Mark woke to the now familiar protesting of his own muscles. It was a dull ache that had become the baseline of his waking life over the last week and a bit. He pushed himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the oversized bed, and for the first time, the movement didn't feel completely like punishment. The pain was still there, it was no longer the sharp, punishing agony of a body in revolt, but the almost satisfying soreness of muscles adjusting to a new expected normal.
He stood, stretching his arms towards the high ceiling, and felt a flicker of pride. The tremors that had plagued his limbs during the first few days were gone, replaced by a newfound stability. Progress was agonizingly slow, a frustrating reality for a man who previously managed timelines for a living, but it was progress nonetheless.
After forcing himself through the morning’s exercises, a routine that was now more a battle of will than a desperate fight against collapse, he made his way downstairs. The thought of venturing out, of finally leaving the beautiful prison of Silver-Vein Terrace, had become a hum of anxiety in the back of his mind since he started counting the days of food remaining. Now with a glance into the pantry it was confirmed, the provisions were nearly gone.
The memory of yesterday's conversation with Valerie surfaced. He had caught her at the end of her visit, hiding embarrassment with the conversation. "I'm starting to run a little low on food," he'd admitted. "I know it's a lot to ask, but... would you be able to show me the market tomorrow?"
Valerie had offered him a sympathetic but firm smile. "I'm on a double shift at the infirmary. And Tori has her own duties, a hunting group chose something bigger than they could handle" Her professional calm was a gentle but clear barrier. "You'll be fine. Most merchants are honest, and the ones that aren't you couldn't afford anyways."
She was right, he was a grown man, and this was a simple errand. Yet the thought of navigating this strange town alone, of being probably the weakest person, a magic-less outsider in a crowd of people with that gift, was a daunting prospect.
Pushing the apprehension aside, he focused on the immediate, breakfast. He went to the kitchen and found the last of the eggs and a few strips of the cured meat. The methodical process of cooking was a comfort, a small piece of his old life, something he would admit he wasn't very good at. As the nutty-smelling oil sizzled in the pan, he found a spare sheet of paper in a desk drawer and a pencil.
While he ate the simple, satisfying meal, he began his list. It was a project manager’s approach to an alien world: break it down into quantifiable tasks.
- Flour, eggs, bread?
- Bacon, mince or ground meat.
- Green stuff
- Onions
- Something for a sauce?
- Tea. Critical.
He looked at the small list, then at the heavy wooden door. It was a plan. A simple one, but a plan nonetheless. He took a deep, steadying breath. He was a citizen of this strange town now, and he had to buy groceries.
With the last of the eggs consumed, he rinsed his plate in the miraculously hot water from the tap, a luxury he still found surprising when his old place had failed that enough times. Leaving everything to dry, he headed upstairs.
His workout clothes, the dark, durable set he'd worn for a week straight, were lying in a heap on the floor. He had been thankful that Sam had shown him a steam cupboard that functioned kind-of-like a washing machine, magic imbued steam flooded said cupboard and the clothing was clean afterwards. Somewhere down the line he really wanted to know how that worked.
He unfolded the fine, dark blue tunic and matching trousers the set the Oracle had willed into existence in the library. The cloth was incredibly soft and light, yet felt strong. He imagined it as the kind of outfit a person of standing might wear, not the rugged leathers of a lumberjack or the simple robes of a medic. In his old life, he’d worn a suit to important meetings as a kind of armor, a way to project a confidence he didn't always feel. This felt no different. He was an outsider, but he could at least look like one who belonged somewhere.
Dressed, he felt a bit more like the "Civic Consultant" his papers claimed he was and less like a displaced patient. He picked up the leather pouch from a table in the kitchen, the clink of the coins within a solid, reassuring sound, much nicer than the paper and plastic he would normally have. With his shopping list tucked safely into a pocket, he took one last look around the quiet, empty house. Then, with a steadying breath that did little to calm himself, he unlocked the door and stepped outside.
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The unobstructed crisp mountain air was welcome, clean and cold. He stood on the doorstep for a moment, simply taking in the view. The houses of Silver-Vein Terrace were architectural marvels, carved seamlessly into the sheer rock face of the mountain. Below him, Enceladus sprawled out, a beautiful, chaotic tapestry of dark wood and gleaming copper pipes. The hiss of steam never far in the background, all under the silent, overwhelming presence of the Iron-Tooth peaks.
His gaze followed the line of the mountain upwards, tracing the path of a distant railway track. Just as he was about to turn away, he saw it, plumes of white steam. The stark contrast against the dark grey rock, billowing into the sky could only be a train of some kind. From the distance it was hard to make out details, but the engine pulled a long series of heavy-looking freight cars up the massively steep incline. He remembered Valerie mentioning the Great Cog railway that served the valley towns. Watching the train fight its way up the mountain was both awe-inspiring and deeply intimidating. The design on a scale he could barely comprehend.
After pulling his door shut, waiting for the sound of the latch on the locks, he followed the memory of Valerie’s brief tour, making his way down from the prestigious terrace and onto the main thoroughfare leading toward the town’s center. The cobblestone street was already bustling, and he kept a slow, deliberate pace, his muscles occasionally complaining at the distance.
Once to the town centre he followed the polished wooden signs, the sight of the familiar English script still a jarring anomaly in this profoundly alien place. It was one of the few things that felt like a lifeline to his old world, even if they called it ‘Ark Standard’. The town was alive with sound and movement, but he noticed a distinct lack of any engine noise. There were no cars, no motorbikes, not even the scooters that had become a menace back home. Everything moved by foot or occasionally by sturdy, rumbling wagons pulled by large, strange shaggy cow like creatures he couldn't identify. He supposed in a world with magically-powered utilities and steam-belching trains, personal vehicles were an unnecessary complication.
As he walked, he became more aware of his own appearance, the fine blue tunic he felt more like a costume, now seemed more normal. While many were dressed in the rugged, practical leathers needed for the practical trades, a surprising number wore smart, well-tailored tunics of their own, in a variety of colors and fabrics. His Oracle-gifted attire, far from making him stand out, actually allowed him to blend in with what he could only assume was the administrative or merchant class of the town. For the first time, he felt a little less like an obvious outcast.
Even so, a familiar and unwelcome, prickling sensation crawled up the back of his neck. It was the unsettling feeling of being watched. He subtly scanned the faces in the crowd, the balconies above, the alleyways he passed. He saw nothing but the normal, not that he knew what normal really was here, only the fleeting curiosity one might give a new face in a small town. There was no overt stare, no one obviously following him. It was the same feeling he had had one too many times after taking a wrong turn, Manchester had its shortcuts, and most of those were avoided for reasons.
He shook the feeling off, dismissing for now as paranoia born from his new, vulnerable circumstances. He crossed the central plaza, the imposing stone fortresses of the Governor's office and Militia Garrison looming over the area, a stark reminder of the town’s serious, defensible core. Just beyond, the atmosphere changed. The sharp scent of pine sap and sawdust from the distant mills mingled with the savory aroma of cooking food from taverns and goods on display. This was the market district.
The main strip was a chaotic, vibrant hub of activity, with merchants calling out their wares from open-air stalls and groups haggling over prices. It was overwhelming, very familiar from markets back home. Mark instinctively looked for something quieter, the stores aside the open market. His eyes landed on one such building off to the side of the main square, built from local logs and featuring a large glass windowfront. A simple, carved sign depicting a bushel of grain and a wheel of cheese hung above the door. It looked like a general store, the closest equivalent to a corner shop he could see. It felt like a safe place to start.
He pushed the door open, a small bell chiming his arrival. The space inside was surprisingly large and smelled of dried herbs, meats, and many of the produce. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, laden with a bewildering array of products. He saw vegetables that were vaguely potato-like but in several colours, fruits that resembled spiky, orange pears, and bags of grain in shades of red and black. He had no idea where to begin, what he had in the house were at least somewhat similar to those back home, he considered if that had been a deliberate choice?
“Can I help you, love?” a soft voice asked.
Mark turned from a bin of gnarled, brown vegetables. A woman was wiping down the counter, a warm, welcoming smile on her face. She was middle-aged, her hair a mix of brown and grey tied back in a simple bun, and her eyes were kind. He noted with some relief that he did not see any glowing marks like on the others, but resigned himself that it could be elsewhere.
“I hope so,” Mark said, gesturing vaguely at the shelves. “I’m looking for some basics, but I’m not really from around these parts.”
“Of course,” she said, her smile not wavering. “I’m Deirdre. I own the place and a few others.”
“Mark,” he replied, extending a hand out of habit before quickly retracting it, unsure of the local customs.
Deirdre’s smile widened, a knowing twinkle in her eye. “Oh, I know who you are,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, a clear Irish lilt colouring her words. “Gossip travels fast around Enceladus. You’re the stranger they found out in the Ironwood.”
Mark had assumed that word had gotten around, but unsure of how much, and this may at least help, “Very much a stranger yes,” he agreed, before adding “What else is being said about me?”
She laughed at his question as she answered, “Ahh, only of the few without magic, qualified but guildless for now, favorite of the Library,” he hands animated as she continued, “And, apparently displaced from our old home, Earth”