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 June 11 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.

[Black Cohort]

Ven had found his steps taking him the gardens, a place he had not seen since settling on the craftworld.  Currently he wore simple robes, but he carried himself in a way that any experienced such things would see as that of a warrior, confident in their own abilities.

 

He appeared to be a very average member of his kind, neither tall, nor short, not fat or particularly skinny, not old and not young.  If one paid close attention they could see faint scars on his left cheek.

 

He stood towards the back, listening the ancient farseer speaking, knowing how cautious and hidebound the ruling councils of his kind could be.  He had heard all the arguments about how Eldar lives were too precious to risk unless there was no other choice and that meddling with the other races and the skeins of fate was dangerous.  But he knew the truth, too many of his kind were afraid.  Afraid of She Who Thirsts claiming their soul.  Afraid that the Eldar had lost their place in the proper order of things.  Afraid that even with lives that spanned generations of nearly any other kind, they would still leave things undone.  That fear created more problems than it solved, and problems that festered often cost more to cut out later.  He had walked the wider galaxy and seen the results of their lack of action more than once.

 

So he would act when called upon.  He would have to return to the Shrine and gather his equipment.

[Trokair]

A parade had made its way along a major thoroughfare during the long afternoon, heading for that evenings performance site, its splender and noise now distant and faded. Elsewhere, all along the main walkways of the parkscape small soft guiding lights were beginning to spring to life. The artifice sun dipped towards the horizon towards the stern of the craftworld, ready to rise again tomorrow from the bow and illuminate the habitational levels once more in mimicry of planet bound life rhythms.

 

You however stride in near darkness through the Garden of Found Tranquillity, the tree line that shielded the garden grove’s from the greater parkland catching much of the evening light. These paths are unilluminated and only your passing this way earlier today let you find your way.

 

At the meeting place you see that you are not alone, others had come. Some are dressed in the full apparel of their path, others more reserved. It takes you but a moment to note that the majority are Aspect Warriors of one devotion or another.  It is perhaps unsurprising when you think on it, that those who would answer to such a risk laded calling be the ones who already dealt with mortal risk for their very lives.

 

 

A flicker of psychic flame drew all your attention to one side, where Farseer al-Dram had been waiting for your arrival, sitting under and resting against a side of a tree.

 

“My, what kindness you have all done me, for there are,” here he pauses as he slowly motions as if counting all present, “six more of you then I had hoped would come, and three of you from so far afield if I still see correctly. An honourable act indeed to entertain a risky venture for those who are not even of your home.”

 

He let the flame extinguish while a set of conventional lamps slowly embered into life, a soft glow rising to a near daylight level. To one side a table had been set with food and drink, all in accordance with guest customs.  

 

“Introductions I think, while we wait for one last element to arrive, I am Jalut ibn Harun al-Dram, with whom do I share company this eve?”

[Akylas]

Kelman

An Eldar with long, dark hair holds back among the group. His robes are simple, and his height and build are unremarkable. He fidgets for a time, alternating between patting down his robes and running a hand through his unbound hair. Eventually he seems to come to a decision, stepping forward.

 

"Greetings, honored Farseer. I am Kelman Orach of Iyanden and of the Aspect of the Dark Reaper. I hope I may be of help on this difficult task."

Edited June 15 by Akylas

[Mazer Rackham]

Soairse:

 

At the gentle admission of the Reaper, she gently, and by reflex, caressed the deep emerald Waystone trussed within the rune-lattice protecting her breastbone. A rarity even for the Ghost Warriors, a macabre spectre at this odd feast. Her alabaster helm shifted, blank, black faceplate regarding the long-ranged killer with azure lenses. Recognising the impropriety of her harness, she reached up, and disconnected the helm keeping her thoughts private, tucking it into her elbow, and she looked upon her confederates in this endeavour with flesh eyes, altering stance into neutral.

 

She forced her mind to smooth out, to prevent ripples among her cousins. Being socially reticent was one thing, allowing her kind to wash against the shores of thier consciousness was quite another.

 

As she pivoted at the hip, her drakeskin helmet surveyed the aseembly in mute, snarling witness. Her short bow was formal, but without the edge of distance.

 

'Saim'Soairse Firebright, third daughter and Soulguard of the Third Wildrider Kindred.'

[Trokair]

 

The gentle hum of hover engine slowly grew in volume from nigh imperceptible to unmistakable as a vehicle swooped in over the threes and gently settled into open space of the grove. At first glance you may have thought it a Waveserpent, that ubiquitous transport of Craftworldkind, but as it settles it is apparent that it was smaller, more akin to a Vyper or a Venom class craft, but fully enclosed. It was a cousin of the Hornet, one expanded and adapted to carrying a small cargo, it would hold you all, but it would be a tight and uncomfortable ride.

 

A Figure climbed out of cockpit and jumped down, but did not approach, instead surveying the gathering with a critical eye.

 

“Young Asmicm, it heartens me to see you here, come and meet these fair souls.” Farseer al-Dram called out.

 

A moment of hesitation, perhaps indecision, then the pilot came over.

 

“I am not doing this for you, Crystalbone, I am only here on Khayr-unisa’s request, and I will only take your forlorn flock as far as the gate, I’ll have no more of your fools errant that that.”

 

Turning to the gathered group he continued, not letting the Farseer interrupt, though it is clear to all of you that the Jalut was about to speak.

 

“There are more of you then I was told to expect, but... I think you will all fit. Mind that the Provespa is normally a light cargo hauler, there are no comfy seats for you in there, or other amenities. If you still want to come you have a few minutes. Then I am gone again. And to think I am missing the grand performance for this." He turns away his head shaking, climbing back into the pilots’ copula while a hatch opened to the rear of the craft. 

 

 

This was originally part of Saturday’s scene but I thought leaving space for introductions would be good. Obviously you can still start your next narrative post with an introduction, and have it before the arrival of Asmicim if you want, or perhaps you introduce yourself while he is there.

 

@Akylas, as Kelman Orach has Pilot, if you wanted you could suggest, in whichever way or reason you see fit, to Asmicim that you could pilot the Provespa if he is so reluctant to do so. Can’t say one way or another whether he would agree, but the scene and interaction potential is there if you want it.

 

This coming weekends update will see you depart into the webway, so if there is anything you still want to do in the craftworld say so and we can work it in. The Provespa can make stops along the way to the main webway portal if so needed.

Edited June 17 by Trokair

[A.T.]

Ialandranth Veilseeker

 

An introduction interrupted, though unneeded, for no matter how clouded the fates were this meeting was not unseen. It was simply impolite to note brazenly the choices already made by those yet to make them.

 

This gathering not an organised search but characters in some ill defined act, just as the harlequins put on their masks so each here some part to play. A grand performance indeed.

[Black Cohort]

"I am Venkarryn, once of Alaitoc." Ven said, now dressed in blood red aspect warrior armour.  "I have walked many of the worlds beyond our homes."

[Mike Zulu]

Ialathial:

 

Ialathial had briefly left the Festival to acquire his wargear from his shrine. All the while, the fire of Khaine was kindling within him. Whatever this cause of Farseer al-Dram’s, it was his destiny to play a part. He only hoped that his fellow Avengers would understand his decision.

 

Within the stone-walled sanctum of the Twilight Tempest, Ialathial armoured himself in the navy blue body glove of his shrine. He robed himself again to hide the armour, so to not alarm or alert others on his way back.

 

Next, he retrieved his helm from the wall racking. Like the others stored with it, the helm was sable-black with a bone-white faceplate, with a distinctive plume of alternating red and yellow segments. Embossed on the helm’s forehead was the silver rune of the Avenger. 

 

Ialathial placed it carefully in a large rucksack, along with his disassembled catapult and dorsal rangefinder. Ready to depart, he slung the rucksack’s sling over his shoulder. 

 

He turned to the sanctum’s exit, to find Selleinath standing in the way. As always, the Exarch’s icy expression and piercing green eyes betrayed nothing of his temperament, but it nonetheless made Ialathial uneasy.

 

“I must explain,” He began nervously, struggling to find words to even do such a task. Selleinath raised his hand to silence him. He managed a slight smirk, as if he knew what had transpired at the Festival.

 

“No need to explain, Ialathial-son,” the Exarch stood aside for Ialathial to pass. “The call of Khaine is a mercurial one.”

 

Ialathial smiled back in reply, gripping the sling. “Tell the others. I will return.”

 

+++

 

As the Farseer opened the congregation to introductions, Ialathial ran his eyes across the other volunteers, of whom there were none he recognised. It was a small surprise. Dandrame was not large enough for its Aspect Warriors to be unfamiliar with each other. It quickly became clear that many present were off-Worlders.

 

Ialathial siezed the silence for his own introduction. He placed his fist on his chest, and bowed slightly. “I am Ialathial Duskstrider; child of Dandrame, Dire Avenger of the Twilight Tempest. A kind evening to you, Farseer.”

[Trokair]

“Asmicim...” the word died on Jalut lips as the pilot climbed back aboard his craft. Those of you that had happened to be paying close attention to the Farseer instead of the young pilot will see that pained resignation, it did not matter what Jalut had to say, Asmicim would not have listened.

 

 

Instead the Farseer turned his attention to all of you, now almost a group rather than scattered individuals.

 

“Saim'Soairse Firebright, as one who tread one of the myriad paths of the psyker I have to place this into your care, for you are best placed to make use of it when the time comes.

 

You can all feel the sudden flash chill of great power being drawn from the Immaterium, a frightfully large amount of power judging by the sudden coat of rime and the frantic scuttling of little warpspiders, seeking out the danger to the infinity circuit, only settling into calm at a word from the Farseer.

 

Jalut weaved a complicated multilayered patter into the air, one that defied proper comprehension when looked at too closely. It hung there, changing and yet static.

 

“These are the keys to the wards placed on the webway gate you are journeying to, and these are the cipher to commune with guardians, if they are still there.”

 

As he spoke you all feel the blossoming of a memory of a something in your minds, connected to the pattern still hanging in the air, but its own thing, out of focus, a glanced whisper, a weft of something. A idea comes with the memory, that it will unfold and become clear at the right time, and not before.  

Edited June 18 by Trokair

[Mazer Rackham]

Soairse:

 

The Aeldari mind is of immediacy. It grasps concepts without sluggish, lagging comprehension, as it is percieved - and yet.

 

The wash of power instantly englamoured her Runes. As the micro-crystalline arachnids sought an intruder, her medallions immediately sprung to her defence. Her right palm outsrtrected, fingers spread to feel the infinite wind of psychic imprintation she adjusted her mind to accept it, steering the boat in the sudden swell. It was meant in friendly rote, but the difference between Farseer and Warlock was as a sword to a needle, and so she absorbed slowly, preventing fully immediate suffusion.

 

Power unchecked, laden with such portents could overwhelm - and whilst the secrets were bound in soul-rhymes to flourish into understanding later as moonroses did, to dwell too long would drive her to her knees. It was well she was among the Kin of the Paths. They would be hardened against the spill of psychic, emotional overbleed.

 

The Aeldari mind is one of immediacy, satisfaction guaranteed.

 

The Fall proved that.

 

Webway Runes were not unknown to her, but these were master sigils, of great, binding power, and so she took them to her safest mental fastness, to the temples of her ancestor mind. When needed, she would recall them, let them play through her. Each formed an imprint over the last, plates of glass with a fraction of the true design, shimmering into a cohesive whole, understanding at depth. Not for the surface mind.

 

For the Aeldari mind is immediate.

 

'I have the design, Farseer,' she assured, resting her palm on her Waystone.

 

She cupped and donned her helmet, spiritsight aligning each of the warriors with her in thier aspect as she tasted of their being, awakened by the rune-smithing as flesh was stirred by battle-stimulant.

 

The amethyst shroud of Maugan Ra, a strange spectral wreath of Flames upon the follower of Fuegan, the cool stoicism of Asurmen, and the tiny occuli of the ever-watching  Huntsman Spider. A shadowy figure looming with jaws about the Scorpion. A distant Pheonix Lord, who dwelled in the realm of torment and excess. One day, the Great Scorpion would cast down the old spirit of the Scorpion Father. Not today.

 

Projections there, but not. Alive, but of the shadowrealm.

 

Would that they could see the Eldar soul! The majesty of that forged before the stars fully ripened! Living ghosts but threads snaring them to Waystones, to the Craftworld, each the embodiment of the sigils they wore. To Fate.

 

The vision slowly faded, replaced by the reality of her situation, and realisation this was what she had lacked.

[Akylas]

Kelman

 

The Dire Reaper ponders for a moment before raising his arm towards the pilot to try to get his attention.

 

"Asmicm, honored pilot. May I make a suggestion?"

[Trokair]

For a moment the pilot did not react, continuing instead in working the controls in the cockpit. A second passed, another, and then he leaned over to look out and down to you.

 

“This is no scholar’s room; you can put your hand down.”

 

Asmicim expression shifts, perhaps he had not fully taken in that it was a Reaper who had addressed him, and the jest was now discordant with the solemness normally perceived as being that aspects mood.

 

“If it is about the turning the hold into something more passenger friendly then I am all ears, I had little enough time to try and adapt it this afternoon.”

[Akylas]

Kelman

 

Kelman seems to fail to register the joke, his expression earnest.

"Much as that would be appreciated, I believe it is beyond my abilities. I am able to fly a small voidcraft, however. If you would prefer to try to catch the grand performance, I could fly the Provespa. Assuming it can be spared until our return, that is."

[Trokair]

One eyebrow slightly raised Asmicim takes a good long hard look at the Reaper, then with practised precision and swiftness he hauled himself out of the pilot seat and squeezed into the not really space for a person space at the rear of the cockpit.

 

“Perhaps, but I would need to see you fly first, hop in and let us see how well you handle my darling.”

 

Assuming you accept the challenge please roll three Pilot (AG) test in a sequence. They will have the following modifiers: the first one will be Easy (+30), the second Challenging (0) and the final Hard (-20). Feel free to narrate your flying demonstration and let the rolls shape your narrative. At the end you will be landing back in the clearing to rejoin the other. Asmicim will then decide based on how well you did.

[Akylas]

Target 75. 1st roll 1d100 = 87

Kelman walks up to the voidcraft nonchalantly and pulls himself into the cockpit with the ease of an expert. Then he sees the controls and pauses.

This is nothing at all like the craft I flew in Iyanden.

 

After a pause long enough to concern his for now copilot, the reaper starts at the wraithbone controls. The Eldar craft equivalent of floodlights turn on briefly, before Kelman shuts them down hurriedly. With a judder the craft rises into the air, somehow ending up sideways.

Alright, we're off the ground and not dead yet. Let's get this craft righted.

 

2nd check
Target 45. 2nd roll 1d100 = 68

 

The craft is no longer sideways. It is now upside down. Kelman almost forgets this means he needs to aim down to go up. The craft comes terrifyingly near the ground before he gets it in the right direction, the engines making a screeching sound that would only be natural in a Monkeigh craft. After a few rolls the craft is upright again, more by accident than skill.

 

3rd check

Target 25. 3rd roll 1d100 = 20

 

Some of the onlookers in later years would describe it as unbelievable. Maybe too many piloting errors eventually had to lead to an accidental success. Maybe Khaine did not wish to lose one of his reapers, or Cegorach thought it would be a funny ending to this farce.

 

However it occurred, all agreed on what happened. Kelman brought the craft around a tight curve, and instead of the fiery crash some were coming to expect, brought it into a nice, smooth landing. Kelman spent no time in shutting the Provespa down and leaping down from the cockpit in hopes of alleviating the fury Asmicim might be feeling. He looks up at the pilot sheepishly.

"It might have been a little longer than I thought since I last flew."

Edited June 19 by Akylas

[Trokair]

Asmicim Fellowship test to see if he trusts Kelman with his craft. The plan was that each DoS from your flight would make him more likely to agree, and each DoF less likely.

Fel: 33 + 0(No DoS) – 30(3DoF) = 3

D100: 2! Oh What the! Asmicim what are you thinking?
GM pause while I figure out how to narrate this.

 

---

 

Erm..

 

 

The pilot clambered out of the awkward space had had been in behind the seat. His movements were a lot less sure then when he had moved across his craft earlier, nay he was shaking. In silence he reaches the ground and sat heavily, half collapsing to meet solid surface.

 

“A little?!” from the tone you know that that was rhetorical.

 

He whispers under his breath, some mantra of calm would be the obvious guess, or a pray to his deity of choice.

 

Asmicim stands with sudden composure, then wobbles, still not quite settled, a deep breath, and composure again.  

 

“You may be rusty Kelman Orach of Iyanden, however there is skill buried in there somewhere, else we’d be charred right now, together with a handful of festival goers.”

 

 

 

He turned to stare at Farseer Jalut, shook his head. “Not even Khayr-unisa’s word will suffice.”

 

 

 Asmicim sloley turned and strolled away, calling back over his shoulder before disapering itn oteh darkness of the threes.

 

“Take that Pyrite with you, and not a scratch, you hear, not a scratch on my darling.”

[Akylas]

Kelman

 

Kelman pauses for a moment, shocked. He bows silently to the departing pilot, knowing better than to make a promise he can't keep.

[Mazer Rackham]

Soairse

 

The Wildrider in her heart cheered the Dark Reaper, willing him to ever greater stunts. The rush incited a memory of her first witness of soaring shoals of Windrunners, resplendent in the scarlet of Saim-Hann, howling with almost feral, regressive abandon. How she suddenly longed for a jetbike mount to join the daredevil piloting, as she had when but a stripling of a girl! She almost took an involutary step forward and asked to be whisked about for a turn, but her brain was, as ever, the Lann Caihe.

 

It quenched the mortally perilous idea, also dredging up the noxious embarassment when she'd fallen from her father's own mount during the 147th moot. Not her finest hour. Shaking her head almost imperceptibly at her foolishness, centuries behind her, she preferred the much safer hold of a Falcon.

 

Maybe let Kelman Orach get re-acquainted with his wings, first...

[A.T.]

Ialandranth Veilseeker

 

The vessel spun and twisted in the air unnaturally and without clear goal, yet the pattern was all too familiar. The insect caught in a web struggling and pulling yet drawn inevitably back to its origin, a gentle landing beneath hungry jaws. Asmicims prudence was understandable.

[Trokair]

 “For all is scorn, he has a point, I would rather go with you all.” Jalut was speaking to no one in particular or perhaps all of you at once. The elder got up stiffly. “Time I think to get going, there is little else we can achieve here.”

 

The hold, as advertised was not one for comfort, but Asmicim had done all he could. The cargo strap had been augmented with additional netting and straps so that you could all secure yourself in case of turbulence. Some heavy duty mats and woven blankets would provide some cushioning. An ample supply of water and field rations was also stored into anchored compartments. Lastly you find a fair number of small personal lights, for the hold would be completely dark once closed, with no inbuilt light and no screen or connection to the cockpit.

 

Meanwhile in the cockpit the reaper was refamiliarising himself with the controls, lest his second flight be like the first. However with each passing moment he recalled more of what he had once know. As you explore the cockpit you find inscribed on one side the name Featherflight.    

 

Once everybody was aboard, the hold not quite as cramped with one of you in the cockpit instead, Kelman gently took the Provespa up into the air, and unlike last time it was a gentler ride. While he could have taken a direct route to the grant gate, it was better to get a little more familiar with Featherflight and while most of you had become prepare there was inevitable some small errands that needed to be run, fortuitously giving Kelman plenty of opportunity to get familiar with the craft across a range of terrain, from open parkland to tight cityscapes.  

 

---

 

“I see you Featherflight, your time slot is in approximately 42 minutes, transmitting vector and holding orbit for you now.” Gate Control spoke over a direct channel as you approach, and from the cockpit you can see why the delay was necessary, a Corsair fleet was exiting in a carful procession.  Each large Voidcraft taxiing out of the webway gate and then unfolding the solar sails, smaller escort crafts manoeuvring in groups, spinning about their primary in displays of joy and skill. It is a grand sight.

 

While you had been waiting you may have spotted other small crafts in similar holding patterns ot your own, and now a few of them had begun to break orbit and head for the gate. Eventual, longer than the promised wait, Gate Control was back on the line. “Featherflight, you are clear to proceed.”

 

The closer the Provespa gets the more apparent the immense scale of a grand gate become apparent. In the seconds before you passed through it fills your entire horizon. Once through into the omnidirectional shadowlight of the webway the crafts navigation screen flickers to life with the pre-programmed route. It would be a long flight along increasingly smaller and more obscured branches.

 

 

I know I meant to mention this before, but can’t remember if I actually did, but for this adventure it is assumed that all your helmets incorporate microbeads equivalent so you can all take to each other even if separated and such.  

You can also presume that any equipment, errands or other things you had to do before depart had been done, but do shout if there is anything specific you wanted to do or so.