Far to the North of Avonmora, across the Talasian Desert, and through the Soulsucker Reefs, lies the clockwork empire of Lydrian. Upon it's western coast, you will find a city of brass and steel, the sky clogged with thick black smoke produced by the never ending smokestacks, the air dirty and poisonous, filled with the constant ticking of clockwork, the hiss of steam engines, and the groan of the massive gears that power the city. The water is ugly and brown, pumped full of grease and oil and trash. The low streets of the towering city are always dark, and bursting with the endless poor and homeless of the city, which only adds to the foul miasma in the air. The higher streets aren't much better, with very little light filtering through the ever present sooty cloud over the city. What space isn't taken up by buildings and heaps of trash, is covered in dirty snow. There are no graveyards there. The bodies are fed into the machines, hence the city"s gruesome moniker: The City of Blood and Steam. Only the King's palace, and the manors of the Council ever see the sunlight, up in what the poor folk call the Golden Towers. But our story doesn't start there. No, we must go into the deepest, rotted level of the City. Through the winding, damp streets, infested with plague rats, oversized bugs, and the dead and dying, to a long forgotten antique shop- Time and Time Again.



In, amongst the dusty bric a brac, a boy slumbers on a pile of dirty canvas and cloth. This boy is our hero.

his boy is our hero. His name is William Lancaster, and he is the last surviving member of the old royal family, and true heir to the throne of Lydrian.
William rolled over as a rare ray of sunlight hit his face, then sat up, stumbling over the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sky, but by the time he got there, the dark, smoggy clouds had closed back together. Yawning, he shuffled through a curtain, which led into the old store’s former workshop, which he had converted into a jerry-rigged kitchen. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and shoveled coal into the rickety steam oven, and as he lit it, the water came to a boil quite quickly. The shop whirred to life, lights flickering on, the old steam pumps working away, pumping water up into the shower’s tank, and other various places in the shop. He took some water from the sink, dumping it into the ancient coffee maker, which sputtered and coughed black smoke, before it started to boil the water. He then took a few slices of stale bread from a paper bag, softening it up by holding it over a steam vent. He went to retrieve the butter from the icebox, only to find that the icebox had quit overnight, and the butter, which was already practically rancid, had gone bad. “Oh, for the love of Nagash! That’s the third stick this month!” he cursed, slamming the icebox’s lid. Grumbling, he turned and checked on his coffee, which had finished. Opening a box, he dug a small spoon into his limited supply of sugar, dumping it into his coffee. He stirred it absentmindedly, taking a small sip. Sighing, he went to his closet, retrieving his single outfit: A patched up, red waistcoat with black pinstripes, an off-white button up shirt, patched up black pants, and scuffed up, dusty black dress shoes. He got dressed, finishing off his coffee, and he went back into the front of the shop, taking an old flat cap from a hatstand that stood next to the shop’s door, as well as a tattered, patched black overcoat. He put these on, and opened the door, and entered the foul city that surrounded him. He nearly choked on the stench of rot and filth that besieged his senses. "Magus! I'll never get used to that stench." he grumbled, pulling the collar or his jacket up to block the worst of the stench. Water dripped from the rusty steel pipes that sprawled about overhead, plunking into puddles that dotted the muddy, polluted ground. Ahead, the dim light of a newsstand threw odd shadows across the maze of long-unused corridors and maintenance tunnels that surrounded him. He headed towards it, a smile spreading across his face. The stand was staffed by a portly, older gentleman with receding salt and pepper hair. As he saw William approaching, he laughed jovially. "Willy, my dear boy! It's so good to see you! Annabelle and I were about to come check on you, what with all the buzz up top about you." he said warmly. He dabbed at his forehead with a smudged, tatty handkerchief. William smiled, laughing a little. "Yeah, sorry, Mr. Garret. Work has been really stressful lately. But, uh, what buzz? I didn't know me not going to work for three days was gossip and news worthy." he said, an edge of sarcasm in his voice. Mr Garret pulled a newspaper out from under the counter, his smile faltering. "The king seems to think you're the true heir to the throne- here, read for yourself!" William took the paper, staring in disbelief at the headline: King Puts Out Bounty Of 13 Million.
Below the headline was his picture, likely taken from the all seeing mage-eyes scattered throughout the city. William laughed, giving back the paper. "I think I'd know if I were royalty, don't you think?" he snorted, still laughing. Mr. Garret nodded, putting the newspaper back. "He's old, is what it is! I don't care how enhanced he is, his mind is rotting, even if his body isn't." Mr. Garret harrumphed.