"Welcome one - welcome all! To this the Forum of Sentience, of Craftworld Ulthwé" a disembodied voice announced. There was a moderate audience gathered around the exquisite waning crescent-shaped stage - most of them historians, as the tale this Harlequin company was about to perform was critical to the recent history of the Eldar race... Yet unknown to the many. Six flamboyant figures shimmered slowly into view, in formation upon the aching stage. A slow and elegant twirl was followed by a quick reverie, as the stage began to change - not only in appearance and in lightning, but also the air, the scents and the temperature had shifted. The ominous ambience surrounding the spectators was now one of paranoia and unnatural winds - where a knife discretely concealed was as common as Haemonculi and Exodite goods. "Our story begins where the journey ends to many, but where many epics are born every cycle - the docks of Khai-Dazaar." The six Harlequins upon the stage shone brightly, and suddenly their figures were not six - but twelve, then twenty-four, then forty-eight, then an entire multitude that danced and interpreted a busy market - the emotions were all heavy as the chemicals the Shadowseer unleashed upon the audience made them feel uncomfortable, rushed... Followed. A single Harlequin began to dance arrhythmic to the rest, slowly sticking out from the crowd. The Harlequin wore a silver mask that reflected confusion, fear, but also a childish-like idealism and a fierce determination - a simple rune shone right above him, it was the Wanderer's stigma. "This is the Song of Kythramil." One of the dancers fell suddenly in the background - a discreet trace of red flying up the air before the Harlequin hit the floor, immobile. Another followed shortly after... Their figures remained where they had fallen as the rest of the company kept dancing - performing solemnly their role as crowd. There was a darkened figure swaying in their midst. "Leave this forum now, all faint of heart." The setting again shifted - this time even gravity itself felt as if in disarray. Slowly but surely, the crowd of dazzling Harlequins were no more figures in a market, but the stars themselves - making the dreaded Death Jester that was felling them represent something infinitely more terrifying and macabre. Several members of the audience fled, their expression drenched in fear. The Harlequin with the Wanderer's sign kept swaying to his own rhythm, in-between the Troupe but in complete disarray... Strangely enough, the only one resembling his routine was the Death Jester herself. Little by little, these two Perfomers drew ever-closer to one another in an intimate, seducing dance - like a star orbiting a black hole, spinning ever-closer in each pass, mesmerized to the point of ignoring it would be consumed completely. So the Song of Kythramil commenced, as the stars fell silent and the galaxy burned on around the young and dreaming Wanderer - who was soon to awaken, to the imposing calls of Fate.
Kythramil felt as if is lungs would burst. Drawing in ragged breaths he sprinted to the cover of a half-burned-out unit, the oil-stained floor slick beneath his feet. Up ahead, the sounds of the market were stronger again - the hoarse cries of merchants from a hundred worlds, the screech and rattle of containers being unshipped and loaded. There was a smell of smoke in the air over the omnipresent scent of oil and stale foodstuffs. He could detect the subtle trace of cordite and the nuance of burned flesh. He risked a glance over his shoulder. Two men were moving through the crowd, thick leather coats and sigil-decorated visors marking them out as mercenaries in service to one of the lesser Kabals who preyed upon the unwary around the edges of Khai-Dazaar like sharks circling the margins of a reef. He checked his shuriken pistol. The last core was nearly spent. With a muttered oath to Khaine, he drew a dagger and crouched back further into his hiding place. It smelled of decay and old blood. The long rifle on his back was out of charge. Even the resilient technology of this gift from the Seers had run out at last, the victim of a desperate shoot-out as he'd boarded the shuttle that had brought him here, away from the muddied fields of Ghanrexon. That mud still plastered the hem of his long coat and high boots. Mud had covered everything on that forsaken world. Kythramil shifted uneasily, drawing back further, slowing his breathing as much as he could. If one of the mercenaries strayed too close, he could stab him with the knife while a quick burst would finish the other. He tensed, waiting, watching. One quick flight of silver stars was all he had left. He was on his feet in the split second before the shot from the third mercenary hit, ricocheting off the metal casing above his head in a shower of sparks. Shuriken studded the falling corpse. Kythramil turned to run. His boots skidded on the industrial waste and he rolled into the fall, coming up with the dagger in his hand. Shouted curses and snapped orders filled the air. He scrambled up the narrow partition dividing the unloading bay from the busy market street, tumbling over to land on his feet and sprint. There were more shots behind him. One punctured his coat, and the white-hot trace of pain flared along his arm. Cursing, he dropped the dagger and kept running. Some of the more flighty shoppers were screaming, and the sound of gunfire was answered by the high-pitched whine of laser fire. It never hurt to have quick-thinking bodyguards in a place like this. Could he join one of the little souvenir-hunting groups and pretend to be under their aegis? A glance at the mirrored side of a clothes-merchant's complex showed a tall, athletic figure in the shifting hues of a cameleoline coat, high boots stained with mud, brown-green bodysuit likewise, long brown hair swept up into a tall topknot. His sharply handsome face wore a distracted, hunted look. Even without the oval gem shining on his breast he was unmistakably Eladrith. Equally, he was all too plainly a scruffy Outcast, not one to be found among genteel folk. Sounds of pursuit seemed to have died down and he listened, halting in a doorway, eyes scanning the crowd. He saw a tall woman in dark armour talking to a man in a leather coat. Something small and glittering changed hands. She pointed. Kythramil broke into a run. He leapt over a small barricade and ran along the top of the adjoining fence lightly, knowing he presented the perfect skyline target. Adrenaline surged. He jumped for the top of a moving conveyer and caught it with one hand, feeling desperately vulnerable. He swung himself up just as it changed direction, bringing him back over the mercenary force with almost leisurely speed. The Ranger ducked behind a wooden crate. Splinters flew off it, drawing a perfect line of red across one cheek. He scanned the alleyways and winding streets below in desperation. The conveyer was entering a hatch, too small for his crouched form and too close. To the left? To the right? Sounds of excited chatter and languid bargaining and distant music filled the artisans' quarter below. The alleyways became winding streets, decorated awnings, rich and gaudy patrons. Perhaps as likely to view his flight as entertainment as to help. Gears ground on the conveyer and he jumped, hoping that Morai-Heg had not snipped her shears just yet. Kythramil ran down the street Fate had chosen, hearing the sound of heavy boots behind him. He tried to remember the brief glimpse he'd had from above. He jinked left, but the turning brought him into a cul-de-sac, flanked with small balconies high up on three sides, but unmistakably a dead end. He looked around wildly. No doors; no windows. Only the upper story openings, looking for all the world now like the best seats in an arena. He drew his last dagger from his boot and prepared to make it a fight to the death.
Purple. It was always purple for these traders from the west. A hand of slender fingers sorted through the merchandise of a clothier claiming to be the next Argen'Re of Aliatoc, yet his designs were so over-the-top that the Pathfinder couldn't see herself wearing any. She had a deal to make with a flamboyant Rogue Trader, however, and the Seers-for-hire of Khai-Dazaar had told her "dress to impress". Screams, havoc, and the unmistakable sound of shuriken pistols and splinter weaponry having an argument with one another made the Wanderer crouch and roll into cover - an instinctive response. The wall she had chosen was of a material similar to glass which was see-through on one side but reflecting in the other, working in her advantage. And then he came into view. A man of brown hair and ranger gear ran past the window, oblivious that there was someone on the other side observing - someone at arm's reach. Caedessin tried to evaluate if this man was a threat or the threatened, but he was gone a heartbeat too soon, leaving only a drop of blood on the oily floor. The Pathfinder stared at the red dot that laid there static, reflecting the neon lights of the alley until a boot crushed it underneath. Caedessin raised her eyes to see only the backs of two other men that were chasing the ranger, and shocked she realized that patterns on their hide-made jackets resembled that figure - something familiar that spoke directly to her Soul. The time of Fates was upon her, as the call of Destiny had reached upon listening ears.
The Pathfinder vaulted over the small display that delimited the clothes shop and sprinted behind the mercenaries. The area was small, yet to the experienced it was full of opportunities to outmanoeuvre - Caedessin used a small wall as a stepping stone and leaped higher, using the wall right next to her to run a couple of meters past a rack of merchandise that was in her way. Turning left, the Pathfinder saw an opportunity to seize a higher ground that would - with a little luck - oversee upon the entire chase, and so without slowing down Caedessin used a plasteel crate to jump up into a balcony and then to the neighbouring one, running perpendicular to the mercenaries' direction. Caedessin then wall-ran higher to catch the balcony one floor above her and then the next until she had reached the corner of the building. The slender figure of the ranger turned left in unison with her several stories below... Into a dead end. The master Pathfinder drew out hew long rifle, and used the balcony as her sniper's nest.
Kythramil scoured the small area for anything that might assist him. Nothing. He cursed. The ground was damp, patches of oil and rust showing here and there on what was once expensive stone tiling. This part of the merchants' district was not as fine nor as rich as it once was, but the buildings around him had once been very well constructed. No doubt that would be why the walls were so smooth. He switched the dagger to his good hand - the left ached fiercely from the shot that had grazed his arm - and scanned the entrance. Creeping forward, the Ranger drew his coat around him to make the best use of its camouflaging power. No sign of his pursuers yet. Maybe if he were to sprint out with enough speed - He ducked back against the wall as the first of the men ran into the blind alley, slowing to a jog. Looking around wildly, he missed the concealed Wanderer until just too late. Kythramil thrust the dagger into the gap between his enemy's leather coat and visored helm. A choked cry, a spurt of crimson and he fell to the floor. The Ranger just had time to snatch back the dagger as the second of his pursuers rounded the dead end. A credit to his employers, the man did not slow. He hurdled the cooling body and launched himself straight at Kythramil, roaring a challenge. The Ranger narrowly avoided his swing, ducking under it and kicking him hard just below the knee. The man grunted in pain, buckling slightly but not falling. He still had a pistol in one hand. The other grabbed a handful of the sometime Outcast's long coat. Kythramil dispensed with propriety and headbutted him squarely on the nose. In the back of his mind, far removed from his immediate peril, a tiny part of him could hear the Seers' disapproval. He had to keep this up close and personal. The brute's blood was up, but as soon as he realised that he could manoeuvre to get a shot in with the handgun, it would be very grim for the man from Biel-tan. Kythramil struggled to break the hold on his coat, trying to wriggle free of it like an eel. Though dazed, his opponent was heavier and the wound in his arm was taxing his strength. He stabbed with the dagger, but caught a solid plate on the chest of the leather coat. He drove his knee up towards the man's stomach, but only managed to hit his muscular thigh instead. Kythramil's green eyes widened: over the mercenary's sloping shoulder he could see the rushing forms of two more.
A whisper flew past the face of the Wanderer, missing him barely. Then the grip upon him went flaccid. Kythramil could see a delicate black dot where Caedessin's projectile had entered the face of his opponent, letting out a delicate lace of blood. A thud - the sound of equipment landing nimbly - was heard between the ranger and the rest of his pursuers, and upon lifting his gaze Kythamil could see a woman in a cammo cloack similar to his. The motion of the fall, however, revealed what she wore underneath such garment... And it wasn't encouraging. The tall and unnaturally pale Eldar was clad in a tight Wychsuit, wearing plates of silver armour only on the right side of her body to maintain maximum mobility. The design of these plates were dreadfully Commorrite. The mercenaries came to a stop, giving a second for the ranger to recover his breath. "So this is what became of The Drowned Lament? A filthy lot of wayfarer stalkers?" The female before Kythamil asked. She had long black hair and dark jade eyes, which accentuated the paleness of her skin and the feeling of her being a ghostly apparition. "Fae Lacerai," said one of the bounty hunters, rage evident in his eyes. "You took everything away from us! The glory of our golden dripping thorns!" He snarled. Caedessin smiled, parting her cloak to reveal a couple of Razorflails that hung grimly from her hips. "I will give you an opportunity to run. Ignore it, and you'll-" A sudden shot silenced the Pathfinder's discourse, and the plate above her right arm suffered a glancing hit from one of the mercenaries' splinter pistol. "Get down!" She yelled to the ranger, sprinting forth with both her whip-swords unleashed, weaving nightmares in the air. The Pathfinder used the wall by her side to somersault sideways in an attempt not to bet hit while she closed the gap, her right side always facing the enemy.
With a death as sudden as it was complete, Kythramil's opponent was a corpse lying in the oil-slicked street and he was free to act. Reflexively, he spun to one side, yet he was paralysed for a moment by the sight of the apparition who had descended as from the skies to help him. She wore the long coat of a Ranger, yet the white-haired fury that strode forth had the silver armour and bare flesh of someone much more at home in the whispered tales of the Dark City. Her eyes were pale, silvery in the light of the dead end alley. Were it not for the surety with which she challenged the men, she might have been taken for some phantom conjured by his tired mind. But she had taken out his opponent with a deadly shot and (for now, at least) saved his life, which kindness even the best of hallucinations couldn't match. Kythramil was not disposed to argue. He crouched down close to the fallen body. There ought to be a pistol he could use to defend himself. With a balletic leap, the woman leapt forward and hit the wall beside her at an angle, using it to facilitate her motion and carry her over the reach of her opponent. She was blindingly fast, twin whip-swords a mere blur in the air around her. A steel web to catch her opponents. They knew her name, though Kythramil had no idea what made his enemies hers. He was just glad of the assistance. His scrabbling hands found a gun, but the form of the pistol was alien. The smooth barrel was interrupted by hooks and spiked decorations, so that it looked more like some exotic spiny bloom than a weapon of death. Nonetheless, it had served well enough to wound him. The Ranger took aim at the combat in front of him, wincing as the shallow graze stung, but it was numbed by adrenaline. He steadied his aim. He did not want to hit the exotic beauty who danced her dance of death before him. Grimly, the only cover provided to him in the bare cul-de-sac was the body. Kythramil had to lie flat, shrouded in his dark coat. If the fools engaged with the lady lived long enough for him to fire, at least he would be well placed to shoot at their feet. Which, given the aerial pirouette and strike of the Fae Lacerai, was about the only area he could safely shoot. Sometimes the blessings of Khaine fell in strange ways. He felt a fleeting half-smile tug at his mouth as he sighted down the barrel and pulled the trigger.
Caedessin reached her first victim at the end of a well-executed leap forth, her left Razorblade tensed into a toothy sword which then slashed at the man's right arm – it came off swiftly. The tiny vibrations caused by each of the diamond-hard edges of the blade meeting the resistance of his flesh and bones - then overcoming it - was a pleasure she no longer relished on. Swiftly, the Fae Lacerai ducked and spun around her heel, successfully avoiding a potential head-shot. Her right Razonblade kept in whip form came around her next victim's legs, wrapping them in a brutally painful embrace. She then pulled gently but skilfully, and her weapon reacted with a massive grip that torn the enemy's legs to shreds. A reflex, and the familiar sound of splinters being fired made the bloody dancer turn. To her side knelt a mercenary with one such round inside his thigh, sticking out gorily. Caedessin also noticed that another splinter skilfully knocked off the man's weapon. “Damn you!” He yelled. The Lacerai turned to the ingenuously-covered ranger, who had upon his lips a daring pleased smile. “Au revoir” said the Wanderer, finishing his target with a good shot to the throat. Boots echoed through the alley as the shadows of another three mercenaries were projected against the wall – their figures just around the corner. “Flee or fight, your call” said the Dark Eldar, going aground and covering her figure with the cammo cloack.
Kythramil took the final shot, ending the life of his assailant with a murmured "Au revoir". He exhaled, glad for a moment simply to be alive as adrenaline thundered through his system. Turning to look up at the bloodied form of his rescuer, Kythramil's gaze was riveted to her own for a moment that stretched beyond the time it took the glance to pass. She was a tall, lithe figure graced in silver and covered, with a swirl of her arm, in the shadowed cloak of the Ranger. Like clouds covering the moon. He did not know his saviour, yet she wore the uniform of his Path, at least in part. Who drops from the sky to save a man in desperate straits in times like these? And who does that in the costume of a Wych? Certainly the citizens of Commorragh were known to dissemble - and to enjoy playing with their victims. But something - call it nobility, or naivete - in the Ranger refused to fall prey to such suspicious doubts. It would be to throw the gift of his life back at her if he were to quibble over such trivial details as some kind of Outcast dress code. Moreover, the young Craftworlder was a practical man, and one in the middle of a potential fight to the death. Literally, in his case, bringing a knife to a gun fight. He jumped back to his feet and nodded in the direction of the street where three more shadows threatened to bring more enemies to them at any moment. Outside, the sound of shots has brought a frisson of panic and danger to the crowding merchants' quarter, but even the distraction of fractious citizens would not delay his pursuers long. Kythramil took a decision. "If you know away out of here, milady, please lead on." He paused, taking a moment to catch her silver eyes once more, and bowed. "My thanks to you, for keeping me from the Mother's Tear this day." One eye on the entrance, he prepared to move, and quickly, though he did not yet know the way.
