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.

In a sense, Prylof was lost. Not lost in the geographical sense—he lived in the city of Hevenin and his surroundings were very familiar to him. He knew his way to work and the way back home. He knew his way to the market and the way back home. He had traveled these same routes often enough that he could traverse them without any conscious attention, and he often did.

No, Prylof was lost in a deeper sense. It was more of an unnamed feeling, not something that he could clearly articulate. Something hot, fluid, and shapeless bubbling deep within him.

Prylof worked as a blacksmith in the local forge and was quite competent. The work suited him well as he had always been crafty with his hands. As a child he had often played with the clay along the banks of the Eastern Sea, molding it into castles and creatures like the ones in the stories he read. Along the edge of the Western Woods, he would find sticks and carve them into swords that he’d use to fight trolls, goblins, and dragons. Not real trolls, goblins, and dragons, of course—imaginary ones. Real dragons, if such things existed, were fought by real heroes, and a real hero Prylof was not.

Real heroes fought battles and went on adventures, thought Prylof. Real heroes traveled to far away lands in search of danger. Real heroes had a path, a quest, a calling, a true purpose. Prylof had none of those things. Prylof had a to-do list.

To be sure, Prylof did not have a low opinion of his work; in fact he thought it to be a respectable job. This was the main reason he’d gone to work at the smithy to begin with. It was good work. It was necessary work. But with each passing day, it felt less and less like his work. And with each day, he felt less and less like himself. He felt as if he had hardened into something artificial—as if he himself had been forged by his environment instead of a design of his own making.

He had become a piece of metal, surrounded by metal. All day long his eyes looked upon the glint of metal. His ears took in the clanking of metal. Even the smell of burning metal crept deep into his nostrils. And all day he looked forward to the evening when he would go home, take off his metal-scented clothes and wash the taste of metal out of his mouth with a hot meal and a pint of ale.

It was this, thought Prylof, that kept him going. One thing for which he still had great appreciation was comfort. And like everyone in the city of Hevenin, his comfort was found inside his home, as these days, there was little comfort to be found outside of it.