<Architect> A psychic pulse interrupted Tharbathel's explanations, and another beckoned both newly arrived rangers the way of the Crystal Seer. "I sense anger, confusion, and trepidation in this Wanderer's mind, Tharbathel." Aranethyr turned to the Anamnialocii Ranger, his eyes veiled by the crimson crystal visors of his helmet. His expression hidden by its pearl mask. "You brought him here through deceitful means..." The Ranger bowed, to the Seer and then to her brother Wanderer. "I apologize, my kin, but... Randir is..." Farseer Aranethyr nodded slowly, reading his sister's clouded thoughts and body language as clear as day. "You trust him to watch your back, you couldn't let go of that trust, of that..." The Seer suppressed the poisonous intent to say that final word. "And now you've forced your brother into a fight that isn't his own." The man in the runic armour turned around. "Send this man back to his Craftworld. We have enough misrepresentation without kidnapping our brothers." A Guardian in the sad-blue armour of Anamnialoc, however, interrupted the Farseer with a very tangible thought. "But Farseer, if we let him go he could be used to learn the location of the Anam - and the Craftworld would find us," the civilian vocalized. "No matter - he has the right to be wherever he wishes," dismissed the Seer.
<Architect> Shearah the Healer had sent the still-unarmoured Warp Spider to the amphitheater, where the Host was assembling. "Good luck, Fate Weaver," she said. Anthiand, as all other Aspects, would don the War-Mask and their ceremonial armours, at the Shrine of the Alqaethir. By the Warp Spider's side there was a man with a black shoulder-length mane that faded subtly into grey. His face was gentle, his features were soft, his structure was delicate... Maybe too much so for a male. Still, he had the constitution of a warrior. If they hadn't been fully armoured back in that fateful day-cycle, Anthiand would have recognized this androgynous stranger as one of the Dire Avengers that fought by his side when they spilled Anamnialocii blood to steal the Anam Alqaethir. "You're back on your feet already, my brother?" The Avenger asked.
<Architect> With an armoured hand on the Wraithbone railing delineating the Amphitheater, an Exodite Warlock gazed into the hangars below. He had found his cause in the rebellion, his strength in the Guardians around - each and every Eldar on this vessel gave a reason to take on arms once more.
Fardir took a moment to take it all in. The psychic presence of their staging was strong. It sang out to him in like music and he felt his body flowing in between it, like a Void stalker through the Webway. Opening his unseen eye, he took his first steps in the path he chose. No turning back now, no leaving, full speed ahead. He knew who to talk to, or at least who the most powerful Psyker was, probably that of a Farseer or maybe a Warlock like himself, waiting to fill such a position. Either way, this figure, not known to him yet, waited there and spoke. Fardir wondered if the Farseer himself had given any attention to his on coming presence. Actually, he would like to think this was all planed and the leader had been waiting for Fardir to arrive. "I believe you are the one I was destined to meet?" the Exodite asked. Standing just meters away from Aranethyr. The sound was almost inaudible, it would take someone of similar or greater power than Fardir to hear his question.
<Randir> Reluctantly Randir let his respect for Farseers as a son of Ulthwe win out as he approached the Seer at the mental beckoning, though it also served to open ground between himself and Tharbathel. Not that it apparently mattered, the renegade Farseer merely speaking to his fellow Wanderer after judging Randir's emotions, before turning his back and issuing an order. "The Damned dance on the edge of the Eye of Terror, and only through the guidance of our Seers do we survive," bowing his head to the man in runic armour, equal parts for reverence, and to collect his conflicted thoughts. "Honoured Farseer, I have no intention of returning to Ulthwe, I haven't been home in many years and will not return unless I find more of Ulthwe's spirit stones, or they call me to war, such is the way of the Outcast." There was the unspoken thought that he was a danger to his Craftworld simply by being on it with Chaos so close and his undisciplined mind, though he had other more pressing concerns to express first. "Nor will I run to Anamnialoc, if you're concerned with that," letting his gaze move from the Crystal Seer to the guardian that had spoken up before addressing the Seer again. "Unless, of course, I find some of their fallen," speaking darkly and venomously "if it's all the same to you, now that an agent of yours has brought me here, I will remain until you find the time to explain to me personally what justifies murdering our Kin. Then I'll make my decision to either remain here or return to the stars." The ranger trying to quell the anger clouding his head, to focus, but not succeeding, "Perhaps after your address," looking around at the gathering Eldar and making a logical assumption, "I wish to judge your actions with a clear mind."
Anthiand turned to the Avenger next to him and he wearily rubs his shoulder. "For better or worse, I certainly seem to atleast be able to walk, thanks to our sisters at Isha's shrine" As Anthiand speaks he runs his hand over the newly healed injuries. " Well our craftworld bretheren certainly put quite a dent in me before we fled. I think our sisters of Isha are worried whether or not they will be able to put me back together next time." As the lift arrives at the amphitheater Anthiand gestures out. "After you my brother, let us here what our Farseer wishes to say"
<Architect> Farseer Aranethyr nodded once again - calmly as the Warlock's inquiries were interrupted by the Ranger... By all means, he had reason to be blunt. And he seemed to have lost polish of the Eldar ways in his Wandering. "I believe you are the one I was destined to meet?" The psychic words of the Exodite Warlock were fresh in Aranethyr's mind. The faceplate of his Ghosthelm now aimed at no one in particular - his lips moved, his voice audible to everyone around but aimed at one in specific. "I believe your true question is whether or not it is here where you'll meet your destiny." The Anamnialocii in the amphitheater all paused, their attention pointed at the Farseer in black. "Your... Fate," he continued. "What is fate, in actuality?" The Seer inquired with a growl, turning around to meet those present. "The poets sing of one, the... Warriors rush to meet it, but now that the gods that wrote it have all but vanished... What is fate but a living, breathing, ever-evolving, ever... Twisting - ever maddening-" the Seer mused on, his voice rash and passionate... Yet, lost. Frustrated in the lack of answers. "...Decision." He finished. "What is fate but the one we choose?" "But Farseer," interrupted the Banshee. "The threads lain before us by the Heg remain." "The moment any living creature makes but a vane decision the fates become altered, Sehnehviir. What - if anything at all - could possibly remain of the Fates of the gods after so many aeons of free will? If you could see them as I do, if you could see how anything - any thought, any step and sigh alone anyone anywhere fancies to draw can change the future..." The Seer paused, feelings around the fingers that the crystal had not claimed yet. "You'd go mad, Poet." There was a silence. The Seer was losing the ability to communicate with mindfulness, to transmit ideas with filters and to say something without generating dread and doubt. "I called you here to this bloodied Stalker, I sent for you across the stars and the Nothing, not because it is your destiny to be here or because there's something for you to find in this rebellion - honor, redemption... A peace of mind or a better way to go down," he said direly, feeling his heartbeat slowing down an unnoticeable tempo within each passing breath and knowing that he still wouldn't find peace. He felt the raging passion in all the Anamnialocii present, all of them had lost something - like the Spider Anthiand or the Avenger Visethiann - in the dire fight against the Kraken. "...Truth is you're here because of my nightmares, my kin." He said slowly. "Because of all the nights that I, as many here present, wasn't able to sleep. Because in those thousand endless nights I would cast my runes and clear my mind of personal emotions, and there it was always... The Megalodon. Kraken reborn, consuming Eldar not yet born, destroying Infinity Circuits, World Spirits, Waystones... Swallowing them whole." The Seer clenched a fist, so hard that the crystals forming up inside crunched quite audibly. "The screams, so easily audible, yet ignored by the Council of my home." After yet another moment of silence, the Seer raised his voice once more. "You are here to answer for those who deafened their ears to the call, you're here to right the wrong of an entire Craftworld... Mine. My beloved..." The Seer cast his gaze to a banner that hung before him, above the Host. It displayed the heraldry of Anamnialoc. "You have boarded a stolen vessel, yes, and if you agree to proceed then you'll be serving under a Seer deemed to be zealous and aged beyond sanity... You will also be banned from ever entering the Craftworld of Anamnialoc and any other Craftworld that supports their claims. "Every man and woman of this crew has chosen exile so they can be here this cycle." The present Guardians, the Banshee and the Dire Avenger nodded solemnly. "As you are well-aware, the Devourer ran rampant across the stars, causing horrendous losses - including the dire... Incident, of Craftworld Iyanden." He continued. "And yes, even though the Iyandenians were victorious, tendrils of the Maw still remain. Craftworld Anamnialoc has decided not to sum our dwindling numbers to the cleanse, a... Decision that I am ashamed of, and that is my calling to fix before I turn to..." Sparing the obvious, the Farseer removed his helmet to reveal a face of once-handsome features framed by long black hair. The crystal had made it's way to one side of his neck. "Whoever decides to stay past this briefing shall become Anamnialoc's blade and the voice of its people, of the ones not licked by indifference and the ones not drenched in fear" the Seer's voice had come out full of passion, and it echoed for a fleeting moment through the battleship.
as the Farseer's words echo across the chamber Anthiand steps forward and his words leap from his mouth, "As always great Farseer you have my arm and my beloved. I cannot speak for the newcomers from other craft world, but all of us who followed you from Anamnialoc would follow you into the Eye of Terror itself regardless of the cost"
Iyanisa listened attentively, though her senses were more highly attuned to the visual spectacle before her. It was no piece of harmless theatre, this, though both the venue and the stage were carefully chosen. She knew that all eyes were on the Farseer, but her Path was not to record only the figureheads of history, but the reactions and feelings of those who served their great purpose. So, keeping Cegorach's Eye trained on the front of the amphitheatre, she glanced both left and right, using her own eyes to see the faces and the stances of those around her in the quick and practiced fashion of the Observer. There was tension here, as might be expected. And anger too, in at least one of the helpers, though she could not tell why. There were rumours and more than rumours of conflict with other Eldar, and darker tales still of deaths at the hands of this renegade's crusade. But it was not in Iyanisa's nature to be satisfied with rumours. She looked to Arathenyr. The Farseer was dramatic, impassioned in his speech. Could he be a dangerous madman? Clearly he had a kind of charisma, or else his psyche was such that his influence spread far and wide even beyond reason. But - as Iyanisa watched him she did not think so. In truth she did not know quite what she thought, not yet. She looked at the tall figure in black once more. He was stiff in his movements, far into the crystal. Such a venerable Farseer should be at home among the domes and towers of his people. Yet such was the strength of feeling in this one's mind, so great his sense of purpose that he had exiled himself from all he once knew. Or - not quite all; some around him were Craftworld-kin, born of the same worldship and now severed from their past. The Chronicler was not of Anamnialoc, but nor was she some compassionless scribe neutrally watching events unfold. When she heard the crack of the crystal beneath his skin, she winced, and the sympathy coloured her aura.
<Arleon Fueros> Perched on a walkway above the amphitheater, a figure, swathed in shadows, listened to the Farseer's speech. Those with eyesight good enough would take in the colorful outfit, the lack of spirit stone, the mask, and realize that this was one of Cegorach's chosen, a Harlequin. Perhaps the mask was the most interesting feature of the entire bright, dazzling outfit, the mask seemingly changed expressions at will, a subtle move of the wearer's head, a tilt in the right direction, could cause the mask to convey a different emotion. The mask had no special properties however, merely the work of master craftsmen, who had constructed it ambiguously on purpose. Alternating colors of red and blue, tied together with a green sash and coupled with the rune of the pierced heart gave this particular Harlequin away as a member of the Masque of the Weeping Dawn. This Farseer gives a good speech, with plenty of promise. This venture has not yet begun and already I grow excited to watch it unfold. Will it enter the halls of legend and become one of our performances? Who knows, so few stories nowadays achieve that legend. But it matters not, Shadowseer Luitasil sent me here to observe, to ensure that the Tyranid Hive Fleet did not make the Farseer's predictions come true, and...most importantly...to avenge the deaths of those who perished on Iyanden. The Harlequin took in the others listening to the Farseer's speech. You can see their emotions plain as day, some are wondering if he is mad, they may very well be right, but the fact is that just because he is mad does not make him right. There are certainly plenty out there who think me and all other Harlequins mad. He shook his head, now was not the time to muse on such thoughts, there would be time for that later, once the action had finished, so for now he would sit back, and observe the stage.
