The Omnipresent Force

The night was unnervingly silent as Elliot stumbled through the fog-shrouded streets. His slippers slapped against the damp cobblestones, and the chill bit through his thin pajamas. His breath puffed out in frantic clouds as he glanced over his shoulder, unable to shake the feeling of being watched.

What the hell just happened?

His mind raced, trying to make sense of the chaos. The strange square, that unbearable presence, the oppressive weight that had clawed its way into his thoughts—it was all too much. He rubbed his arms, trying to ward off the cold shiver that wracked his body. His heart thudded in his chest, but there was no time to dwell on the fear. The fog clung to his skin like a blanket of ghosts, and every street lamp he passed cast eerie shadows against the surrounding buildings.

Focus. First step: get out of sight. Second step: survive.

Survival. The word echoed in his mind like a mantra. He ducked into a narrow alley, the scent of damp wood and rotting leaves filling his nostrils. His eyes darted around, scanning for any sign of movement, but the street remained eerily deserted. He pressed himself against the brick wall, trying to control his breathing. The cold, biting air seemed to sting more with every inhale.

In his haste to flee, he'd dropped the iron bar he had grabbed earlier. His mind flashed to the image of the bar lying somewhere in the street, abandoned and forgotten.

Damn it. That might've been useful.

He let out a soft breath, willing himself to calm down. There was no sense in going back for it now. Every minute spent lingering in one spot was another minute of danger. He had to move.

As he regained some composure, Elliot realized just how conspicuous he looked. His plaid pajamas and slippers were meant for the comfort of his home, not for sneaking through an unfamiliar world that felt decades—or even centuries—older than the life he'd known. In the dim light of the gas lamps, he was a walking target.

If anyone sees me like this, I'm toast.

It was hard to tell where he was. His mind, still spinning, couldn't make sense of his location in the city or the time period. The flickering gas lamps offered little guidance, but Elliot spotted a worn sign in the distance: "ᚩᚽᛃᛢᛁᛈᛋᛦᛀ ᚧᛯᛥᛤ: ᛖᛲᛏᛠᛒᛗ." He squinted at it, his head still reeling.

At first, the words were nothing more than a jumble of unintelligible symbols, an impenetrable script that danced in his vision. He stared, confused, trying to make sense of it, but the letters slipped away from his understanding like sand through his fingers.

And then—something shifted.

A flicker of light burst into his mind, sharp and vibrant. It wasn't physical, but it felt as if something inside him had unlocked. Suddenly, the symbols on the sign weren't just cryptic shapes; they made sense. They were words.

[Skill Acquired: Translate]

[Translate is a skill that allows the user to speak and write in any language effortlessly, bypassing the need for learning or practice.]

The rush of understanding hit him like a tidal wave. He blinked, trying to process the flood of new information. The jumble of symbols on the sign shifted into readable text:

Hargrove's Emporium: Pawnbroker.

Elliot blinked again, shaking his head in disbelief. That was… new. The gift he had accepted seemed tailor-made to protect him and make his survival in this world easier. It had given him this skill, but now was not the time to dwell on that.

Survival. Focus.

The small shop before him was dimly lit, the glow of gaslight faint through the grimy windows. It looked run-down, its doors and windows framed by the kind of soot and dirt only time could leave behind. Elliot pushed open the door, the bell above the entrance jingling softly as he stepped inside.

The smell of damp fabric and aging wood filled his nostrils, but it was the sound of rustling paper and the scratch of a quill pen on parchment that made him feel like he was stepping into a time long past. Behind the counter stood a man hunched over a ledger, scribbling notes with a carelessness that suggested boredom. His clothes were frayed at the edges, and his thinning hair was in desperate need of a comb. He looked up sharply, his beady eyes narrowing as he appraised Elliot's attire.

"You've got some nerve walking in here dressed like that," the man muttered, his voice gravelly. "What're you after, boy?"

Elliot straightened, doing his best to stand tall, though his knees felt weak beneath him. He needed to keep his wits about him. "I need money," he said, his voice steady but betraying a hint of unease. "And I've got these to sell."

He stripped off his pajama top and slippers, folding them neatly on the counter before the pawnbroker.

The man raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback. "What in the blazes are these?" he asked, picking up the pajama top with exaggerated care.

Elliot forced a grin, trying to maintain control of the situation. "High-quality fabric. Imported, even."

The pawnbroker rubbed the fabric between his fingers, inspecting it with greater interest now. "Soft… tighter weave than anything local. And these slippers… odd design, but sturdy and comfortable."

Elliot watched as the man's eyes flicked from the clothes to his face, the wheels turning in his head. He could see the skepticism in the pawnbroker's expression, but also a growing curiosity.

"How much?" Elliot asked, his tone casual but laced with an underlying tension.

The pawnbroker shrugged, disinterested. "For these?" He scratched his stubbled chin. "Two soli. Maybe."

Elliot's stomach churned. He didn't know the exact value of a soli, but the way the man said it didn't sound promising. "Two soli for imported fabric and craftsmanship like this?" Elliot scoffed, injecting mock offense into his voice. "You'd resell these for double, maybe triple."

The pawnbroker chuckled, amused. "Smart for someone dressed like that. Fine. Four soli, and I'll throw in some second-hand clothes."

Elliot narrowed his eyes, playing his next move carefully. "Six soli," he said, trying to push the price up.

The pawnbroker's face remained unchanged, though there was a glint of amusement in his eye. "Five soli. Final offer."

"Deal," Elliot said quickly, before the man could change his mind.

The pawnbroker led Elliot to a rack of worn but serviceable clothing. Elliot picked through the garments, examining each one with the practiced eye of someone who had seen their fair share of second-hand shops. After a few moments of rummaging, Elliot settled on a dark brown coat, a gray wool shirt, black trousers, and scuffed leather boots. They weren't anything fancy, but they fit well enough and blended into the world around him, which was exactly what he needed.

"Pleasure doing business," the pawnbroker said, handing Elliot five soli coins, each one heavier than expected.

The coins felt weighty in his palm, their silver gleam dim under the shop's low light. Elliot turned them over, examining their surface closely. Each coin bore the image of a crown-wearing man on one side and an intricate engraving of wheat on the other. They were simple, utilitarian—nothing like the smooth, printed currency he was familiar with.

As he pocketed the coins, the cold air nipped at his exposed neck. Stepping out of the shop, he felt more confident, though it wasn't enough to erase the fear gnawing at the back of his mind. He had four soli now, but more importantly, he had a new appearance—one that wouldn't attract unwanted attention.

Next: food and shelter.

Elliot had to find a place to stay, and quickly. He wandered the mist-laden streets, his eyes scanning for any signs of a place that would accept someone like him. He passed by several buildings, each one more decrepit than the last, but it was the faded sign of a boarding house that caught his attention. "Rooms Available."

The landlady—a stout woman with a sharp gaze—met him at the door. Her eyes flicked up and down, taking in his disheveled appearance. He could feel the weight of her scrutiny, but he had no choice but to press on.

"You need a room?" she asked, her voice sharp and direct.

"Yes," Elliot replied, holding out one of his soli. "How much for a week, including meals?"

The woman's gaze softened just a little at the sight of the coin. "Four soli and three pence," she said after a moment's pause.

Elliot hesitated. The price seemed steep for a single week's stay, but he had no room for bargaining. The idea of revealing his ignorance only made things worse.

"Fine," he replied, handing over the coins without a second thought.

She pocketed the money quickly, ushering him inside.

The room was modest—barely more than a place to lay his head for a few nights. A narrow bed with threadbare sheets, a small table with an old lamp, and a single window that rattled in the wind. It wasn't much, but it was enough. The door clicked shut behind him, and Elliot allowed himself a moment to breathe. He sank onto the bed, exhausted but relieved.

More than four soli gone, and I've only a few pence to spare.

He stared at the remaining nine pence in his hand. The copper coins felt almost useless now, but he tucked them into his pocket.

At least I have a place to stay for the week. I'll figure out the rest later.

For now, survival was enough.