Avrielle walked with a degree of solemnity that intensified the closer she came to the Shrine. A group of Eldar new on the War Path were leaving at the end of their teaching for the day, spilling out in a sudden burst of chatter as they began to wind down and rest from the work of study. Avrielle scanned the small group - six or seven Eldar - but there were none she knew. One of them, a young man with his long blonde hair tied back in a topknot and a couple of bruises from training already flowering on his bare, muscular arms, smiled widely at her in greeting. "Can I help you, m'lady?" Avrielle looked a little surprised at the unexpected gallantry, but she rallied. "We are looking to speak with Exarch Kalithra," she said, "my cousin, Resthallian, is here - do you study with him?" "I do not, but if you are seeking the Exarch ..." Some little while later, after the off-duty student had been satisfied that the mission was an expedient one, he guided them to a chamber where they could wait to see if she would grant them audience. The interior of the Shrine was pleasantly cool after the warmth outside, tall colonnades of dark, striated marble and polished basalt floors lending a grandeur to the building that matched its gravitas. There were few Eldar to be seen inside, and where the student trod he managed to do so with very little echo. Avrielle's sturdy technician's boots fairly rang on the tiles. "If the Exarch will see you, she will do so here," he said, leading them to a small chamber, "or else she will send word." He took his leave, and Avrielle turned to look around the room. "I've ... never been inside a Shrine of Khaine before ..." The room was plain, two rows of columns supporting a ceiling lost in shadow. The far end of the chamber held two wide marble braziers each with a subdued flame. They flanked a statue of Khaine, four times life size but depicted in a crouching, stealthy attitude. The green stone of the statue was flecked in gold.
[OOC Sorry guys, work is heavy this week, that's all tonight - I am too tired to post more but should be OK tomorrow!]
- Iktomi His ecounter with the Ranger, 'What was his name? Artes. Arter. Artar? Yes, that was it!' Ranger Artar had put Iktomi in a sour mood. Leaving the meeting room, he set out to explore the Craftworld. Iktomi had seen many, but visited very few. He prefered the freedom of the open void, or the peace he felt on the Maiden world with their Exodite cousins. 'Now that's how to live.' He thought. Pulling his orbo-pipe from inside his coat, he pressed the switch and takes a long drag. Loosing himself to the memories under the blue sun. Continuing with his walk he came upon a statue dedicated to the Mother Isha. He stopped to say a quick prayer for her saferty and future freedom from the lord of decay. "I wonder if she thinks about us, while trapped in such a terrible place?" He says aloud, mostly to himself.
The group dispersed at the Warlocks words to gather their thoughts and prepare.Some in duos either knowing themselves priory or finding a potential for friendship or at least healthy comradeship.Morvan kept his counsel,as he walked down the crystal halls of the Lugganath world-being,her halls humming with potent psyhic power and synchrony of the wisest beings this galaxy has ever known.Young Warlock walked down its corridors down to the chamber that was prepared for him few days earlier when he arrived.Morvan was at first taken aback and genuinely surprised at the manner they have welcomed him to Lugganath.He had partly to thank it to the free-willed nature of the lugganthi themselves,as it is to the mercy of his host.Morvan was after all a space beggar. The very thought was lubricious to him and he managed a smile to himself as he passed by a group of Corsairs.It was not far from the truth but it was a tad bit over dramatized,mainly due to the state of his being and emotional condition. He was and is traveling the myraid paths that Morai Heg guides him on.Seeking places of knowledge,places of power and a warm bed to lay his head down.He could be found as an Outcast of sorts...wondering in his self-exile. He will never forget his Craftworld or its legacy,but he will never return to it either. Morvan stood infront of the humble yet beautiful small arch that framed doors to his guestroom.With a gesture of his had over the wraithbone psy-crystal,the matrix recognized his psyhic signature and parted open without a sound.Gently and elegant as only Eldar creations can be and do. The guestroom was almost spartan in its appearance.But appearances can be deceiving,for only a gesture of his hand and a fragment of his will he can summon all the accessories and services he can desire,the psy-matrix of the room recognizing him and delivered his every wish.He didnt expect such welcomness from a Craftworld that has,astute at best,relationship with his own Craftworld.Lugganthi seers didnt ask much questions,they either knew not to do so or they saw something that Jain himself didnt.Either way...he was grateful they didnt. Warlock walked to a small cubicle made of transperent wraithbone and as he approached the cubicle dematerialized revealing inside its geometrically sheltered form a suspended Witchblade,floating between floor and ceiling as if the laws of nature didnt affect it at all.The Warlock blade looked battle-hardened,with many scratches of over its usual pristine blade-form.The pale Warlock liked it better that way,the past must be left behind but not to be shunned or to have its marks erased. Next to it,on the floor lay a white and blue Shuriken pistol.Standard issue.A trusty weapon that knows its capabilities and can be applied on variety of targets. Morvan gripped the leather bound grip of the blade,the rune-markings on it,reckoning its master immediately,singing Morvan`s own residue psyhic power in the greetings of the master.Pale Warlock never liked the blade,or at all any tool of war.But violence and war are a things of neccesity for the survival of the Eldarkin,and sometimes we do things we do not like.Sometimes we do them mostly all the time,until the wielder itself isnt lost to the darker parts of self. Sudden flashback flickered behind Morvan`s eyes and Warlock touched with his free hand the multi-colored stone on his forehead muttering something beneath his breath.He removed the tiara from his head and attached the stone to a small silver chain,wearing it over his neck. Sheating the Witchblade on his back and his trusty pistol on the waist,young Warlock moved to the randevouz spot,his helmet beneath his hand.The guestroom`s doors closed behind him,waiting for another occupant,while the Crone Mother whispered ominously that he will never return to its comfortable crystaline walls.
The statue did not answer the Pirate. But somewhere, on a level so basic as to be almost molecular - primitive, atavistic or ancestral it was hard to say - perhaps all three? - Iktomi felt a connection. The resonant nature of this most primal of Eldar deities, the very mother from which they sprang and half of the divine couple to who they owed their creation touched a chord within him that carried with it a twinge of melancholy, but a hint too of hope for the future. Even if the Mother no longer endures, the Eldar race, her children, carry on. Though every Eldar knew that Isha was gone, there were two schools of thought about this and a scarcely-whispered third. One maintained that Isha had been devoured by the Great Enemy as had all the gods save the Laughing God and Khaine. The other promised a scarcely more palatable fate as a captive of the Father of Disease. Dead, or imprisoned? Neither was much comfort to the lost, which might be how a third story arose ... or it could be true. But who can decide how much to believe when the Children of the Laughing God are telling the tale? The orbo-pipe gurgled a little, the crystal having run out. The statue's stony regard was curiously warm. And the Pirate, having taken his time to contemplate, felt a momentary sense of serenity that did not come from smoking. Almost blessed.
It was the slightest of sounds that betrayed the fact that Avrielle and Krocell were no longer alone. The tiniest sound, yet the Scorpion was sure that it had been deliberate. The lithe form of the Exarch detached herself from Khaine's shadow and moved forward, soundless this time, the segmented helm turning in his direction. The communications technician took an involuntary step backward, partly out of desire to leave the two Scorpions to Aspect business and partly out of apprehension at being so close to one lost on the Path. The Exarch circled the young warrior slowly. Her head tilted slightly, the clicking sound from her mandiblasters interrogative. She paused, then stood up straight, gloved hands reaching up to unlatch her helmet. It came free with a hiss. The face revealed was pale, scarred on one temple and across the high cheekbone on the other side. Focussed amber eyes regarded Krocell, then flickered to Avrielle. Her voice when it came was rich, and well-educated, highborn. "Child of Vaul, please leave us, Aspect business is to come, secrets must be spoken." It was a rare Exarch who maintained enough of a sense of self to speak in anything other than these lilting ritual ways when not teaching the art of war, for they were many. The souls of anything from a handful to dozens of Eldar might throng within their armour, lending their wisdom and skill to the fight. Avrielle bowed respectfully and withdrew from the chamber, indicating that she would wait for Krocell outside with a light touch on his shoulder. The Exarch's attention was now fully on him. "What, then, have you come to our Shrine to seek, Scorpion-brother?"
The two Rangers made their way through the Craftworld, collecting such supplies as the Wandering Ones are likely to need, gathering tales here and there - fragments of far-off conflicts, stories of wondrous discoveries from beyond the veil of stars that obscured the changing Lugganath outer-sky. Artar traded a location of a webway gate with a fellow Outcast, a tall man from Alaitoc with long brown hair, a man with a slightly haunted look. The Ranger had seen many such on the Wayfarer's Path, and no doubt would see many more. But he got a location of his own in return, and a promising lead of another, buried deep within the tangle of webway routes near the Exodite colony of Kathan-direllion. Faenkon - exchanging a small handful of off-world crystallised resins for a new lens for his scope with a one-eyed trader - was quick to pick up what his companion had missed, a red-haired woman in the well-worn clothes of a fellow traveller. This in itself was not strange. What stood out was the way she shepherded her companion, a tall and elegant man in the plain robes of a follower of Construction Science, his white hair held back in many tiny braids. White-hair wanted to stay and touch all of the merchandise, examining the least little bit with delicate fingers. Red-hair wanted to apologise for his over-enthusiasm, but dared not risk giving offence. It was as if the figure was at once her charge and her teacher. Curious, a story there no doubt. Such are the little bits of information a sharp-eyed and -eared Ranger finds. Faenkon stored it away for later in case it became useful. Concluding that they had everything they would need, the two Path-brothers made their way towards the rendezvous. [OOC Of course if you did want to do anything else before then, let me know and I will edit.]
- Iktomi Putting the pipe away, Iktomi smiled for reasons that escaped even himself. The beautifully crafted statue was a testament of her children's love. One couldn't help but smile. 'Hmm, would seem I'm a little low on orbo. Would they even have orbo crystals on a Craftworld like this?' Orbo crystals are the byproduct from the creation of a rare combat stim known as Witchblood. They were small green crystals, that could not be used in injections. It was popular among Corsairs for it's ability to enhance memory recall along with a mild numbing sensation. Some went so far as to claim it gave them visions. This was ridiculous, but anything was possible. "Goodbye Mother Isha, may your wispers reach out ears and bless our voyage. Time to find the market, or in this case the Black Market. The true shrine of the Outcaste, if I do say so myself." As Iktomi went, he noticed the people he passed weren't giving him looks of distain or fear. In fact, most wished him blessings and smiled warmly. 'I could get used to this.' He thought, catching the eyes of a few young maidens. Winking as he passes, earning a giggle from one and the other two's incredulous gasps at their friend's reaction. OOC: who gets my reference?!
