Something Like A Homecoming

[Grimoire]

(Currently closed, pending some responses I get over PM/AIM)



Ricket.

The sounds of wooden wheels pealed endlessly on the soft soil below, each rotation accompanied by a to-and-fro swaying of the canvased wagon they supported. There were two men driving it, their clothes dark as the night sky and twice as thick. They rode in silence, save for the clatter of their six-horse team and the creaking of the wagon's wheels, soundless heaps of clothing with eyes and fur linings to drive off the cold. Just behind them rose a thick gray canvas, and below that were three more men, equally clothed and seemingly as soundless. Their hoods were drawn back to reveal a mess of black hair, brown hair with more grease in it than the plump face it framed, and the third a starkly contrasting red that was cropped fairly short and rather clean. That third man stuck out in general, his clothes consisting of a simple tunic and mid-length cape worked in swirls of gray, brown, and olive drab rather than midnight black. But it was his eyes that really marked him apart from the others: gray-blue daggers that were somehow stone and radiance all the same, the left encircled by a half-moon of interwoven knots inked from above the brow to just below the eye itself. He kept his silence most of all. In fact, he hardly made a sound. The same couldn't be said for the second man underneath the canvas, the brown-haired slob with a hooked nose and a stubborn set to his jaw, who decided not for the first time to break the silence:

“You still haven't said your name, boy.” The voice was harsh, brash-- the kind of voice that was all confidence without nearly enough experience in the tone: an impetuous sound belonging to a physically suited man. It was all but drown out by the silence. He seemed to stare down his nose at the third man, brown eyes narrowing to slits, and one hand made a gloved fist while the other subconsciously moved for the dagger hidden beneath his too-black cloak. Of course, that dagger was supposed to be a secret, but Levitus, the third man, had a keen eye for such things. Besides, they all carried weapons somewhere, despite what their mission was, and that particular person, Dorin, wasn't particularly skilled at hiding his. He favored the side it was hidden on, and his hand always crept toward his open cloak when his intelligence was befuddled by another's rationale, which had happened more than a few times on their nine-day ride from Radasanth. Levitus didn't move.

Ricket.

“Still not talking, eh?” This was the usual way of things. Levitus had seen it a million times, both on this planet and on others. First, Dorin made himself the center of attention, something that happened from the very onset of their journey; then he tried to rally others behind him, though Levitus doubted Dorin noticed his failure in that respect. Next, he would show hostility to the opposition, which in this case would be Levitus himself. It was the same process all men followed when trying to assert social dominance. The Empire's system of military ranks normally stemmed such trivial pursuits before they happened, but this particular mission happened to place them as far outside the normal hierarchy as it did the Empire's borders. “Maybe it's time somebody beat some manners into you.” And there it was: Dorin's challenge. Even in his first Cycle-- a measurement of reincarnations and rebirths used by the Galarins, Levitus' people, back on their home planet of Kirahsu-- even then, Levitus wouldn't have been intimidated. Dorin's gruff tone was just too inexperienced, the confidence too feigned.

Ricket.

“You're lucky,” Dorin continued, still glaring across the small wagon bed. “I don't fight little boys who use sticks.” That produced a chuckle from the first, uninvolved man, Yuri. Dorin was talking, of course, of Konstalis, Levitus' weapon of choice. It was a sword carved out of verdan, a wood back on Kirahsu with strong similarities to what these people called “yew”. It was, for all intents and purposes, an ornate stick, its dulled blade inscribed along its entirety with the words ”Flytus al'Machtorum”, which in the Galarin tongue translated to “Will of the Matriarch”, their leader and the first of their kind. There was also a blue gem dangling from its hilt worked into the shape of a starfish, an object that brought not a few jokes from Dorin the past few days. Of course, neither Dorin nor Yuri knew that, should he wish it, Levitus could make that blade lethally sharp in an instant. That was his little secret. It was easier to hide a wooden sword in plain sight than it was a dagger in a cloak, at least if anyone trained should be watching.

Dorin resigned, satisfied that Levitus' silence was some sort of submission.

Creak.

The monotony of the wheels turning wound to a halt, and the wagon gave one final lurch, the horses one final whinny before everything stopped. It wasn't long before the flaps at the end of the bed were thrown open, and the two drivers-- also Imperial men-- ushered the trio out into the night. The ground was soft underfoot, which was a welcome change after so many nights in a hard, cramped wagon. The view was a refreshing change as well: green thickets spread out in all directions, their canopy mottling the moon's light into myriad slanted rays and spotted beams. Directly ahead of them stood a large stone wall with an iron gate built into its middle, and atop it rose twinned towers complete with parapets and archers to man them. The five of them seemed to share a long exhalation, and they certainly shared the same appreciation for the lack of uniforms and military weapons.

The Empire had finally returned to Underwood.

[Grimoire]

A few hours later found Levitus pacing down one of Underwood's many thoroughfares. His band had passed through the main gate into the city in the last hours of twilight when the sun had just crested the horizon, and the city was beginning to don its golden cloak for the morning to come. Now, the sun had risen to its noonday peak, and Levitus was lost among the milling throng in the street. This side path offered only slightly more walking space than the main streets, and there was still a rising cacophony of passersby conversing and hawkers and stall vendors crying their wares. He could barely hear the spirits over the din; the city had grown that much.

He had grown up in Underwood, or at least he had spent one of his many childhoods there. Galarins were brought into Existence as necessity dictated-- what they call a “Cycle”-- and reincarnated as many times as need be to see that necessity fulfilled; for Levitus, this was the fifty-third incarnation of his seventh Cycle, and he had spent his younger years here in Underwood. He had left, however, years ago, before the civil war had placed a rift between the city's now-militarized borders and the country around them, and he was almost taken aback by the sheer number of shops that had since cropped up and how the houses had seemed to creep closer together. Of course, that wasn't saying anything of the noise...

He could barely hear the spirits anymore.

Another secret of the Galarins, that they could converse with those in the Etherworld, which was their word for the afterlife; it was their belief that once a living creature passes, their spirit transfers to the Etherworld to being “The Wandering”-- a time of atonement for their sins in the living world-- before being reincarnated. The Galarin had an innate ability to not only see but to speak with such creatures, but Underwood's average volume had risen so much that Levitus could barely hear them. He strained to do so, though not visibly-- it never was visible to others, and it was even less audible. There was a murmur here, a squeak there, but by and large the Etherworld was muted by Underwood's scurrying population. With a slight sigh, Levitus continued, idly passing through the streets.

The spirits were a large part for his return. When the Matriarch had sent him to this planet, she had done so under a single instruction: “learn it”. The people of Kirahsu had once thought they were alone in the universe, but they had a certain violent encounter with an alien species that convinced them otherwise. The short version was that the Galarin bested the newcomers and commandeered one of the flying metal birds they called “ships”. Before coming to Underwood, or even Althanas, Levitus had spent an entire lifetime learning to pilot the vessel, which ultimately brought him to this planet. Aside from giving him his simple missive to learn the ways of the planet, the Matriarch had also hinted that there would be a spirit on Althanas itself to guide him, though even She wasn't sure what plane it dwelled on. It was a sad fact that their perception into the Etherworld was greatly diminished on this foreign planet, a fact that settled heavier onto his shoulders with each step he took through the town. Now he was having trouble hearing the spirits on the planet's surface... It was a troubling situation.

It was the spirits that had sent him away from Underwood in the first place. They claimed he would find some sort of answer in Radasanth, capital of the Empire. Of course, that only led him on a wild goose chase involving a cemetery, a mysterious agent he was fairly sure was from another planet, and a particularly strong spirit that was most certainly from another planet, though he never did find out which one. In fact, he never found much at all, save for a few sparse details about the civil war: the Rangers were at war with the Empire; the Empire burnt down Underwood, their center of operations. The list went on, but those were the only relevant bits to him. Normally, he didn't bother himself with such affairs, but for some reason or another he had taken an interest. Maybe it was his pursuit for Balance-- Galarins believed balance was the key to Existence; one couldn't have happiness without first knowing pain. That pursuit was certainly what drove him to the Empire, or at least to enlist himself in a small covert ploy to gather recon on the Rangers in their rebuilt headquarters. It wasn't really that he attached himself to either side's cause; it was just an easy way to get back. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the street into a wide clearing, where the grass reached almost to his knees and the trees seemed to bend over in a protective huddle.

The only cause he attached himself to was the one entrusted to him, but first he had to contact the Etherworld and find out why that effort was becoming increasingly difficult.