The Mymearan Hunter crossed his arms and nodded in silent agreement. Words did mean nothing, but the deed of stealing this vessel and the fact that the farseer is close to the end of his life, convinced the Crimson Hunter. It may be in despair and it may seem almost like only a Mon'keigh would do such things. But the Great Devourer had to be stopped, no matter the cost.
Liriasol listened to the Farseer's speech, and it moved him more than he allowed to show. He had been unable to help at the seige of Iyanden - being too far across the tangle of the vast webway to make it even to the end of the fight - and he regretted that he had not been able to add his own rifle to the war effort. The memory of his desperate race to try was as frustrating as it had been futile. Now ... well, what was the venerable Seer promising? A life of exile did not often come to those on the Witch Path, and so he must be a believer indeed in the rightness of his cause. Liriasol was wary of a true believer; he did not like the scent zealotry left in the air. Too much like burning. This, though ... no, it did not seem the same to him. There was a light in the old Eldar's eyes, but it was not the gleam of the fanatic. Forbidden to visit a world he had never planned to anyway? Liriasol could deal with that. The distrust of his peers? Well, he was a Ranger, on a Path that some already called Outcast. He didn't care too much about any further slurs to his reputation. Anyway, the voice of his conscience whispered in the back of his mind, there was a chance here to make a difference to his race. And not only this; a stolen ship, a renegade Seer, a motley band of warriors ... whatever happened next would surely not be dull. He raised his hand, affecting a vague interest instead of the beginnings of the adrenaline surge he was feeling. Not half as much, apparently, as that perky Warp Spider girl, but he was more than slightly intrigued. And they'd be needing a scout. "I'm in."
<Redren> Well that was most certainly unexpected but not entirely unwelcome. "I suppose I'd be a shame to my Craftworld if I didn't embrace such a chance when others far tamer than ourselves would. You have my talons at your disposal. Every teaching the Shrine of the Burning Feather has graced upon me shall be at your beck and call. " <Desek> For a long period of time the Warlock simply stood there, mouth ever so slightly agape with an expression of a man entirely perplexed. Only once the others had spoken up would he make his thoughts known. "Farseer. Perhaps it is not my place to question your wisdom, for one so lost as you could trace the threads of fate many times easier than I but..." Stopping himself he plotted his next trek through the oratory mine field that may or may not lie ahead. "I find your determination admirable if a touch selfish despite your goal.But...do you grasp the sheer magnitude of what you face? I have seen at hand everything you would bring us up against. One of the greatest calamities of this age, I have faced it and survived through some quirk of fate even I don't fully understand. Before I pledge myself to this endeavor, do you truly think you've any chance at facing this Farseer?"
<Unknown Farseer> "I thank your passion, sister - and your support, for those who gave it at first hand. It is often innocent to do such a thing, and often does it lead to disaster... Though we are Eldar, and as the superior kind of this galaxy, we cannot live in distrust of one another." Turning to the fateful Iyandenian, the Seer approached him - speaking to his eyes and his alone. "I know you and I know your story, warlock... I cannot say more, if I speak of the possible futures whispered unto me by the threads of Morai Heg, I would sever them. You know this. All I can say is that I've followed your thread for longer than you can imagine." He paused, taking a step back and directing his next words to the rest. "This host will not be engaging on the devourer directly, Desek. What good is a single battleship and a handful of warriors against such a threat? We will instead make unwilling and unsuspecting allies, and they will fight in lieu of my craftworld - bleed, in the name of the Eldar race... Whether they know it or not." The seer's eyes darkened at the thought.
<Desek> Tipping his head back with hooded eyes Desek pondered the words. After a brief time a mask of mixed feelings overtook him, hints of resignation, regret, determination, fear and perhaps a hint of anger were encompassed in his stare and smooth features. "Then I shall play my part Farseer, for those lost and those who yet may live by our actions. "
Rharijem Keredayl did not move an inch as if he became a statue. The task was clear, the possible fate was clear, the means were clear. His will and body alike were ready to fulfill the upcoming tasks and he would simply stand there and wait until his orders were as clear as the scenario.
<Architect> A slender unarmoured female approached the gathering. "Farseer Aranethyr, we've got the Vent Iladre on the holocaster." "Display," commanded the Farseer. The figure that appeared now in the middle of the amphitheatre was that of a woman sitting unceremoniously on a throne-like command seat. Her hair was a multitude of greys, silvers and whites, and her body seemed covered by a wytch suit - half in a black skin-tight bodysuit, half clad in silver spiky plates. A cammo cloak was lazily splayed over her shoulders. "Farseer Aranethyr, you've been a very naughty boy..." The golden eyes of the obvious Commorraghan lit up in joy, her smile curled up like that of a mad lynx.
<Architect> The Farseer did not respond to the woman, did not even look at the hologram. "Have you brought what I asked of you?" He asked. "A fully-armed fleet able to decimate a heavily-guarded Imperial convo?" The woman replied. "Why yes - yes I have." Shimmering into view around the Anam Alqatheir, an entire fleet of corsair vessels lowered their stealth fields. Their colours were mostly black, though accentuated by a bloody red, and their designs were both Commorraghan and otherwise. "Excellent" the Farseer sentenced, then turned to the Crimson Hunter. "Mymearan, I hope you found your new craft suiting?" He asked. "It is time to ride."
The Myemaran simply bowed. "Objectives?" He asked simple to clarify his role in this endeavor. He shall not fail any farseer, no matter where they hail from. For the man is determined to perform his duty and rain upon the enemy with any means to his disposal.
