The old trunk in the attic falls over and opens, releasing a ballet shoe, a glass eye, candlesticks, a photograph sans frame, children's toys, a cross necklace, reams of paper, and Traehaearn Llewellyn, who certainly could not have fit in that trunk at all.

Still reeling to from the assault on his eyes and ears, Trahaearn tumbles to the ground with all the other items that were apparently in the trunk along with him. He musters an attempt to catch himself on his hands and knees, at least- but one of his hands lands on the glass eye, sending his arm skittering to the side and leaving him to fall face-first onto the floor in an undignified heap.

He groans quietly.

Edgar looks up from his work. Redistributing paint on a canvas is hardly his idea of a good time; he's not a creative thinker, except for in the ways that iconoclasm necessitates rejecting norms. If he thinks original thoughts, it is because of a single kernel of originality at the core of him, and nothing beyond that. None of his "art" deserves the name, which is why it languishes here, in his big, empty house.

His big, empty house which suddenly includes an uncharacteristic amount of noise in its attic. He looks up, waiting to see whether a raven, or something equally dramatic flutters downstairs. He might have to deal with an intruder. It's- exciting, he thinks. Edgar works to acquire a syringe as he waits.

There's no other noise for a minute or two, as Trahaearn recovers from his abrupt ejection from a - chest? A chest, of some kind. It's not a style he recognizes, once he has the coherence (and the vision) to recognize anything at all. Actually, he realizes, as he slowly pushes himself up and looks around the place in which he had landed, he doesn't recognize the style of most of the items in this room. It... looks like some kind of storage space, he supposes, one full of odd, interesting, foreign objects. That portal must have landed him somewhere very far away from where he had started. 

As he shifts, his hand lands on a more even surface than the floor of the storage room, and he glances down, face shifting to surprise as he picks up the small portrait to get a closer look. It's not like any portrait he's ever seen, he realizes, so true to life, and the medium is just as odd. Before he can linger too long on it, his eyes are caught by the glint of the silver pendant that had fallen not far from it, and he moves to pick that up too, holding it up in the meagre light to get a better look at it. He's seen crosses before - they're fairly common features in the symbology of many cultures, so simple that it would be odd if they weren't. He wonders, idly, what it means to this one. 

Setting both items down, he looks next to a fan of papers a little farther away, only a few of the mass of it that had scattered around the area. He pulls a few sheets closer, lifting one closer to his face to try to make out the words in the gloom, hoping to find a script he can read. 

The script is surprisingly intelligible, despite not resembling the one he's familiar with in every respect. It would seem that this culture speaks a very close relative of Anglian.

Before he can investigate the papers in much detail, however, he sees the door to the attic open.

"Isn't this something. You've misunderstood a critical piece of successful burglary, my friend; don't attract the homeowner's attention."

Trahaearn looks up as soon as the attic door starts moving, and has shifted into a posture that should let him dodge any which way by the time the- homeowner, apparently, finishes speaking. 

Accusing him of burglary is... reasonable, he realizes. This doesn't stop an offended expression from crossing his face. As though he'd be caught if he had actually intended to rob the man. As though he would need to. Unfortunately, he realizes quickly, absently thankful that his earring notifies him when it's in use, he won't be able to easily refute the statement. The tongue he is speaking seems likely to be the spoken version of the one in the papers - a close relative of Anglian, which he is fluent in, but not close enough to be mutually intelligible. 

It's probably better to make it clear he doesn't speak the language than to stay silent, however. Rising to his feet and brushing the dust off his jacket and the front of his breeches, ensuring his hand stays well away from the hilt of his sword for the moment, he replies, in Anglian, "I'm afraid I didn't have much choice in the matter." 

Oh, well this is wonderful. A thief who doesn't speak Albish. No sign of a broken window or an encampment, and he hasn't been attacked yet- a charlatan, of sorts? Edgar did come up here essentially unarmed; the toxin in the syringe will only paralyze him temporarily, if he even has a chance to use it against someone much more prepared for violence than he.

"Nothing this unusual happens to the McAlistairs, I'll have you know. We've been a perfectly ordinary family since I can remember."

Not entirely untrue; his mother's last few years before death were faded, dull, and grey.

"Nothing unusual at all?" He replies, for the sake of continuing conversation as his eyes flick over the man searching for any weapons to be wary of, "That sounds terribly boring." Trahaearn's life has been full of unusual happenings, though few were quite as unusual as this one has been so far. 

He's still holding the paper in his off hand. Idly, he rubs it between his fingers, feeling the difference in the material from the paper he's used to. The other man's clothes are unlike those worn in his homeland, as well, he notes, though he's hardly surprised at this point. Despite the complete unfamiliarity of this place, he's not all that worried, either. He has a sword, where the other man does not appear to. If it turns out he does have a weapon, well, he has his alchemy. He has nothing to be afraid of. 

"Say, could I have a look at those papers, friend? They do belong to me, despite your rather proprietary grip on that page."

"Hm. True enough," he agrees. It would also show some amount of good will on his part, hopefully. He doesn't wish to alienate the first person he's met in this place entirely, if it can be avoided. Stepping forward cautiously, he holds the page out towards the other, watching for any sign of treachery on his part. 

No treachery, just eagerly poring over the page. Whatever is on there, he seems to find it interesting.

"This attic is full of surprises. The name is Edgar. What should I call you?"

Generally, strangers call him 'my lord', even when they aren't aware of what he is lord of. He's too obviously a noble for them to mistake him for anything else. This Edgar won't even know what lord means if he adds it before his name, however, so he just says, "Trahaearn." He glances around at all the things strewn over the floor, and then looks back to Edgar and bows slightly, "Apologies for the mess." Despite the language barrier, that's a sentiment should get across, he expects. 

Well enough, anyway. It's a fascinating language, really; could it be a dialect formed among an isolationist bunch of zeppelin nomads? Or perhaps a trade tongue, used overseas?

"Trahaearn," he repeats. Edgar likely won't remember it perfectly, but he takes care to call people what they prefer to be called.

With no obvious malicious intent, he supposes it might be safe to begin picking up some of the mess, but he doesn't intend to risk it. Instead, he devotes more attention to the paper in his hand. This looks like- he knew his mother had invented marvelous things, but he had never heard of anything like this. A method of resurrection?

"What brings you to New Albion? Are you a merchant? An entertainer? A soldier, perhaps. Are you here to trade goods, bring laughter, or slit throats?"

He considers how to answer that, going back over the words Edgar had spoken so far, searching for any that suit his purpose. Hm, what was- "Nothing," he tries, and his pronunciation is a little bit off but the word comes across well enough. "New Albion?" Interesting - that is the word Anglian uses for the great isle where both their peoples' live - his own tongue names it 'Alban', but they clearly come from the same source. New Albion, however... a colony of some kind? 

After another moment of thought, he makes a displeased face, and adds, "What is New Albion?"

Gods, he hates to sound like a simpleton but it can't be helped, the man hasn't given him enough words to sound in any way sophisticated. At least this question might give him more of a vocabulary to work with.

"New Albion, my friend, is a city like none before it. Zeppelins ride the skies, trading between distant colonies and our shores. The mob provides half of our enforcement, despite the government pretending to hold power over every citizen alike. Researchers work throughout the academies to crystallize dreams, manufacture love, and breach the vault of Heaven. Artists, musicians, and bohemians of all kinds gather in parlors, salons, and studios to talk, drink, and create. What of your home?"

-Now that is interesting. A fair number of those concepts do not translate into any of the tongues he knows - 'zeppelins', 'bohemians', though perhaps the latter of those describes a people? - and some are clearly translating imperfectly, but- 

"Breach the vault of Heaven?" He repeats, his expression intent. "My home is Mers," he adds, for the sake of the exchange, "....[I am] a researcher." Both of those words may have been spoken at some point but his memory is, alas, still imperfect. 

"Trahaearn, from Mers. A pleasure to meet you," he reiterates. It hasn't become less true that this is the most exciting day of his life. Perhaps if the man were an artist, rather than a researcher. He loves science, but sometimes he wishes that the natural world had half the beauty that art did.

"We don't know for certain that Heaven exists. Theologians write treatises assuming its reality. Men of science doubt it, since they cannot prove it exists. Artists often speak of it poetically, assuming that if Heaven does not exist, it is the duty of humanity to create it, using words and paints alone. However we do it, I expect humanity to force our way through the gates of Heaven by the turn of the century, if we continue at our current rate of progress."

"Our heaven- heavens? Are-" he huffs in annoyance, reaching up to tug on his earring. The thing has more than proved its worth by this point, but gods does he wish he'd finished work on it's counterpart before he'd ended up thrown into some strange corner of the world where they apparently have no proof that the heavens exist. If they are even speaking of the same thing, the word is one of those that is translating imperfectly. 

(Not, of course, that he personally has any more proof that the heavens exist than having read accounts of it from those priests and lucky others who have experienced the plane with the aid of their gods, but it is widely accepted to exist among scholars where he comes from, despite the long, slow fading of those who once had access to it.)

"My home is distant," he says after taking a moment to collect himself again, "I don't know how I," he pauses to make a short, wordless sound of frustration, "[Arrived] here." Well, not strictly true, he's sure that archway in the god of travel's temple had something to do with it, but we work with what we have available, and he still doesn't have much. 

"Your home is distant, and you don't know how you came here. Curious. I had wondered how you appeared in my attic without using the window. There was a story of a man who could travel to unexplored places using only a cupboard, but I shouldn't bore you with the details. Has the steam engine yet come to your land?"

"'The steam engine'," he repeats. Well, he can safely say, "[No]. What is the steam engine?" And why is he mentioning it. 

"The steam engine has revolutionized modern industry. Tell me, in Mers, do industries rely on manpower, horsepower, wind, and water to power mechanical work? Steam power replaces the need for those techniques in several industries, but especially transportation. Without steam, we would be on our way to full societal collapse. Steam saved us."

-that is not quite where he had expected this conversation to turn. His society is on its own way to a collapse, he believes, though a delayed one, which the remaining priesthoods work to draw out as long as they can so they can profit from it. All his research suggests the next cycle is coming, and the upheaval that occurs each time approaches with it. He's not sure any kind of mundane invention would guard them from it, however. The gods, at their full strength, the kind of strength only told of in legends from the dawn of this age, are just too powerful for a human to fight, and worse they gather adherents wherever they go.

His society, as it stands, is doomed. Of course, he's not content to let it stand in such a way, but his plans depend on several theories he has being correct. In the meantime, and since he appears to have stumbled on a possibly advanced society which is thriving despite - or perhaps because of - the lack of the gods, it couldn't hurt to explore this possible avenue as well, no matter his doubts. 

...Perhaps not here, though. He looks around the dusty, relic-filled attic, "Tell me [more]?" He requests, and then quickly adds, "Not here." He steps out of the way of Edgar's path to the trunk's former contents  - he'd seemed very interested in the paper in his hand, so perhaps he would like to gather the rest - and then motions to the door. 

That seems like a good sign. Edgar somewhat carefully returns the items to the trunk- except the candlesticks and papers, which he intends to use- and leads Trahaearn downstairs. The house is well-appointed, speaking of idle wealth with no productive ends to turn to. Edgar brings the papers to his desk, very aware of Tahaearn's position relative to himself. Edgar then leads the man to his dining room, where he pulls out a chair, and sits at the head of the table.

Edgar tells him more. He explains the importance of a combustion engine in modern society, and how the steam engine was discovered. He knows only the broadest strokes, but he paints a vivid picture. Without steam, they could not power the zeppelins that fly over New Albion. Although it rapidly becomes clear that he is not a scientist, his skill at weaving a story is nothing to sneeze at.

Trahaearn follows Edgar out of the attic, observing the decor and architecture of the house with interest, it being quite unlike that of his own home, though there are any similar elements. He notes Edgar's care in paying attention to the distance between them, and courteously keeps more than a sword's-length away from him, even choosing the seat two down on Edgar's right when they reach the dining room table. 

He is an attentive audience, listening to his words with fascination and paying what attention  he can to the language, attempting to cement its rules and as many words as he can into his memory without losing track of what Edgar is saying. The principles of the invention aren't difficult to grasp - in fact, once the basics of it are described to him, he recognizes the concept as something he's heard of before, though never used to the extent New Albion apparently uses it. It seems impractical to spread it so wide- to Trahaearn's knowledge, there's no cheap way to make a boiler which could withstand the pressure of the amount of steam needed to run the more powerful engines Edgar mentions without requiring regular replacement. Never mind the stress accumulated as the metal heats and then cools again when shut down... this society must have more advanced metallurgy than his own. 

"I should like to see the making of one of these," he gets across after he and his host have been speaking for some time, "I am... not," he pauses to rephrase the sentence, "My society does not have the - [infrastructure]," he sighs, "[Systems?] People, [resources], in place? To make such a thing so... I would need to teach my [smiths] to make them, there are only so many [smiths], and much other work. And I have my own research, which is - important. To prevent collapse." He shakes his head, "[Still, once the first steps are complete, I would have the time,]" he muses aloud in his own tongue. 

"How does your land transport people and goods over great distances? There are advantages to our system, but I don't intend to drink from a poisoned well and call it nourishment. If we combine the resources of both our homes, we can improve upon our limited potential and produce something wholly original."

He huffs, leaning back in his seat and thinking back over the conversation, "-Horsepower, manpower. Once, we had... other systems. I must have used one to arrive here. The power that fueled them has gone. I will find it again." 

Nod.

"These technologies have been lost to the sands of time, and you intend to get them back? Tell me how I can help."

Trahaearn eyes him for a moment, considering.

"There were..." he fishes for an appropriate word, but can't quite find one, eventually settling on, "People, once. They had power. I have... only so much. The people [allowed]- gave more power to people with only so much. The technologies need that power."

He looks around the room for the nearest light source - despite Edgar's mention of the researchers of New Albion, it does not sound as though he is one, and a demonstration of the more basic of his capabilities should, hopefully, make it clear what kind of power he means.

There are numerous gas lamps around the room. Edgar tracks his gaze curiously.

Trahaearn stands, moving over to one of the lamps and reaching out to cup the air around it. His thumb folds to rub the band of the ring on his middle finger, and then he pulls his hand away, fingers bending to cage the air between them - and the light, which follows his hand away from the lamp, glowing bright in the space between. 

"Power," he says, holding his hand out to Edgar. "Only so much," he reiterates, "But power." 

Edgar stands up abruptly.

"That kind of power, I don't have. We need to find you more resources. If I connect you to the right people, you could astronomically improve our rate of development- and take whatever you learned home as well...did you know that there are scientists working to give dreams physical form?"

Edgar doesn't mention what he thinks these notes can do. Maybe Trahaern will assume they're related to this, if he goes on about it enough.

"What I can offer is wealth. Money, to grease palms, until you find what you need."

Trahaearn waves a hand, releasing the light to dissipate into the air, "Resources, yes. These scientists," he nods, "More- with more resources, I can," he turns his hand to show off the ring on his finger, and then reaches up to tug on his earring - he has other enchanted artifacts as well, but those are the most obvious ones. "With resources and research, I can make more. What I need is- those people." He pauses, and then adds, "To 'breach the vault of Heaven'," he quotes. "I need to find them." 

Nod.

"Do you need food, water, sleep, and all the other ordinary things we need? If there is something that I haven't mentioned which you think is obvious for your basic functioning, mention it. I don't need you to die on me."

"I need those," he agrees, "And, not for basic functioning, but-" a map, but he doesn't have the word for it, "Where is New Albion, where is Mers."

"That, my friend, I can do."

Edgar goes to his desk and returns with an atlas, placing it on the dining room table. Trahaern can peruse it to his liking.

He peruses it. 

The maps inside... he traces a hand over the edges of the continents, marveling to see a factual map which depicts the lands across the sea, which all modern scholars where he comes from tend to debate the existence of. The lands past the barrier, any names they might have used for themselves lost with the fall of the age before this one. He pauses over the name inked into the center of the northern one. Assuming the letters correlate roughly to the sounds he expects them to in Anglian... "North America," he reads out. The pronunciation is a bit off, but he's essentially correct. 

His finger moves next to the landmass across the sea from that one, stopping on Alban- or what should be Alban, though it's not called that name on the map. He flips through the atlas to a more detailed map of the isle, and then- stares. 

"Is this... [recent, correct - it can't be-]" he mutters, frowning. He traces over the place where his own lands should be, the Duchy of Mers settled next to the larger, more prosperous Duchy of Caindys, but instead appears to be part of an Empire, stretching across the entire Isle and perhaps beyond. 

"Five years out of date. Geography has a habit of staying put until someone does something drastic. Are you having trouble finding Mers?""

Edgar approaches to peer at the atlas.

"Mers is here," he taps the map which, of course, does not say Mers. "No drastic... Mers is not new." He steps away, confused and frustrated. 

Well, isn't that interesting.

"Your power is unlike anything I've ever seen. I've never heard of Mers, but more importantly, neither has this atlas. How exactly did you come to be in my attic, friend?"

"I was... looking. In a," he makes a face, improvising, "Home of heaven. [My duchy for a godsdamned two-way translation item]," he adds under his breath. "I touched a- [I cannot explain this in this language, do you have any paper]," he moves back to the table and mimes writing upon it.

Paper is not cheap, but it's not likely that he'll find a better use for it than communicating with the extra-dimensional magical visitor. He retrieves some, gives it to Trahaearn...and begins to read his mother's notes at the dining table. Edgar will not miss this opportunity either, just because a more immediately compelling one has come along.

Trahaearn is used to treating paper as precious as well - perhaps more precious than Edgar, actually. He's careful to make good use of it, though he wastes a brief moment getting used to the pen he's handed along with it, before beginning to sketch a number of things. His form is serviceable, but there's little artistry to it- clearly a person who learned to draw in order to get ideas down on paper rather than for the sake of drawing itself. Still, what comes out on the page is accurate enough for his purposes. He sketches out a small image of the clearly ruined temple, and then of the archway, shining, with his hand - including his ring, to mark it as his - touching it. 

And then... he attempts a rudimentary drawing of the most common depictions of Lleu, the winged youth with equally winged spear in one hand and bag in the other, a line drawn between him and the temple. And then a bed, with a figure sleeping in it. At least explaining what each image means is something he should be able to manage with his limited vocabulary. He slides the page towards Edgar. 

Edgar looks up from the formulae, trying to puzzle out the process...and stares at the drawing, furrowing his brow.

"You have me at a disadvantage. Is that an angel? I rather hope those aren't real, or I have quite a bit to say about their master's negligence."

"'Angel'?" That word is translating... very uncleanly. Something like 'divine servant', which the mention of a master supports, but... 

"Angels," he repeats, this time with substantially more venom.

"Where to begin! Tell me, in your world, where the power to manipulate lights is commonplace, do your people believe in the existence of a powerful creator of the world who cannot be seen, heard, or felt, but who loves his creations in all their imperfections, yet cannot be moved to help them through their suffering?"

"-The power to manipulate lights is- not commonplace," he part-mimics, making the easy correction first, before getting to the question. "I am- [unusual]. Not powerful, yet powerful. [In comparison]." 

That said, he thinks on how to answer, "People believe [gods]-" and here he says an Anglian word startlingly similar to the Albish word, though he doesn't know it, "-are creators. I do not believe. The world is too... [old]. Not new. If [gods] are creators, then not ours." If the gods created the world it was many, many cycles ago, long before the Triad, about whom such falsehoods have been spread. 

"[That sounds contradictory]," he adds in Anglian, "Powerful, Loves, yet cannot help? Cannot be seen?" He supposes that could be said of some gods he's heard of, considering most have faded. Few claimed to be all-loving in the tales he's heard, however - the rhetoric the Triad's priesthoods use is that most are unworthy of their attention.

"It's a quite insidious lie, religion. Teach a child young enough not to know any better, and you pull the wool over his eyes for a lifetime. Those in power lie, and in doing so, keep their hold on it. When I say I intend to breach the vault of Heaven, I mean that I intend to prove that God is not the source of beauty in our world, but that it comes from us."

...Edgar now has his attention to an extent he didn't before.

"...God... gods are the source of power. No-" brief annoyance, "-heavens are the source. Gods-" he makes a grasping motion, "Can [reach] heavens. People can, only so much." He'd really love a translation for 'less' and 'more' at this point.

"I intend to do as gods do. I intend my people not need gods to breach the heavens." 

"[Of course, it seems I will need to return to my home to do this]," he frowns, "Teach your people," he holds his hand as though holding caught-light, "Power. Research- my world," he holds up one hand, "Your world," he holds up the other, and brings them together - a bridge between. If he truly believes they'll be able to reach their Heaven soon enough with only their technology, then the addition of Trahaearn's powers- "Technology and power, to breach my heavens, to-" to finish work on that translation item, and, "God is not master. [Humanity should not be beholden to gods]." 

"My technology and your power will breach the heavens. I quite like the sound of that. Tell me, can your power bring the dead back to life?"

"Dead to life," he repeats, "[In theory, yes]. Yes, and no." There are legends, that Belenus could call someone back, even after Nebet had taken them across the border - and that Nebet could bring someone back across the border herself. If the gods can do it, in theory he could too, but it might be prohibitively difficult to make an enchanted item which can. How to get that across... Well. 

He shrugs lightly, "Gods." And then, "Can your technology?" 

"Not yet. We may be able to soon."

Edgar scrutinizes him. He won't believe that death is a fact of nature that must never be changed, because he's more enlightened that the people here. At least, that is his current read of the man. He'll need to wait for more data.

They can work on the language, in the meantime. Edgar brings over a book on art history and reads it aloud, indulging in a discussion about the book's material as they go.

He nods, thoughts turning to his own family. His father, he knows, would be horrified by both his overarching goals - by the lengths he's willing to go to change the world, and by his personal vendetta. If he were to return the from the dead it would have to wait until he couldn't interfere. His mother, though... Trahaearn learned the magic of blood and bone at Ceridwen's knee, and she had certainly had more to teach him, if she hadn't died long before her time. Having her back would be a great help to his cause, beyond the sentimental desire to simply have his mother returned to him. 

He settles in at the table to listen to Edgar read, memorizing what words he can while taking in the subject matter so they can actually converse on the topic, though art has never really been an area of focus for him. He begins substituting words he doesn't know in Albish for those he does in Anglian, pausing after so Edgar can offer possible translations and then choosing the one that rings correct before continuing. He expects he'll forget a fair amount of what he's learning over night, but this is still a quicker way to learn a language than it would be without the earring.

After a while of this, he speaks up while Edgar is turning a page, "Have I the-" he pauses and then restarts, "I have the words to detail some of what I can do." He offers. He has been constructing an explanation as they spoke, and it's almost fully-formed at this point. "And to better tell how I arrived in your attic." 

"It would please me dearly to hear your story."

He explains, substituting Anglian for any Alban words he doesn't know or has forgotten, "Mers is my home, where my family rules. Our resources are not unlimited, but they are enough to support my studies, both in alchemy and witchcraft, and the legends of the gods. I left my home for a time in order to explore a ruin in the south, a sunken, water-ruined temple where the god of travel was once worshipped - the drawing you mistook for an 'angel' was meant to be him. Lleu's temples were once famed for their doorways, which could move a person from one temple to another thousands of miles away. I was examining one of these doorways, which seemed to be ruined, with a light like the one I showed you. I believe they interacted in some way, bringing the ruined doorway to life and, somehow, bringing me here." 

"As for my power... the alchemy which I use is most powerful and simple with the aid of the items I create," he once again shows off the ring on his finger, "But I can cause the same effects without, with more time and some ingredients. This," earring tug, "Allows me to understand you. My ring aids me in controlling light. Creating the items requires time, ingredients, research, and experimentation as well, but once I have it I never need those again. I have far more research sources than most alchemists, as well, and so my power is greater and wider than most, even old alchemists, and only growing more so as I experiment more."

He pauses here, somewhat hesitant to explain the magic he'd learned from his mother. Alchemy is one thing, in the eyes of the common folk, the church of the trinity, and the nobility. Witchcraft is another. Edgar... does not seem like that kind of reactionary, however, assuming this land even has the same taboos. So, he adds, "I am also learned on the topic of the human body, and the use of it in some magics," to his list. 

Grateful that they can move past the portion of these proceedings hampered by the language barrier, Edgar settles in for the explanation. He considers Trahaearn’s description of what led him to Lleu’s temple, noting in particular the mention of his family and the description of these doorways- ancient technology, or more interventionist gods than his world’s religion presupposes? Additionally, he wonders about the man’s class and lineage. He is clearly a scholar with an important, wealthy family, which is enough to discourage idle speculation.

As the story turns to Trahaearn’s power, Edgar listens raptly. Alchemy as practiced in Mers seems quite similar in its aims, but the results seem by far more consistent. Edgar has never heard of an alchemist whose results were this repeatable. All of the work he’d seen until now had required an absolute focus on the particulars of each individuals case- if he understands correctly, Trahaearn only needs to discover something once. His alchemy seems to more closely resemble invention. Next to that, the mention of his studies of anatomy and physiology is only slightly intriguing- if Edgar decides to share what he’s discovered of his mother’s research, he might be able to apply the man’s mind and power to achieving resurrection.

“Our alchemists sometimes create objects like yours, but they are more- mysterious and elusive. They have a reputation for dabbling in esoterica that the ordinary person would have no interest in. I have heard their process described less as a matter of developing and perfecting some mystical power in physical form, and more as a matter of accurately representing the abstract in a concrete form. For example, if one of New Albion’s alchemists wanted to create an object to control light, they could place their material in the sun, or something else suitably symbolic."

He considers how to reply to this for a long moment, constructing a sentence as well as he can, attempting to side-step any words he does not know the translations of.

"Many of my fellows dabble in this way," he starts, words slow and careful. "It is in the meeting of structure," a word retained from their venture into art terminology, "And esoterica one finds my facility with Alchemy. The symbolic has its place; it is only through repeated attempts - again and again," he clarifies the Anglian word, "Different attempts, testing the boundary, the end of what is thought possible, one comes to understand."

"You're a miracle worker," he says, nearly on the verge of laughter. It's excellent news, better than he could ever have dreamt of. This is a chance at making a real impact, something that leaves an indelible mark on the world. He can't wait to get started.

He smiles, slow and smug, "No miracles," he says, "Only man."

When starting any partnership, there is only one way to seal the deal. Edgar will instruct his new colleague in the tradition of the handshake- or perhaps, find that such gestures are another commonality.

Not so common in this context, in his homelands, but he does recognize the gesture and understand its meaning quickly enough. He rises to his feet and grasps Edgar's hand firmly, "I believe the future will be bright, my friend."

So they shake on it. Edgar begins the next chapter of his life, this time with an ally that he can actually trust. The hope rises in his heart like the sun in the early hours of dawn. Bright, with the promise of more light to come. The future will be bright, and they will be the lights that make it so.