02 Tord Larsson

(long intro!)

It was a quiet Saturday in the city of London, sometime in the late 1800s. The sky was thick with low, brooding clouds, the kind that promised rain but never quite delivered. The air carried the familiar scent of soot and iron, the perfume of progress, as some called it, drifting in from the countless chimneys and steam vents that dotted the city skyline.

In the heart of an industrious district stood a workshop unlike any other, a place where gears, cogs, and brass contraptions filled every shelf and surface. This was the domain of Tord Larsson, a brilliant if somewhat irritable inventor, known throughout the city for his clever mechanical designs and peculiar innovations. He wasn’t a man of great wealth, nor was he poor; he lived comfortably in that uncertain space between the two, middle class, as one might say.

Business was steady enough. Wealthy patrons would occasionally visit his workshop, commissioning intricate devices or personalized automatons, their manners polished but their demands insufferable. Tord tolerated them, of course. After all, it was their money that kept his machines, and his workshop, alive. Still, every forced smile and bowed head chipped away at his patience.

That particular afternoon, Tord sat hunched over his workbench, sleeves rolled up, goggles perched loosely on his forehead. The rhythmic ticking of the clock mixed with the faint hiss of a steam valve somewhere behind him. Before him lay a small brass gadget, one of his simpler inventions, that stubbornly refused to function. He twisted a tiny screwdriver in his hand, trying to secure a screw that simply refused to bite.

“Dum skrue…” he muttered in Norwegian under his breath in irritation, his accent slipping through as it often did when he was frustrated.

Paul and Patryck exchanged wary glances from across the room, wisely keeping their distance. The last time Tord’s temper had flared, a wrench had flown dangerously close to Patryck’s head.

The inventor sighed, setting his tools down with a sharp clink. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to suppress the building annoyance. The day had already been long, and the last thing he needed now was someone else barging in to make it worse.