[OOM] Marcuria, Arcadia.
Dec. 16th, 2008 10:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stuck_mynockThe 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 ...”
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 ...”
