[OOM] Labyrinth.

Atton wasn’t, on the whole, the cave exploring type. Caves had bad things in them - Like mynocks, or shyracks, or terentateks. They were the favoured habitat of any animal that you would not want to meet, and they were typically winding, dangerous and dark, he found. A recipe for danger, and not of the fun, surge-of-adrenaline kind.

This cave was interesting, though - He didn’t know that there were any caves near Milliways, and the triangular symbol etched above the cave entrance drew his attention. So, he scribbled some notes to people, gathered everything he’d need for exploring, and headed out there. After all, Milliways was mostly free from dangerous wildlife - demon bunnies notwithstanding - so the worst case scenario was just falling to his doom.

Atton could deal with falling to his doom. It sounded exciting.

Lifting his torch, he headed further into the cave.

[OOM] Labyrinth.

He wandered the cave - or the labyrinth within the cave - for almost a day. By his reckoning, at least, but he couldn’t be sure - There was no way to tell.

As he sliced through something spindly, insectoid and blue with his lightsaber, it occured to him that he should have expected a cave near Milliways to be as bizarre as Milliways was. It hadn’t taken him long to get lost, and while he tried to keep a mental map, after a few hours it was such a complex shape that he just lost track of it all.

He’d passed through a shimmering, silvery waterfall, not ten minutes after he’d entered, and headed straight into a tunnel of cold metal, like the sort he’d see on a warship, and from there, into a series of tunnels that looked like they’d go better in some ancient city. That was where he’d turned back. That was where the monsters first attacked him.

Mostly monsters, at least. Big furry things, little furry things, things with scales, insects, men with gas masks and guns who seemed to be in one place one moment and gone the next, battle droids of a design that Atton didn’t recognise, that rolled in little curled up balls and trapped themselves in bubbles when they expanded into humanoid shapes.

Atton fought his way through them all, onwards through the ever changing setting. Even the landscape itself seemed to be against him, at times. Chasms blocked his path, or the floor crumbled away beneath his feet. Atton leapt and swung his way past those, headed onwards, and quickly found that he wasn’t going to get back to Milliways. Not easily.

Either the tunnels had changed, or he’d taken a wrong turning somewhere, because he didn’t recognise the corridors, seemingly taken wholesale from a Rakatan temple, that he’d ended up in twenty minutes after turning back.

He wandered. For the rest of the day, he tried to find a way out and back to Milliways.

When he eventually got out, it wasn’t to Milliways. That much was certain.

------------

Atton leapt out from beneath a tree, as a gout of blue flame followed him. He sprawled on the ground, wincing, peering around.

A flat thought entered his head - He could have picked another world to come out into. A better world.

This world looked like it had taken its cue from all the worst fairytales. There was nothing markedly abnormal about it, save that all the colours had gone terribly wrong.

There was sunlight, up above, a sort of watery blue sunlight, but it was almost completely blocked off by the dark, greenish-grey leaves. The trees were black, twisted into strange shapes, and the grass was absurdly tall, dark green. There wasn’t a flower in sight.

There were, however, people. Or maybe they had been people, but weren’t anymore. They looked like they had been overcome by some sort of tentacular force that had shrouded them in writhing, many-limbed shadow, leaving only two glowing lanterns in their face to serve as any suggestions of features.

They were mostly men, mostly burly and long-haired, with a few skinny ones who Atton imagined had been bullied a lot. They weren’t anymore. In mindless shadow-hood, everybody was equal, after all. That was a nice thought.

Some of them had been soldiers once, he figured, from their tattered armour, and others just woodsmen. Some of them might have barely been Will’s age. Atton didn’t really know, it was difficult to tell when they were just shadowy shapes, surrounding him with a chuckle - nothing particular real, but a sort of hollow echo of gleeful cruelty.

Atton hopped his feet, flicking on his lightsaber. It sparked uselessly.

“Figures.”

A sword, long and curved, spun out of the distant reaches of the forest bisecting one of the smaller shadows neatly before swinging back to its owner’s hand. Atton fought down a surge of relief at the aid - There was nothing to suggest this person had better intentions for him than the shadows.

Said person was almost as tall as Atton, but swathed in enough coats and cloaks that he looked like a bundle of fabric. One hand clutched a curved sword, marked with runes, the other was drawn back, covered with a metal and bone gauntlet, tipped with sharp claws.

Atton didn’t see him for long. He touched his sword to a puddle of water, muttered a word, and a thick fog sprung up. Atton recoiled a little as the man disappeared from all his senses.

Something strode past him, behind him. The shadows headed in that direction.

Atton jumped as he felt a shoulder brush by his, caught a brief flash of white hair, and then saw three of the shadows cut down in an instant. As the remaining four scattered, he caught a brief whiff of something like aftershave, before another fell, and another. Turning towards the other two, he saw the figure, shrouded in mist behind them, before they were both cut down.

The mist faded. The figure drew back his hood - He was an old man, grizzled, missing one eye, and smiling benignly.

“I had bones,” he said by way of explanation. “Come, I brought horses for two, and Marcuria is not far from here.”

“Thanks,” Atton frowned, suspiciously. “Where exactly am I?”

The old man just chuckled. “The Northlands of Arcadia.”

[OOM] Marcuria, Arcadia.

The old man was called Adalardo, and by bones, he apparently meant the toebones of a Gribbler, used for fortune-telling. Atton had wrinkled his nose when he heard that, but Adalardo had been quick to remind him that without them, he’d never had found Atton.

The world, he told Atton as he busied himself around his house, was called Arcadia, magical twin world to Stark, the world of technology. The city, Marcuria, currently under occupation by the Azadi.

Atton had seen them, as they approached Adalardo’s home. Tall, armoured in shades of red, brown and gold, every one of them smart and impressive. Adalardo had pointed up the massive white tower stretching up from the middle of the city - It wasn’t complete yet, but it was still awe-inspiring. The Azadi’s symbol of power.

Atton got the impression that Adalardo didn’t like the Azadi much.

When Atton asked how he was supposed to get back to his own world, Adalardo just laughed, told him he didn’t know. But, he said before Atton had a chance to protest, he knew who would - The Dark People would arrive any day now, looking for books to trade. Atton didn’t have a chance to respond before Adalardo cut in again, telling him that the Dark People looked for every word ever written down, and that if the knowledge necessary to leave was anywhere, it would be in their library.

Atton didn’t have a chance to ask for a room to stay at before Adalardo was offering one.

“You’re going to have to blend in, though. I’ll get you some clothes - Good ones. Simple. You’re about the same size as my son was.” Adalardo peered at him, briefly. “And you’ll need a name. If anybody asks, you’re my nephew, Doran.”

As he busied himself in another room, he called back: “It means ‘stranger.’”

----------

For a month in Marcuria, Atton settled into routine.

He’d wake up in the morning, seven, head out to the forest - Adalardo’s house had no running water, but there was a waterfall there which nobody really went to. He’d wash, get dressed, head back into Marcuria, smiling brightly at any Azadi guards he met on the way there. After all, he was just a simple blacksmith’s nephew. He wasn’t suspicious at all.

Adalardo set him to work taking deliveries - In the morning, he’d visit the Azadi barracks with the weapons that Adalardo had made for them. He’d stay a while, talk, get information. They weren’t bad people, he found - Devoutly religious, certainly, and inclined to obey orders unquestioningly, but they were pleasant and fun, and even if half his discussions with them ended in scuffles, nobody ever got seriously hurt.

Adalardo would give him coin, and he’d get a lunch at one of the many suggestively named taverns that littered Marcuria. Then, in the afternoon, Adalardo would send him to the north quarter of the town - the so called ‘magical ghetto.’

The people there were quieter than the Azadi. More subdued. They spent most of their time huddling around blue fires, or tending to stalls that sold all sorts of bizarre items. They were a reminder that Atton wasn’t to show his powers to people.

After a while, that wasn’t a problem anymore. The longer he stayed in Arcadia, the more his powers faded, until eventually he couldn’t use them at all. No Force in this world, he supposed, and so no Force powers. That was okay. He could deal.

Once a week, Adalardo would send him to a particular tavern’s cellar, to hand off any information he’d learnt from the Azadi to a group of rag-tag rebels. He rarely had anything interesting to tell them, and the rebels were reluctant to tell him anything, despite Adalardo vouching for him.

The Azadi warmed to him more and more as the month dragged onwards. They let him in on their training and sparring, would holler jokes at him as he passed, once gave him a package of food. Occasionally, Atton started to wonder just what was so bad about them. Then, he’d go to the magical ghetto once again, see the various mages and alchemists struggling to eat, or find homes, too many people crammed into too small a place with too little food. It was an immediate, sharp reminder of why the Azadi were so bad for Marcuria, every time.

After a month, a boat, formed from crystal and wood, came floating into Marcuria’s harbour.

--------

“The Dark People are here,” Adalardo said, one morning, as Atton woke up. “They’ll be around for a day or two.” He pointed out the window. Near a strange looking ship, a cloaked, floating figure peered around. Most people stayed away from it. “Go wash, get dressed, and go see him. Have you got anything to trade?”

Atton shook his head, mutely.

Adalardo grumbled. “Good thing I figured you wouldn’t. Here.” A heavy book almost crashed into Atton’s head. “My memoirs. One of a kind, they’ll buy you passage to the Dark People’s City.”

“Thanks.” Atton flicked through it, briefly. “I’ll just go wash, then.”

“One more thing,” Adalardo said, sharply, unhooking his sword from his belt and pulling off his gauntlet, setting them both down on his bed. “Best I ever made. Magical. The sword’ll cut through nigh anything, with enough effort, and the gauntlet’ll make your right hand stronger than two or three men. In Arcadia, at least,” he grinned toothily. “No telling how they’ll work in other worlds. I expect them both back, though.”

“Will do.”

An hour later, he was clean, dressed, had everything he needed for the journey packed and was heading into the harbour, making a beeline for the Dark People’s ship.
“Excuse me,” he smiled. The Dark Person remained impassive - Its face, if it had any, couldn’t be seen. “I’ve got something rather unique here, and I was wondering if I could buy passage to your city ...”

By the lake, after plot.

Atton is outside, barefoot and shirtless, practicing with his lightsaber.

He's not so good with this 'rest' malarkey.