly and thoughtfully, the meaning that emerges from between the lines will likely say more about the reader than the writer.
In any case, I hope you enjoy
The Lore of Laloym
Chapter 1 - Prylof
Let’s get one thing straight: I am not the hero of this story. I am the hero of my own story, as I believe every person should be. For me, Laloym is an ancient truth, a modern reminder, and an aspirational mode of being. I tell its tale and sing as its steward, but I am not its hero. No, with respect to The Lore of Laloym, I am merely a bard—though, if I may say so myself, a decent one.
Our story begins long ago with a man named Prylof, an unassuming and good-natured fellow of average stature. He had dark hair and a fair complexion, with a square chin, broad shoulders, and callused hands. If you smiled at him, he’d smile back, but if you glanced at him without his noticing, you’d see an expression that hinted at a mind that had wandered far from where he stood—perhaps with intention, perhaps simply lost in thought…
Chapter 2 - Hevenin
The city of Hevenin had once been a wonderful place to live—or so Prylof had been told many times by the older folks who lived there. He had never asked them about the days of old, and didn’t need to. If you encountered an elderly resident and stood still for long enough, they would tell you all about how the light of the sun used to illuminate every inch of the city, about how it was a warm place with friendly neighbors who knew and helped one another, about how it was optimistic, industrious, and proudly self-sufficient.
As a child, Prylof had mostly dismissed these stories as the nostalgic ramblings of walking, talking relics of a bygone era. But as he reached adulthood, Prylof began to think differently. He no longer viewed their current predicament as inevitable. He began to believe that perhaps life could be different from the way it was now, maybe very different. At times, he even found himself longing for the days described by his ancient neighbors—as if he felt nostalgia for a time that he himself had never actually experienced. He knew of course that they could not go back. But sometimes he wondered if there was another way forward…
Chapter 3 - The Owl
One evening after a hard day’s work, Prylof left the forge and, instead of turning homeward, headed toward the western edge of the city. A few times a week he would take a long route home to stretch his legs, clear his head, and glimpse the outer edges of Hevenin. He had visited each boundary of the city plenty of times, but his favorite by far was the tree line of the Western Woods. There was something mysterious about it that he felt drawn to—something simultaneously alluring and frightening. So on this night, like so many nights before, he let his feet carry him toward the woods while his mind wandered wherever it pleased.
Normally, during his walk home, there would be a smattering of other residents hurrying across the cobblestones to the glowing comfort of their respective homes. But on this night, as Prylof maneuvered through the familiar streets and back alleys, he noticed that they were almost entirely empty. It seemed he had worked later than expected and the evening bustle had already passed, leaving the streets dark and desolate…