Kythramil took in the interior of a room that could be called eclectic but was more fittingly described as Minnaloushe. He stared. He couldn't help himself. Everywhere had something either decorating it, stored under or on it; even the ceiling bore evidence of her taste for souvenirs. The floor was carpeted in exotic rugs. There was a scent of flowers in the air. The Wanderer looked up. There was a dragon's skull above the bed, looking down on the place of repose like a guardian of old. A low gasp of amazement excaped him as he looked on, eyes darting here and there, distracted by the sheer profusion. Almost everything he had treasured he had left aboard his Craftworld, along with most of his utilitarian possessions - plain by Craftworld standards, anyway - and the vast majority of his creative works. He hoped to bring back a thousand new memories and experiences to add to that collection, but it couldn't very well travel with him. And despite his family's contention that he had a lot of things, his chambers looked models of spartan acetiscism compared to the cheerful riot of this one. He looked on her collection of music crystals with a sort of mild covetousness that felt as near to jealousy as the young Craftworlder had ever felt. Yet it was not a desire to take these things he experienced, more a wishful longing to have such a wondrous collection of his own. "Wraithbone Maiden," he murmured enviously, tearing his eyes away from the dragon skull. He'd been a follower of the group for a long time, though he thought Matrixhead had their moments - classics like Killed by Heg or Ace of Runes. "Why ruin it?" Minnaloushe asked, interupting his reverie/enviousness. For a moment he didn't know what she meant. "Ruin the-? Oh, the fur." He watched as she smoothed it out over the bed like the barbarous coverlets of some ancient noble. Barbarous, but splendid. Every time he looked at the deep-furred pelt, he could almost feel it against his cheek. Frost motes swirled around him in his imagination, the fur decorating some huge wooden bed in a lofty stone castle. "Personally, I wouldn't," he explained. Though he hadn't spoken of his thoughts, he guessed that he was still not good enough at shielding his body language. "I just thought that it would be traded on at that point, not that you would take it as payment. I think I'd do exactly what you're doing. I'd sleep under it." "I'd feel like Kurnous," he said, reaching down to run a hand over the edge of the fur, "for I'd imagine the Hunter God must have slept under furs like these." Not that he imagined their Father-God to be a barbarian, but the nature of hunted things is to provide such as this: fur, meat, horn, bone, sinew. Kythramil had spent a little time among the Exodites, and he wished for more. Provided, of course, that they had the patience to suffer teaching another Craftworld's wandering son.
"No, I wasn't talking of the fur, Kytrhamil," said the girl as she plumped backwards on the pelt and rolled around a moment to relish in her new crafty acquisition before rolling backwards, long legs over her head, to stand once again. "I meant the surprise! Come - to the Intemperate Phantom's most prized dome of all!" Minnaloushe took Kythramil's hand and pulled him along again, strange her gesture of intimacy. It was as if she knew no restrains, no mental constraints... No practiced modesty. Minnaloushe Aetherios seemed like the kind of girl that would lay on a bed of flowers just because and laugh aloud at the collective transport-platforms. The Life in her eyes was brimming, and her smile was ever-present. Throughout the narrow hallway of the barracks, half serviceable and half baroque, past the open doorways through which musicians, poets and meetings of friends could be seen, the sound and clatter of Eldar in meeting reached the pair of wanderers, donning the air of that golden, cheerful quality of the great Dome balls - except this one had a lot more beats. The two got to an elegant handrail, overviewing the belly of the beast that was the Intemperate Phantom. Beneath was a vision of decadence, class and ecstasy - all in one big, constant celebration where the Fall was but a legend, and everything was permitted. It was the night-cycle in that section of the battleship, and strange lights protruded from the walls, forming Gothic patterns of a myriad of shades. There was a live group of performers - two playing the psychic sitar, one the pulse-percussions and one the ohm bass. There were Eldar dancing, drinking, doing Commorrite drugs. There were also those under the sound-containing veil of inhibitors, making the volume of the music just the adequate to have a conversation. The floor was of crystal, and underneath it exotic creatures - some bigger than a Serpent, swam inside a sizeable and beautifully designed tank. "Welcome to the Intemperate Phantom, Kythramil." Minna's voice said, with a delicate touch upon the wanderer's shoulder - yet upon turning, Kythramil could no longer see his mischievous guide.
"Th-" Kythramil was about to turn to Minnaloushe only to find that, like a forest sprite who leads travellers astray leaving only the scent of flowers, she had vanished. The scene ahead of him was gloriously lit, like a painting of ancient times - unimaginable times to the young Craftworlder. Lacking a guide, he shrugged and stepped down into the dome. He had a feeling that Minna was still there, somewhere nearby, and that he was being watched to see what he might do next. Perhaps for a test; more than likely for her own amusement. The young Wanderer paused. He discovered that he didn't really object to that idea. However, part of his mind was already whirring away at trying to come up with a suitable response, some way to return the favour in good humour ... He looked down at his feet as a serpentine creature swam beneath them, undulating through columns of exotic plants as it chased down a small, glimmering fish. Something dangerous after something shiny, he mused to himself, I wonder which one I get to be here ... He tried not to stare as he stepped in between the revellers, but he knew he'd failed almost immediately. There were so many Eldar here dressed in outlandish fashions, and not all of them were the simple fancies of people relaxing off duty. There were armoured, sleek warriors in tight bodysuits, some decorated with spikes and one looped with chains as if defying a test of strength. Respirators doubled as half-masks, jewelled or inlaid with rare metals. Music thundered from a nearby dancefloor. A woman with a drink in each hand swayed around him, sipping from one and then saluting him with the glass. His stance of greeting brought him an affectionate smile with a hint of indulgent mockery. Kythramil felt a tug on the back of his hair. The long topkot jerked backwards, and he spun around. A sleepy-eyed woman was reclining on a low couch covered with a plush white fur, one hand twined in the fluffy mass, the other ruffling the hair of a man who sat sprawled at her feet. He leaned on one elbow and smiled up at the Ranger, his eyes happily glazed. The scent of some kind of soporific clung to the air around them, and either of them might have snagged his hair like a playful gyrinx. Kythramil twitched his hair back and smoothed it, re-tying the topknot as he walked away. Part of him was acutely aware, given the unknown nature of the crowd, that he shouldn't keep both his hands occupied and away from his weapons. But the ship was under the control of Captain Caedessin. He had no doubt that if she wished the ship to run to a level of freedom, it would do so; and likewise she was equally capable of applying her standard of law. The only question is, he thought as he navigated around a small table of Eldar gambling over the flip and turn of shining crystal wafers, what the good Fae Lacerai considers suitable rules and regulations. He decided that it lay between forbidding outright murder, and declining to be too upset about anyone too stupid not to get themselves in enough trouble to get killed. Kythramil approached one of bar areas and asked for a drink. He was waved away when he tried to pay anything for it, and found that his wine was now decorated with a sugared blossom and some kind of tiny lizard. He thoughtfully released the thumbnail-sixed creature into a patch of plants and vines, and turned around to find a seat. Some Eldar-watching would come in useful before he tried anything else more complicated here. The seat was soft, upholstered in some kind of fine blue-grey hide. "Keep it down, can't you?" A young woman bounced down on the seat next to him, vigorously shaking her head as if to dislodge some thought. "I haven't said anything -" "Pft." She waved her hand, the nails long and decorated with tiny stars. Her hair was a wild magenta cloud, cascading down over her simple black outfit of a vest top and loose-fitting trousers. Red boots were laced up to mid-calf and she tucked them up under her as she sat, reaching across to his drink. "You don't need to say a word. You broadcast your every thought." She snagged the flower from his wine and ate it. "Are you in my mind?" Kythramil was not at all happy with the suggestion. And he'd quite wanted to taste that sugared flower himself. He'd heard stories of the excesses of Pirate crews, and he didn't like what they said about unrestrained psykers. "No, do I look like a Seer to you?" She paused, sugared petal still sticking to her lips. Black tattoos spiralled up and down her arms. "Your body language." "And what does it say?" he enquired, sitting very still. Behind him, just out of sight of anyone he might recognise, he thought he heard familiar laughter. "New boy, out of his depth, wondering when he's about to get into a fight or some kind of situation the Seers warned him about back home." "You ate my flower." It didn't take a skilled reader to interpret the newcomer as being new. "Of course I did." She smiled brightly. "Did you want to experience hallucinations for the next three hours?" "How did you know I didn'-" "You let the lizard go."
The lights overhead lit a dance floor that was both crowded and alive as the sweet cocktail of hormones knit a perfume that beckoned the wandering eyes. Just outside the bubble-like sound inhibiting lounges that floated amidst the big open space dedicated to the dancers, Kythramil could make out Minnaloushe's form swaying wildly. She seemed to be the only dancer in the crowd whose movements were gracious and artistic - if energetic and wild - the rest seemed to move either too cumbersomely or too lustfully... Minnaloushe Aetherios was a tiny halo of innocence moving to her own peculiar song. Her hips moved freely with the rhythm, accentuated by that oversized sweater she wore. Her head banged forth and sideways and in circles as her old combat boots jumped in unison with the rest of the Eldar, whom together created the illusion of a moving tide. But it wasn't Minnaloushe's hips that called to the attention, nor her rather peculiar headbanging or her focused, deep-in-trance expression of closed eyes - it was her hands. In the air, above her head and before her, those hands created Iybraesilean fairytales as her wrists gave in so smoothly... Like making love to the air. The low-pitched organ dropped the beat.
A pair or long and well-built legs approached the lonely balcony that presided over the dance floor, the figure cut in the lights outside. One side of the shadow was of smooth organic curves while the other was of sharp turns and gruesome spikes - it was Caedessin, walking firmly as her ranger cloak blew in the artificial air. A hand of slender fingers donned of a clawed gauntlet seized the hand-carved handrail or the balcony, next to one innocent of such gruesome armour. A sigh escaped blood red lips. Before the dawning of next passing, half these Eldar would be dead.
"Yalda Habut," said the woman beside Kythramil. Her voice diffusing naught because of the sound-inhibiting membrane. "What be your name, wanderer? You've fallen quite low, you know? The Intemperate Phantom is a shame to Saim-Hann, ever since the former captain passed away." The woman wore a proud smile as she went on.
"A shame to Saim-Hann? It doesn't look like a Craftworld vessel to me," Kythramil said easily, taking a sip from the wine now bereft of flower and tiny guardian reptile. It was strong, sweet, like some of the wines his own Craftworld traded from the Exodites. Where a Pirate fleet got its wines was probably not a question he should ask. "I'm Kythramil," he said, offering a hand out of habit, though a small part of him enjoyed the formality of the gesture as one crossing a quivering bog enjoys solid land. He glanced up at the dancers, gyrating, leaping, somersaulting as much as they simply danced. The whole dome was a thunderous carnival, a cavalcade of frantic enjoyment caught on the eve of constant war. "If you had asked me," he murmured, his eye following a bright star who spun and wove through the crowd like a meteor, all silver and shining prismatic hues and pale sweating skin, "shame wouldn't have featured on my list of words to use about this place. No-one up there has any." Despite the sharpness of the comment he didn't sound as if he judged, only observed. The young Wanderer had yet to travel very far, but he was not a fool. "As for falling, wouldn't that suggest a lack of volition?" He smiled, looking at the designs that lined her arms. "Perhaps I mean to be here." "Perhaps you do." "But maybe I am only doing what Rangers do, passing through from point a to point b, strictly and always in transit." "A traveller." She followed his gaze back up to the dance floor, and then turned, her eye caught by a form she knew. "Well, at least that's a better response than "filthy Outcast"," he observed, trying another sip of the wine. "You look like a very clean, very proper Outcast to me." Her eyes weren't on him, and nor was most of her attention. "Oh, I am. You may believe that, for certain." Even if he wanted to blend into the decadence, it wasn't going to work. Curiosity got the better of him and he shifted in his seat so that he could follow the line of her intent stare. Soft cushions invited him to recline, to sprawl at ease, but he wanted to remain alert. Magenta hair spilled over his arm and he politely brushed it aside, as gently as possible. "Minnaloushe," he murmured, recognising the distant dervish, "there you are." "You know her?" Yalda's voice as she turned back to him carried an edge. "Yes?" he offered, wondering which it was this time. "Oh, well, then that explains how you came to be here," she said, smiling once more, and playfully nudging him on the arm. "You must be interesting."
The music dropped it's tempo and the techo-metal sounds slowly gave way to a steady ohm-bass rhythm. Lights dimmed in all the dome except for the balcony, where Caedessin stood like a violent shadow on the wall. "Intemperate ones," she began, her voice was enhanced by nearby sound receptors that relayed her words even past the sound-inhibiting membranes of the lounges. "War calls once more, reaching forth to our hearts - our beating hearts and our boundless wills!" Silence tensed, Minnaloushe stopped her sways and looked up to their leader... Wasn't next deployment going to be a negotiation? "In a passing's time we will be engaging on the mon-keigh - a fleet sizeable and fiercely armed, and we will be facing it on our own" the Fae continued. "I ask you to dance... To drink and to celebrate the very freedom that brought us here - because tonight we are alive!" The crowd cheered, glasses were raised, and even a psycho-sitar played a small riff. "And I bid we celebrate because we are kin - sworn to each other! Because I know I can ask you to lend me your strength! In the crucible of the upcoming battle! I know each of you is willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for the Eldar that stands beside you right now, as I would for each and every one of you!" Caedessin's voice was an all-out scream at this point, and the energy in the crowd was building up. "So party now - with me! Because tomorrow we fight together - and the day after? Only the Heg can tell which of us will be around to drink and dance a day more!" With this, the Fae Lacerai vaulted over the balcony and the whimsical lights resumed their lively onslaught as the musicians played away.
Meanwhile, the Intemperate Phantom began to move, smoothly and delicately as any Eldar vessel - though it quickly picked up speed to near the webway portal. In it's belly, the corsairs of the Phantom celebrated hard with Caedessin, who danced and cheered as if she wasn't their superior at all - she was one with her crew and her crew one with her. Still the time for celebrations was nearing its end, as unknown to these fevered dancers, at the bridge, the Steersmen plotted the route to battle and reviewed the plan suggested by Farseer Aranethyr.
conticuerunt omnes ... Kythramil paused as the crowd fell silent - as one, attention rivetted to the high balcony where the Captain stood in silhouette. And though he could not help but notice the details of that silhouette - both the spikes and the voluptuous marble of her bared form - he knew the tiny, warning sensation at the back of his mind had a place too, reminding him that he was still capable of being alert to possible avenues of danger. The question was, could he also let go and celebrate as she - no, commanded was not the word. While the Fae Lacerai conducted the crowd like a maestro compels the orchestra, she also led them in the swaying bacchanal. Any attempt at putting chains on freedom tonight would be anathema to her design. So he was without any kind of direction as to how much celebration he had to enjoy, and how much letting go he must allow. Competely at odds with his Craftworld upbringing. Just exactly what he had been told to expect from Pirates and being away from the Path. Kythramil thought for a moment, then turned to the Eldar next to him. Yalda was gone. He could just about see her magenta hair as she wove her way through the crowd towards the bar where the drinks came with tiny lizards. "You look very far from home, young one." "Oh, I am," he said, turning at the sound of the voice, soft and deep, sensual and feminine. "No sense in denying that. If Minnaloushe can sense it, I would expect the same of her compatriots." "You're adroit, too." "That's why I am able to enjoy the festivities." "Will you sip, hummingbird, from all the flowers you see, or drink more deeply from just one?" "I suppose that depends on how I hold my nectar." "I wonder if you are as fleet on the battlefield as you are with your words, Craftworlder?" "Didn't you know?" He grinned. "I am a Ranger. We only engage from afar, and then we flit off into the darkness." He swayed up out of his seat and slipped between two passing Eldar, making his way to the dancefloor. "Perhaps I will see you at the flower-festival?"
