[Letter of Notice: Now coming with the gist of it at the bottom, and I be going back and editing one in fer me past post as well at a wee later date. Nae t'worry, yer wayward Cap'n is finally along on his way back and hopefully bringing something good to make up fer prolonged absence]
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The flight became a float, and then he landed on a familial ground of a a familiar place: pale blue sky, a great pale green hill, pale orange of the clay-rich path winding through the pale, ankle-high yellowed grass, snaking between worn marker-stones. It has been years since he gazed at the great ancestral castle of his People, and his heart joyfully sang at the sight
His clothes turned a snowy color of a funeral shroud, but the sleeves and tail of his long-coat were already filling up with crimson, as if he had recklessly stained the once pristine material with an aftermath of recent carnage. He reached for his chin to scratch at his beard in thought, only to find smooth skin, and pulled out the silver locket to actually use it as a mirror.
The sight that met him was as unapologeticaly Fair just as many things he normally tended to lack an apology for. Before he used to almost flaunt his lack of pedigree, watching the more shallow and overly-deep-minded of the Court balk at his casual, defiant reappearances at the places proper. The perceived duality and therefore in some eyes, regrettable imperfection of his nature (if only they knew that these days it became so much more complicated) both elevated his usefulness yet lowered his price - and as he flew the wind currents back and forth between the mortal and fey realms decade after decade, so without a doubt those that hoped to see him not to return to the ancestral halls one day were growing more frustrated. It appeared that he had left his rakish scruffiness entangled in the roots of his tree, and his soul, though fractured and yet not mended, still unerringly moved ever closer to the visage of his Mother. He grinned wolfishly at the two-toned reflection, flicking the locket closed and hiding it safely in one of the secret inner coat pockets.This recent change in appearance would likely turn some heads and and incense some minds even further.
He knew that he would not be expected by all but the immediate rulers of the realm and those close enough to them for the realm to deem it fit to inform them. That enabled him to make his entrance as dramatic and irritatingly late as possible for most People attending today, but he found himself not in a mood for the usual chaotic routines of his. Instead, there was a sense of urgency and growing irritation with the myriad of ways the vain and meandering tricks of Court propriety could stall him from conferring with his family and delivering his report. He briskly started on his way. He would not skulk around his clan's domain like an unwelcome brigand. With his evident increase in power and new additions to his charms that self-assuredness would appear well-founded enough for him to hopefully be not held back when it would be time to depart. If some would rise to the opportunity, then he was quite prepared to have them step aside by force, even if it would have to be with or without reaching for a blade.
----
No one wanted to duel him for the right to enter the mound this year, be it in ill will, in sporting jest, or in boredom. Though his change drew some attention, only four of his heavily extended family threw veiled insults his way. Apparently he really did clean up nicely.
Aylar dutifully sat through all the official matters the High Queen deemed pressing enough to personally discuss, took care to appear only marginally bored at less-pressing or less official matters talked of by all others involved into running the Court, ate and drank only as much as he needed, and held just enough performances of both courtesy and disdain to uphold his previously standing alliances and grudges among the gathered. It didn't take him much effort to find Mother, and even less effort to gather a small crowd as he demonstrated his increased prowess with inherent magicks and regaled those that wished to listen to the happenings of the world and selected tales of the enemies he has slain on his recent leave to the mortal realm, ones featuring vampirates and an undead drider Necromancer proving a particular hit in the audience, if not for his ill-wishers inability to claim him a liar, for the truth of his words was woven right into his magickal signature.
Throughout it all, however, he couldn't help but feel like the time passed by slower than frozen molasses; a sensation so acute, he found it harder and harder to keep his paranoia and impatience at bay, and devoted as much effort as he could towards excusing himself from the spotlights both wanted and very much not. Some things one could not keep from the immediate blood, however. He knew that the truth of his intentions and the extent of changes within him were apparent to those he assumed they would be. His Mother was not only not surprised when he led her away from the revelers and confessed that not only he was here to let her know he has progressed in his studies, or to deliver reports of mortal matters both open and secret, she has agreed that he has been wise to seek counsel on the matters more private. He would have the meeting he was looking for, and to the best ability and knowledge, answers to the questions he was asking both them and himself.
----
Aylar found his hands shaking as he left the meeting room, and grasped for the phoenix braid as he moved down the elaborately decorated hall with a pace that he had hoped seemed only leisurely brisk instead of hurried. He finally knew the nature of it all. He knew what he had done wrong before, and finally knew how to do it right. He also knew that though the aboleth would not have any reach here, those of a Council make the eel was in league with probably still would, and even within his family, there were still some People wishing him ill. He had a strong sense of being expected, so when a group of them, old grudges, playfights, bickers, faces he grew up with and saw growing up, and vassals and aids and servants of those, rounded the corner, it was but a single look at those faces and the eyes of theirs that was enough to alert him to run with a practice well learned ever since he first walked among these walls. He sorted through his options and the planning of the Home as he ran. He would not make it to the main entrances, nor he would ever want to, for the matter, despite the danger to his life, was still delicate and needed to be dealt with discreetly; contesting favor to the Court would be useless, as stature of several Folk involved would overrule whatever deeds he alone could bring to the table, as well as hoping the magick permeating this place would shield him, far too used to the familial squabbles he so often found himself embroiled into during his longer visits. So, and as so many times before when he would need to sneak out or leave in a rush, he opted to take the back - and swerved into one of the many secret paths dotted around the place, leading into one of the anthill-like passages snaking through the earthen insides of the mound, that connected the Home to the outside.
As always, they were cold, dimly lit, and filled with graveyard stillness and remains of past punishments. Bones of the old enemies of his family, fused into the roots and the earth and the stone of the snaking catacomb passages serving as more discreet entrances and exits from the abode for the welcome and a cold, grasping death for any intruders. Today would be one of those days that their rest would be disturbed, and also one of those days when he would be the catalyst of it all - if they were not the fallen foes slain long ago, he would have almost apologized for the foolishness of his particularly banal-minded relatives hot on his heels. He could hear shouted commands in the old tongue, urging the immured to purge his unclean presence upon the hallowed halls as he ran forward, already having mapped out his route to the outside. But the vestige of Necromancer's soul woven into his charm still knew his craft, and he still unquestionably belonged there by birthright. Those who have been, through wails and shrieks and threats of fate worse than guard-duty-beyond-death, urged to reach out could not touch him as he dashed by, a snap of cold white energy from his craft resisting any and all attempts to grab him. He felt the air in the hallway shift, and hear more guardians slowly lumber forth from their vigil places, but no worry crossed his mind, only calculated contentment as he turned around briefly to see them block his pursuers' path and then moving to encircle them.
Triumphantly, he gave them a salute, only to seamlessly morph it into a rude hand gesture many mortals he knew were fond of, and dashed along on his way, until the darkness of the mound gave way to the tall grass and broken stones and pale blue sky of outside.
Many things were becoming more and more evident. For this to even happen, those holding real Power within these walls were clearly considering this matter more than a case of petty infighting between the siblings. It wasn't the first time High Council would attempt to seed agents within the walls of their home, or invite strife with rumors and leverage alike, but it was, on his memory, the first time they were so direct and dared he say, desperate, in their matters. Perhaps, he thought brightly, as he lifted his hands to the Wind to come and carry him away, some of his blood indeed had an inane thought of these self-absorbed vultures being a better fit to side with. Unfortunately for them, he has done his part diligently so far, and would continue to do so. They would not be able to twist Fate.
[On his ascent to the mortal realm, Aylar is alert and waiting to see if he gets another chance at catching that fleeting, tugging feeling he had failed to grasp at shortly before his arrival. If chance be kind to him and with his mind and understanding renewed, he will reach out and respond immediately.]
----
Both of his forms joined, he came to in the dark and quiet of the roots. The mirthy spark of emotion quickly vanished as he felt the tree gently, but firmly press down onto his shoulders at his attempt to lift himself above ground, like a reprimanding teacher refusing to dismiss one from a lecture that hasn't ended yet. Before he could consider the reasons or demand answers, they came in a curiously small form of what he could only assume, by the sound and feel of it, was a field mouse climbing onto his hand, and a whisper of an elderly voice in his mind.
"I come in peace and in warning. Some mortals have presently gathered near thy tree, and we have suspicion they intend ill will upon thee. I understand Mannish; banal in their thinking, they are about to choose to disturb thy resting place. Some went back the path to fetch dig-sticks. With every passing day, more and more is lost. No respect for the old ways. No respect for the boundaries, or demesnes, or the laws. Here, lad, reach through the roots and judge for thyself; can thee feel their scrabble?"
He indeed could feel the "scrabble", albeit faintly. Several presences milling restlessly, leaves kicked up in frustration by pacing feet, shaking fingers grabbing at the field grass. The pooka's voice filtered effortlessly through the noise of it all.
"Fee started to grow restless after it began to appear that once more thou been held up by thee kin somehow. He claimed that we ought to be on a look for some, and I quoth, "very fishy people coming to catch you", though as we have presently discovered, there be no fish or merfolk among them", along with these words came a brief feel of confusion. "His insistence on this particular matter, as well as the intention to stand guard and seeing thee off to where thou would then choose to depart to would have been incredibly disruptive to our usual way of doing things, so we sent him below until the augury would either not come to pass, or would be resolved through our interference."
"Tell him that I am grateful and that he has earned a favor to ask upon me next time I return to your lands." Refreshed, his mind found no difficulty in snapping into scheming. "What is your intention, then?"
"Best for them to think thou have not left yet. That be said, it is our fields. More of our number are preparing to do what ought be done, and I am here to ensure thy safe passage. Have you a destination?" He felt the mouse move up and settle on his shoulder.
"As close to the harbor as you are able." As if on cue, through his magickal reach came the first dull stab of the spade piercing the earth.
"Granted. Close thy eyes."
The roots released him at once and the ground itself shifted and folded, and in but a blink, he found himself rising out of the overgrown ditch on the edge of the field. The crisp evening air stung his face after the stillness of the earth, but the distant sounds of enthusiastic wolf baying mingled with the screams of hapless minions beset upon by at least one full pack quickly made the discomfort of it all dissolve away.
"Head north. Fair winds, child of the storm." The mouse jumped off, quickly skittering into the grass and out of sight. Not wasting any time, Aylar disappeared into the woods. Indeed, it took him only a few minutes of a brisk run to reach the harbor, avoiding even most of the town. Not wanting to attract anyone's attention sliding down a sandy slope to get to the docks, he made use of the just right proximity and elevation, flipping open the Locket and willing himself right aboard his vessel.
Quickly, he untied the ropes and raised the anchor of his small ship, now devoid of any company, reached to the free-spirited winds, asking them to fill the sails, and, hands on the wheel, pushed some of his magic into the wood, focusing on weaving the glamour, having no pause even once he left the node behind. Notice-me-not, for I be neath thy notice, carry me forth on thy wing for I be late. If it be Fate, it shall not be broken for I be one of those threading the needle that works on mending it.
The stars and the wind would see him back to his Crew.
Having arrived to the Fey realm via Dreaming, Aylar has a long, eerily overdue homecoming, mired in Court politics and family grudges. He manages to reconvene with his Mother and achieve his goal of getting an audience with the High Queen in search of vital information - getting a fair amount more revelations than expected. Also it appears that the High Council and the overgrown eel both have a reach that extends even further than expected; luckily, Aylar narrowly avoids capture by agents of either faction and now be on his way to the Crew, as well as hopefully finally picking up Clíodhna's calls now that he be out of the area with horrid reception...
