A Knocking Afar (IC Thread)

[Trokair]

A Knocking Afar

 

 

 

It is early afternoon as you stroll through the grand parkscape that encompasses most of Dandrame's central hall. The Festival has already been going for several days and was set to continue for many more. As you wander the meandering paths you may see a troupe of Harlequins preparing a grant stage for a special performance tonight, one unmatched for generations, or so the rumours said.

 

Elsewhere there is the Bazaar to explore, with traders from many places, Craftworlds and others intermixed, even some Exodiet worlds.  Speaking of the arcadian cousins, on one long track of parkland there are reptilian mounted races as various champions and contenders vied to show their skills. For the more adventurers there were even armature races, where after a few hours of instruction form the Exodite handlers anybody could try their luck riding one of the cold-blooded steeds.

 

There were many a smaller gatherings to admire the arts, from poetry to sculpture, music to martial. Dotted throughout were places to rest and relax, places to eat and drink, or just to gather and meet friends and strangers alike.

 

As the day wares on you find yourself heading for a secluded branch of the great park, to the Garden of found Tranquillity. The Gardens were not normally open to the public.  Instead they were persevered for those that needed a sheltered place to find themselves once more, whether from the mind fatigue of wearing the war mask to long, or the uncertainty of current reality that plagued some on the path of the Seer, or those unfortunate soles whose internal discord has grown into a cantankerous malice that thread their steps on the path they trod. In crude summary a place of healing for those thinks more subtle and deeper than mere flesh and blood of the healing houses.  

 

Perhaps you had come here by chance, perhaps curiosity to see the gardens normally closed to you, perhaps you had been here before and come to see once again for just a little while.  Perhaps you had picked up one of the flyers inviting the world at large to a gathering.

 

However you came to be here you are now standing in a clearing of the Garden, with perhaps two or three dozen people scattered around, some chatting with each other, while others just waited. A small commotion catches your eye, a group of for ceremonially dressed guards of the Infinity circuit are escorting two Eldar dressed in the colours of one of the Hauses of Care. Between them the two support an elderly figure, one who struggles to walk and retain his balance, a graceless and crude ambulatory motion for any Eldar, and yet all this individual seem dot be capable of.

 

Another follows behind with a specialised chair, which she positions with care before the Healers help the elder to sit and recline. The ceremonial guards took up position around the figure while everybody else stayed a respectful distance back. Natives of Dandrame may recognise the elder, but if they do it is a distant memory as this Farseer has not been seen in public in many many decades.

 

 

“Welcome one and all, and thank you for your time, however you found yourself here today.” His voice was weak, and did not carry well, but all in attendance remained silent while he spoke.

 

“For those from other hearths and those that I have not met before, my name is Jalut ibn Harun al-Dram, Farseer by path and centuries, and I have a favour to ask of any willing to grant me such a kindness.”

 

 “Allow me a moment longer to set out the heart of request; some of you will know this already, but for the benefit of any visitors a little history. In the age before age, when the Gods had not yet warred in Heaven that which eventually became our home, Dandrame, carried a Loom of Ways and crawled across reality weaving a few of the many branches of the Webway. Later, in that fading of our kind before the Fall, that which would become Dandrame, carried a World Engine, retreading many of its previous journeys through the real and life-forming suitable places.”

 

“Many of our ties to the Exodites that are visiting this festival stem from this time, where we helped them breathe life into their homes to be. However not all places upon which we let the World engine work were settled by our kind, and other failed, some lie half completed, or forgotten after the turmoil of the fall.”

 

“Even with the dark times we tried to keep an eye on those places that Dandrame had worked its purpose, both in the ages past and on the second cycle of the real. It is with one of these worlds that I am now concerned with, and to which I would ask a few souls to travel. The guardians that had been left in place to guard the connection to the webway woke not long ago, and then, then nothing. Silence, nay absence.”

 

“When word reaches us of this, several of my colleagues and I sought to consult the skein of fate. To no avail, they are not just silent, but play no acknowledgment to the fact that something may be amiss, that the guardians woke and are now incommunicative. The Synod of Guidance therefore concluded that the event is of no consequence to us or the wider Eldar realms, and the Leadership of Dandrame will not send an official expedition to investigate.”

 

“I fear that they are mistake, and would go myself.” Here he paused to reach forward and draw his simple garb aside, showing his feet. They were far along the transmutation into crystal that befall any Seer of great age, the long-term exposure to their craft and its dangers catching up with them. From the earlier observed stiffness you can guess that the condition is far more advanced than just his feet.

 

“Alas I cannot walk far these days, let alone leave these halls. I can see that the nature of the favour dawns on you, and indeed I seek out volunteers to travel to this distant world and investigate what disturbed the guardians in their slumber. However I am obliged to warn you, the skeins of fate are oblivious in this, and were I to consult them on any one of your fates they would show me many and plentiful, but not a trace of accepting, or even hearing this very request. If you do go then know that you are going without guidance, without fate. This is why I can only request a favour, and hope that there some of you brave enough, or curious enough, or foolish enough or any of the myriad reason why you might say yes, to say yes.”

 

 

“In all my time I have never seen the skein so reticent, even the most unlikely of events always had its trace, however far down the slope of probability and reality. This none-ness worries me deeply.”

 

 

He sighed with weariness.

 

 

“Forgive this aged one, but I am tiered and need to rest. Please think on what I have said, and if you still have it in your heart to grant me a few days of your time then please come back here just before dusk, and if you do acquiesce then my apologies now for missing the Harlequins performance this evening, for you will already be on your way before their curtain opens.”  

 

 

 

Players, you may now post freely as to your character's day leading up to, during and after the scene above, going as far as just before dusk would set in.

 

What brought you to the Garden, what did you feel or think as you heard the aged Farseer’s tale, why is your character agreeing to go on this journey? You can interact with each other and any reasonable NPC you might think is in attendance. The Farseer himself will not answer any questions at this stage, and his entourage of healers, assistants and guards will politely decline.  You can assume that the only Eldar that will volunteer are the player characters, and that only the player characters are the ones that will appear just before dusk, assuming you want to go on this adventure.

 

The game itself will start next weekend, this is your prologue (and infodump).

[Mazer Rackham]

Soairse:

 

Cross-legged, her bare feet tasted the rhythm of the earth, ankles pressing into tickling reeds of jade-green grass. Pruned to exact length for the task at hand, as much as it was for the beautiful, homogenous ripple where the deliberate breeze accosted it. Saoirse let it wash by, the cleansing press stirring the scarlet spill of her traditional Saim-hann robe. Where they came from was important; otherwise, why remember the lessons of history at all?

 

Enough. It was meant to be an accompaniment to the effort exerted, a background swell lapping the edges of her mind. All must be in harmony; the reality of the grass and whispering wind could be no more excluded than the slight numbness now creeping into her spine.

 

‘Again, my lady?’

 

The attendant’s gentle voice was not an intrusion. As rooted in these lovely gardens, he was the epitome of his chosen path, of Service. It was one of great patience, and although Saoirse could never attain such peace, she coveted it, admired it. Recognising the distraction, she refocused, the labyrinth of her mind revolving as much as the pebble she sought. Buried in the broad sandpit in front of her, was a single, black stone. She could feel it, a silent fletch of midnight.

 

It was a Póilíneach, a small plaything of dark Wraithbone. Her task was to move the pebble with her mind, to shift it in concentric patterns that must never be borne by the subconscious, it was an act of will, of deliberation and consummate skill. The pyschocrystalline would glow as the friction of silica caressed it, as Soairse’s power inhibited it. Too much, the pebble would explode. Too little, and it wouldn’t move. The finale of the game was to drop the glowing pebble into the centre of the pattern, a representation of the sun which once bathed the Old Worlds.

 

The centre of the universe, a light from the darkness, a rebirth.

 

All was harmoniously symbolic.

 

As a Warlock of Standing, her focus was expected to command three Marbles at once. To her shame, today at least, she was having difficulty with one. Urge to use her telepathic medium to communicate with the Attendant was a flare of irritation she quickly extinguished. Control. Discipline. Always. Otherwise there was only the Terror. Besides, it was a terrible intrusion, much like entering upon someone bathing. During battle, of course, the melding of consciousness was expected, but here?

Soairse nodded to the Attendant. ‘Again, please, at your will.’

 

With a subtle shift of shoulders conveying appreciation, the attendant raised his palm; a lacework of golden triskeles entagled about his hand distorted the air with influence. With a slow caress of the landscape, the sands smoothed and the protected garden whispered into perfection again.

How the Ciorca’Sídhe must tremble with the old souls chuckling at her.

 

Enough. Soairse removed from herself. A strange shimmer of pressure around her, pressing intent though air, beneath reality, invisible fingers slowly stalked out across the arena. The small pebble reacted instantly, meeting her will with an echo of warmth from the one who crafted it. To touch such things, to meet the mind and know them. So wonderful. So dangerous.

 

Now. Slowly. The world moves, but you must be still. Farseer Delánn was in her ear again.

 

Nearly a century after his tutelage finished, his mind still lingered as books on a shelf, awaiting her perusal. Feel the grass, feel the life of the attendant, the pulse of the craftworld, the different humours and tensions within so many minds, just shadows cast by a lantern on the wall. She began, and the world, the tomb of grains shifted around her, pivoting and rolling, as would a table in a storm, and the ring of sand on Wraithbone began gently, a soft tuning-fork hum, until the pebble brightened, the song wavering playfully as her joy expanded to the depth of a universe unremembered, the cradle worlds of the Aeldar, swirling in communion with the laws of creation.

Listen with your heart, child. Delann smiled in her memory.

 

The song warbled as she drew, great sweeping troughs in ribald pattern as the flames took hold, etching in youthful, playful bounce. Soairse danced and whirled, tracing memory, subverting the immutable with will alone, and in so doing, delving into the pest, re-drawing it, fixing constellations in the firmament, until the crescendo and the final leap…! High now! High in silence, to deliver the final note!

 

‘My lady...‘ the Attendant warned.

 

There was a sound of a bullet striking wood, and when she cracked an eye open; she caught the smouldering glow of the pebble embedded in the bark of a Sailleach tree. Sighing, she rose in a simple, graceful lift, such contrast to her euphoric outburst, to face the attendant. She bowed deeply in apology, and went to fetch the pebble.

 

Maybe she should take up gardening.

 

+++++

 

Enrobed in the customary festival colours of her Windrider Brotherhood, Soairse made her way through the crowds, the animal racing was a display by the Exodites – the Far Flung Kin, and the closest to her own clan in terms of visceral existence. Their accents reminded her of the savage edge lacking in this refined, elegant place.

Perhaps they thought her no better than the Dragonriders. She laughed at herself, first, then those detractors. Perhaps it was this place getting to her, the lack of blood-rousing action, the restlessness, despite the myriad entertainments. The rebel in the heart demanded she leap atop one of the beasts and let it cavort in thunderous canter down the raceway, but a lady did not do such things…

 

That was her cousin’s voice, and the reason she was here.

 

Her attention was snatched by the curious. Ever the Sunflutter, she watched, fascinated by the sight of a old Eldar, creaking and groaning on his way to the statuesque fate which all dreaded, but preferred to any terrible alternative. Once the appeal was given, the entourage packed up and wended away, piece said. Soairse weighed everything in her head, the speed of her race giving her a decision in a thump of heart.

 

She would miss the Masque, but, the further away, the better. The fire kindled in her core, a reactor of purpose, stirring to heat. The familiar discipline of her former Aspect settled about her shoulders in a comforting harness, shifting the guttering flames into something focused.

 

Soairse drew herself up to full height, decision made.

 

There was much to make ready.

[A.T.]

Ialandranth Veilseeker

 

It was the gift of his kind to choose their path and to step from one to the next across the eons as if but donning a new mask, many lives, many fates. All save for a few... the path of the exarch lost to war, the path of the harlequin and the eternal dance, and the path of the seer as demanded by fate.

 

For some it sat better than others for no two seers saw the same threads beyond the veil. Those seers that sought to guide the craftworld traced the threads of fate to find those that were spun brightest and strongest but all Ialandranth saw in his visions was a winding web that twisted out into darkness as though he and all around him were ensnared.

 

He had run from this web to another, the mask of the spider. Despite their namesake the aspect temple taught the purity of the single thread tethered within the material, the absoluteness of a beginning and an end. At first there had been little reprieve but slowly, surely, a break in the web had formed.

 

One uncertain thread that had led his path here.

[Mike Zulu]

Ialathial:

 

It was several passes ago that Ialathial last visited the Festival in the Gardens. Many times with friends, many more times in the waning of the Dream. The narcotic-fuelled stupor enhanced the experiences and performances on display. The most fantastical arts witnessed often servng as inspiration for the next Dream. It was certainly an euphoric experience for all of them.

 

That was a different time, a different Ialathial. Back then, he donned a kaleidoscopic garb that was an assault on the senses. His unkempt auburn hair was shoulder-length, and he wore an assortment of jewellery hanging from his ears and neck. Now he only wore a humble blue robe, his piercing removed and his hair cut short. The only adornment was his spirit stone, a dark red orb centred on his chest.

He hated being here, but believed in the need to confront the past. Selleinath, his mentor and Exarch of the Twilight Tempest shrine, had insisted he attend. He argued, in his typical iambic manner, that Ialathial needed a sober perspective on the Craftworld and its myriad attractions. Ialathial agreed in principle, but it was hard to be impressed by the displays when it served as a reminder of what he lost.
 

Yet, it affirmed what he already knew. That after all of his Dreamed “accomplishments”, he had achieved nothing. That his friendships were not sincere, only held intact by the Dreaming. That the Path of the Dreamer was nothing but a well of vice and excuses.
 

Now, he was upon a path of purpose, of duty to Dandrame and its peoples. The Path of the Warrior.
 

The Path of the Avenger.

 

+++

 

The Farseer’s request was most irregular. Ialathial had only heard his name in passing, but recognised it as one of significance. Surely one of his status and ability would have more sway on the Craftworld’s hegemony? 

 

As he pondered the elderly seer’s appeal, Ialathial watched the glinting and feeble figure be carried away by his attendants. Instinctively, he searched the faces of the various Service eldar, curious as to whether she was among them.

 

Not that he wanted anything more to do with her…

Edited yesterday at 01:55 PM by Mike Zulu

[Mazer Rackham]

Soairse:

 

Approaching her chambers, at a sedate, but constant pace, Soairse's mind was aroil with whispers from the assembled throng in the streets. Beleaguered by the passing strangers the doubts, fears and desires threatened to pull her in any one of a thousand ways. Crossing the threshold, her focus returned when she was greeted by her handmaid, Saim'Fión.

 

The reflection of Soairse's own thoughts bounced across the intervening space, the younger Aeldar picking up the mood. Her shoulders firmed, as did her brow, by instinct, the two women matched each other's mien. It was a dangerous, natural habit, and infectious in moments of great emotion. Such things led to the fall.

 

Soairse bowed, pivoting just shy of upright. A light, friendly greeting more appropriate for close aquaintances than someone on the Path of Service. It was important - confidence had to be established, a measure of trust conveyed.

 

Fión reciprocated, shoulders loosening. 'My Lady, is all well?'

 

'Yes, Fión, be at ease. I require my travelling attire and battle raiment. I will be leaving shortly.'

 

The tension returned. 'Forgive me, my Lady, but we are entertaining ton-'

 

Soairse cut her off with a hard glance, altering her posture enough to underline her desire that whatever protest Fión was mustering was pointless as much as it was unwelcome. There would be repercussions, of course, the visiting family members would be quite put out, that their silly betrothal schemes had been delayed. She pouted, enjoying the conceit, but banished it almost as quickly. Do not dwell, for darkness dwells in perfection for it's own sake.

 

No, Saoirse had made up her mind. Direction was discipline, and both were the path to truth.

 

Her maid bowed deeply in acceptance, the respect radiating off her, and the Warlock-in-abeyance flared at it. The binds on Soairse's Inner Sense were unravelling, slowly easing thier constriction. It would be wise to have her whisperhelm or ghostcirclet in place before stepping out on the town. She wated as Fión laid everything out - her Ladyship would dress herself.

 

Stripping bare, Soairse let go of the memories and scents, the rasp of the fabric a softly scored line in the sand, separating the what is, so that she could become what was, and is to be again. She began to hum the Epic of Asuryan, Canto Four - her favourite - as she trussed herself into the bodyglove and ablative Wraithbone panels to protect her extremities. Fair skin was sheathed under incredibly lightweight mesh armour, a gift from the Master-Artificers of the Dragon-Shrine for her dedication to the Path.

 

Slowly, she strode into the quiet wardrobes of her soul, mind pitching to that place of blood, war and death where all Eldar feared to tread, but did so by necessity. She passed her previous lives, her clothes of the scholar, the servant, the penitent, going back further again, until she saw the helm hanging there, partially illuminated by the glowing, emerald stones about the brow and casque. Stylised with reminisces of the Drake, it blended the personas together, giving an alloy of both.

 

Hands trembling as the waves of psychic power rebounded from that grim, unique faceplate, reeking of death and the slaughter of myriad souls. Soairse could sense them all, their lingering taint. No-one liked to acknowledge it, dismissing the lesser races as nought but chaff and fodder, but even Humans and Orks carried that life-force of a spirit. Nowhere near as grand or complex, nothing as tempting to...

 

She smiled, deprecating.

 

Bionn an fear ciallmar ina thost muai ná bîonn pioc le rá aige. The wise man is silent when he has nothing good to say.

 

Her hands clasped the helm, and as they made contact, all her memories flooded back, the emotions recorded forever in this nigh-indestructible totem. Even shrouded by age and shadows, the tears came for the horror, for the terrible things she had done. Falling to her knees, she pleaded with Isha for forgiveness, to Asuryan for strength, but it was all pointless. The Aeldari Deities were all dead, slaughtered by their Children.

 

She donned the casque, stood, and when the Warlock opened her eyes, she was fully dressed and armoured, sympathetic harmonies resonating from the psychocrystalline Wraithbone, soul-warding armour, in its beautiful golden lustre. She slipped on the latticework vambraces of similar metallic hue, encrusted with green gems and snarling, interweaving dragons and by will, cinched them about her forearms.

 

Fión draped the heavy travelling cloak of deep green over Soarise's radiant scarlet Warlock robes, and passed her the walking staff. No Singing Spear, for she lacked that focus, but the transformation was complete. Thick gauntlets hooked to her leather belt along with her usual pouches and trinkets, an icon of Saim-Hann, a Sigil of The Fire Dragons. The chains of Warding and Witnessing, a delicate spill of Rune-etched miniature medallions, humming with empathic resonance.

 

The Warlock bowed to Fión. 'I go now to destiny. You are Mistress of this hearth in my absence.'

 

Her maid bent nearly double, as was proper, for she was in the presence of a War-seer. 'Asuryan and the Ancestors go with you.'

 

Soairse balanced the warrior, the fire and the dragon in her heart, and so girded, strode forth to meet fate, the beautiful silence of her mind ready.