61st Spring 511 A.V. The Stalwart Highway - midday
It was dark. That was the first sensation one who entered the Highway ever experienced, and the sensation was not lost on Rorugir. Darkness covered its prodigal son like a old blanket, at once comforting and familiar yet slightly out of place. For a moment as he entered the tunnel, it was disorienting, him having spent so much time on land and above it, always in either Syna or Leth's sight at all time. But as his eyes adjusted and old, abandoned senses were revisited, the darkness took on a new kind of intimacy.
It was the twenty-second day after having left Lhavit, that city cradled by the stars which had become his home for two and a half seasons. Over mountain and under stormy sky Rorugir had made his way... here. The reasons were not easily fathomed, not even to him. Much of it, though the self-imposed exile was loath to admit it, had to do with fear, fear not for him but for his people. After the djed storm had toppled Lhavit and presumably the rest of Mizahar, much of Rorugir's waking hours had been spent worrying about what had happened to his family and the rest of his people, all of whom were harbored here within the mountain kingdoms.
Eventually, the worry had driven him home.
The Highway was not new to him – he was a native of Sultros as he were. The position of the werelights that guided travelers down its dark path could have almost been placed by sight, and Rorugir made his way past them easily. The massive Shield that guarded the tunnel likewise, had been easily passed; by virtue of his isurian nature the guards manning the Shield had let him pass with but a few questions. Light gathered at the far end of the Highway, and Rorugir knew that he was drawing near, finally.
As he made his way out of the tunnel, a wide open plain presented itself to him. This path was familiar as well. The gates of Sultros, towering at the far end of the plain, however, were not so mundane to him. Even he, an isur who had lived under the rocky cradle of these very gates, could only stop and stare at the monstrosity before him. A moment was spent in quiet reflection, silently praising whatever mason had poured his life into carving those very gates.
The soft clinking of plate mail forced him back to the present. The geomancer looked to his left and saw an fellow isur, though one dressed in armor and bearing the sigil of Izurdin's Hammer. But, contrary to whatever the outsiders might think, the rifts between clans were deep, and it was with a tingle of suspicion Rorugir noted the redness of the man's swollen left arm.
“Greetings, Pitrius,” the man greeted in Isur. “What brings you to the gates of Sultros?”
“I am but returning home,” Rorugir replied gruffly, embarrassed by how rough his Isur had become in his time away from Sultros. “I was on a journey, but now I am finally returning home.”
The man's hand, placed around the hilt of his hammer, did not so much as budge. “And, may I ask, what is your name?”
“Rorugir...Rorugir Steelrune.”
The man looked thoughtful for a second, but he could not seemingly place the name to that of a banished isur, so he said, “You are free to enter Sultros.”
Rorugir inclined his head and turned away. In the near distance, there was a rumbling that symbolized the great cogs and wheels of the Sultrosian gates opening up, the monster's maw opening to allow the prey in. The man besides him gave Rorugir a guarded smile, then gestured for him to enter.
But there was a moment that stilled Rorugir before he entered. He had not told the guardsman the whole story. When he had left, it had been without the approval of his clan or family. As it were, the Pitrius would likely not accept him back into the fold. And, what then? What if he was exiled in every sense of the word?
Rorugir shook his head. “Whatever comes will come.” He told himself. The once exile took a breath, and then looked up.
Head turned back to the gates from whence he had come, the stalwart son of the mountains walked on in, eyes blazing, ready for whatever may await him inside. |
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