Deep in the belly of the ship, past where the stores of salted meat and ale are kept, there's a secret alcove in the maze of the stacked cargo crates in the hold. It's here that Raph's door between Milliways and Tortall is located, and it's here that he makes his stealthy entrance.

If his math is correct it should be well after nightfall, though there's no taking into account the plasticity of time when it comes to doorways. Raph skulks his way towards the upper decks, taking great care to keep to the shadows.

It's a mild night, all things considered. The weather is as even keeled as the Scotland of the Wizarding world is this time of year, and Raph is glad for it. He's glad for the partly cloudy skies, and the chill-yet-not-cold air that breezes past him...and the wounds newly opened on his knuckles.

Yes, he truly wouldn't be Raph if he metabolized his rage using completely healthy means. And there are fewer things less healthy for knuckles than being used to punch brick walls.

They tend to be unforgiving, brick walls.

Kind of like some blondes he knows, Raph muses to himself with a dry chuckle.

"'Least with walls you know where you stand," he says to no one in particular, before lifting the pilfered bottle of Jack to his lips and downing a sizable gulp. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the part of his free hand that isn't currently bleeding, and gives his surroundings a good once over.

It's been a long time since he's been up on this roof. His roof. Even longer since he's sat, legs dangling over the edge, with a bottle of his favorite spirit close at hand.

"fuck."

Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Rest.

Oh sure, Raph could be working out back in Tortall. It's not like there isn't any number of errands, tasks, or chores that he could do that wouldn't result in the exact same amount of exertion. It's just that here in Milliways? He can take a scaldingly hot shower afterwards. The draw of a place with a nigh unlimited amount of hot water is a powerful draw indeed.

He takes advantage of the rest period to shift his position on the work out bench and adjusting his grip on the bar resting on the pins above his chest.
Only four more sets at this weight, and he's done.

By this point the fighting has all but ended, and the tending of the wounded by according to their injuries has begun. Raph, who refuses to admit that the injuries he has sustained during the seige are anything other than cosmetic in nature, has been sorting and relocating the dead by alliegence. Mostly people stay out of his way, but one of the King's Own notices that his hands have begun to shake, his fellow warriors take it upon themselves to get him the medical care he needs. In the end it takes two knights and a healer to corral Raph to triage, and even then it's only after someone's promised him that they will find Abigail and assure him that she is okay.

Thank the Goddess for an empty house. Raph now fully appreciates why Splinter only chastised them after he and his brothers had snuck out, instead of stopping to lecture them before hand.

He rolls slightly, pressing a kiss to Abigail's forehead, before sitting up and getting to his feet. His clothes are around here somewhere...

"Hungry?" he asks, pulling his breeches over his anachronistic boxer shorts. Seven years is long enough to go without underwear, thank you very much. The boxers aren't the only new edition to his wardrobe that seem ever present these days, his Milliways Security Badge is rarely removed if he can at all avoid it.

Maintaining a healthy Work/Life balance isn't easy for anyone regardless of who you are and how you define Work and Life.
If you're Raph, Work is: verb simultaneously defending and protecting two entirely different worlds while somehow managing to keep your efforts as secret as possible from what you define as Life.
Life: noun Abigail.

It's not easy what you're doing. Not the fighting, that part is easy and always has been. It's the lying and sneaking that seem to be getting to you. You remind yourself you do it because you have to. You do it to protect her and her world. You do it because the lie that brings a smile is so much better than the truth that usually results in screaming, and not the good kind. You do it because you love your Life.

But somehow even that doesn't change the fact that every day it gets harder and harder to maintain the lies. The stress of maintaining them builds and builds and you often find yourself wanting to pull your hair out and scream. Then you laugh and remind yourself, Good thing you're bald. Then you do what you always do and push the frustration down deep inside. You use it to fuel just one more all night scout mission or just one last after-hours Security shift, until you've all but burned yourself out entirely resulting in yet another day of you still being in bed even though it's well past lunch.

I

The weather outside is frightful, but the fire inside the Designated Tortoise Inn and Tavern is oh so delightful, which explains why it's packed to the gills on a night such as this. The storm came out of nowhere, and from the look of things it appears that the entire town was taken by surprise. No matter though, so long as the Barkeep doesn't run out of food, drink, or firewood all will be right with the world.

That is, of course, provided some idiot doesn't open the door.

...

Cue the idiot.

The door swings open violently, caught up in a gust of wind that even catches the man behind it by surprise. He stands in the doorway dumbfounded and momentarily blinded by the light from within, which is actually kind of funny, because as luck would have it the patrons of the Designated Tortoise are also momentarily blinded by the well timed flash of lightning that engulfs the man in back lighting.

The din dies down as the room pauses a moment to observe the stranger now darkening their doorstep. He's nothing particular to write home about, just your average ranger of average size and average build. In fact, the only thing noteworthy about him is how unnoteworthy he is, which is exactly why everyone is looking at him. He's the only average person in the room that no one knows.

It isn't until his eyes adjust to the flickering firelight that Raph realizes that everyone in the room is focused in his direction. He blinks a few times and then very slowly turns to see if there is, by chance, something horrifying looming behind him. What he finds is nothing more than an empty doorway leading to the torrential downpour outside. One doesn't have to be a rocket scientist to realize that they're staring at him, just an ex-turtle. Some things, it seems, never change. He shakes his head, sighs, and closes the door behind him. In this scene the part of the pin dropping will be played by the latch clicking shut.

"Yo, Barkeep. Got a horse in your stable needs lookin' to. Add that, and a night's lodging, to the ale you're gonna pour me," says the man as he begins to remove layer after layer of sopping wet gear and outer ware. One by one patrons begin to lose interest in the stranger and return to their previous conversations. He sighs again, this time in relief as the weigh of oh so many stares lifts from his shoulders.

The cool reception suits Raph fine, as he's about as happy to be in this tavern as these townies are to have him there. The plan was to be back at Olau before the Anniversary, but clearly Fate hadn't gotten his itinerary in time. He turns his attention to the nearest window which is still be pelted by strong wind and rain. The ongoing storm had washed out many of the roads, and rather than attempt a cross of open country in the dark, Raph thought it better to stop somewhere warm and dry for the night. It's the least he could do for poor old Cloud who had more than paid his dues on this journey already. Still, in spite of the debt he owes the pony Raph can't help but feel disappointed at the fact that prime travel time was being squandered sitting around in damp socks, especially after having planned his return so carefully.

When his year with the Griffin had come to an end Raph wasted no time picking his North East route back to Olau and packing accordingly. The good thing about martial arts masters is that they rarely necessitate lengthy goodbyes. Whether they respect you, or rue the day you walked into their life, a low bow is usually all they require. Raph also left Anthony a cake. One can't have too much good karma kicking around.

Raph is jarred out of his reverie by the sounds of his ale arriving.

"'Bout time," he grumbles without looking up.

"Yes well, most people say hello before they start making idle demands. Most civilized people, that is."

He looks up and sees not the burly man behind the bar, but a small blonde woman with blue eyes. Or at least he thinks she has blue eyes, really he is far more distracted by her tone and her smile, both of which drier than the Bazhier in Summer. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

Something clatters on the tabletop but Raph finds he can't pull his eyes away from the woman.
"Your key," she says, voice clipped and impersonal. "Up the stairs to the left. First door on the right. Horse is being tended to. All tabs to be collected at the sound of the bell." And with that she turns on her heel and marches away, disappearing into the crowd with the ease of a ninja.

Raph stares after her, mouth gaping.
He spends the next hour absentmindedly nursing his ale as he keeps a watchful eye on the crowd. Raph's hoping to catch another glimpse of the woman, but she never does reappear. The deeper into his beer he gets the more he starts to tell himself that she didn't really exist at all and is nothing more than a figment of his road weary imagination. To be on the safe side when the bell is rung and all tabs are to be paid Raph makes sure to leave a rather sizable tip for who is by far the most beautiful woman he's seen in a very long time.

The witching hour has long past and yet for reasons unknown foul creatures still walk the lands, howling their displeasure at all things living to the cold stars above.

"My name is Raphael. Raphael.
I said my name is Raphael. Raphael.
My name is Raphael, and I'll see you all in hell!
I'll see you all in hell!
Damn your eyes!"

Well it's not really all lands, more specifically just the land that run between the stables and main house belonging to the Youngs of Olau. And...it's not so many creatures as it is just one creature, and he's not so much walking as he is staggering.

The howling is pretty accurate though.

Yes, it's a day that ends in Y so it only stands to reason that Raph is making his way back from the tavern in hopes of passing out before thoughts of home can catch up with him. It's not a perfect system, but it's the one that works....for the most part. And for the the few times that it hasn't, well that's what the guitar is for.

Having now made it to the front door Raph begins the lengthy process of shushing himself, and fighting back wave after wave of drunken chuckles. It would do him no good to wake the children as hell hath no fury like a sleep deprived lioness. Once he deems himself quiet enough to sneak past an insomniatic Splinter, he opens the front door and stumbles inside. His footfalls are silent as he makes his way through the darkened hallways, doing his best to avoid obstacles like toys, furniture, the occasional wall, and in a few careless moments the very floor itself. 

Something sputters and pops behind him and Raph turns quickly on reflex. What he finds is not the wayward toddler or disapproving servant he was half expecting, but the embers of a fire still glowing bright in the darkness of the living room fireplace. He sighs in relief and is just about to return to his path when he finds himself caught in a memory. He sways under the force of it, and swears quietly under his breath. He didn't move fast enough this time. He swears again as he mentally steels himself for the course change that now has to happen. Instead of going straight away to his room he must first make a pit stop in the room across the hall; the one that used to belong to his brother. It's time to visit the guitar.

Don't let the mention of the guitar or singing fool you, Raph hasn't suddenly found himself an obsession in music. There's a great giant canyon between drunken pub songs and the study of music, and he is firmly ensconced on the drunken-singing side of things. No the guitar is something left behind from before, when the door still worked, when there was still a way home.

It was typical Mikey; no matter where they went, or how long they stayed there, Mike always managed to forget something. It never failed. Sometimes it was a sock, occasionally a knife set, usually a book, then of course there was that one time where he forgot an entire cat... in Tortall he left behind his guitar. It was discovered a month or so after Mike had returned to Milliways.

At first Raph just rolled his eyes when ever he saw the guitar. It was his opinion that the fewer cheeseburgers there were in paradise the happier he was. As time wore on though, Raph found himself pleased that it was there. The guitar served as a place holder, not for his brother per se, but for the razzing Raph would give Mike when he finally did return to reclaim the damn thing.

Only Mike never did return. Not when the door was still open, and surely not after it had closed. Raph spent a good portion of his morning after hearing of the closed door just sitting in what was once his brother's room sifting through his hang over and staring at that guitar.

As he changes course for the other room Raph finds himself thinking on the memory of the last time he saw his brother play. It was well over two years ago when Mike, Adam and he went to a tavern in search of some entertainment. Mike brought his guitar in the hopes of wooing a barmaid or twelve with some dopey jam band song he'd just learned. When that didn't work Mike spent the rest of the evening serenading both his brother and Adam. That is until Raph emptied a tankard over his head. Good times.

In spite of it all Raph finds himself smiling as he wipes at his eyes with the back of one hand. Happy memories are always welcome until the day one realizes that there won't be more where they came from.

Raph pauses just shy of the doorway. There's a method to this new brand of madness he's invented, and it must be followed to the letter. First there is a mental inventory: Is there enough paper? Is there enough ink? How much sealing wax is left? Then there are the physical requirements: Are his hands steady enough to hold the nib? Is his vision clear enough to work by candle light? Only when he can answer yes to all of these does he consider adding another letter to the stash within the sound-hole. Failure to maintain the method only brings questions and looks of pity, and Raph can stand neither. On nights when a no does happen to slip its way in he merely sits in the room with the guitar and waits for his to mind quiet or for the sun to rise, which ever comes first.

Tonight though, there will be a letter. Nothing too ambitious, just a recounting of the day's events, which mostly consist of him rising from the previous day's hang over, working in the stables, and then retiring to the tavern. It doesn't make for interesting reading, but it is a far welcome change from the swear laden threats and pleas which make up the bottom of the pile within the guitar.

Fully prepared Raph opens the door and takes a step inside, but only just the one.
There in the corner, where the guitar used to lean up against the wall, is nothing but a pile of sealed letters.
The guitar is gone.
Missing
Stolen.
Reclaimed.

Raph's stomach sinks, and he barely fights back the urge to vomit.

It's gone. His last and only hope to return home is gone.
Gone and leaving behind only traces of his own desperation.
Mikey always forgets something when he leaves.
This time he’s forgotten his brother.

The room begins collapse around him.
He has to get out of here.

As fast as his legs will carry him Raph breaks for the outside world, and disappears into the night.

We find Raph wandering the streets of Corus. One could say aimlessly, but really there is an aim and it's diversion.

You see, two hours ago Raph was invited to sit in on a rather important meeting at the Palace. An hour and forty-five minutes ago he was uninvited from the same meeting. Apparently snoring is considered disrespectful behavior regardless of who one is supposedly related to.
The drooling probably didn't help either.

So he did what anyone in his situation would do: He left without telling anyone where he was going and headed in the direction of the largest crowd he could find. Being alone wasn't enough for Raph, he had to be alone in a room full of people to really get his sulk on.

He kept his head low as he made his down Palace Way, pausing briefly to appreciate the armed guards to the Temple of the Great Mother, before continuing on through the crossroads where Palace becomes Market.

The market is as rowdy and bawdy and crowded as ever. Raph drinks it in, savoring the anonymity as it's the closest thing to New York that he has at the moment. A herd of children brush past him lost in some nameless game. With little more than a reflex Raph snags the smallest of them by the back of the shirt.

"Fork it over, Kid."

The little girl is unrepentant as she grudgingly hands over his money pouch. Briefly he ponders turning her over to the proper authorities, but realizes that'd do about as much good as following her home and shaking some sense into her parents. There's no chance of striking the fear of God into this little street urchin either, not by the way she glares. He lets her go, and she spits on him for his troubles, before disappearing into the crowd.

"Kids."

Raph is seated on the living room floor, his back resting against the arm of the couch. Strewn about on the floor before him is a wide arch magazines. Some are about motorcycles, others about martial arts weapons, but mostly they're fitness magazines.

In the background the dulcet tones of Shaolin Soccer can be heard.