"Get down, then" she said. "And be quiet. Put that cloak to good use." The Pathfinder laid flat on her belly, copying the gesture of the crafty male of grabbing a felled enemy pistol... In case stealth failed. "As soon as they move out, so do we." She whispered.
Kythramil nodded, soundlessly communicating with the nuance of his gesture that he would cover the leftmost side of the alleyway. He lay low, pulling the hood of his long coat over his head, and sighted down the barrel of the fluted pistol using the fallen body as cover. Even though the street was not a long one, he still wished he had his rifle. The scope would have been useful. But the barrel would have been harder to conceal, so perhaps it was just as well. The Wanderer breathed a prayer in memory of long-dead Kurnous, wishing that the Hunter God might hide them with the edge of his plaid as he had hidden himself in mythic times. Stealthy concealment and a true aim - a fine patron for a time such as this. But if not patronage, then his example would have to suffice.
The figures in the twilight paraded right before them, shooting nothing but quick glances in the alleyway's direction. Mutters came with their echoes, they throught the Wanderer was gone. The mercenaries moved out. A heartbeat later, the Commorrite stood and sprinted silently towards the exit of the dead end, turning the opposite direction of the hired guns. "Quick, Wanderer." Though equally claustrophobic alleys, the two reached shortly the wide-open nightlife district of Khai-Dazaar, an imposing series of small plazas flanked by high spires of half-Craftworldian and half-Commorrite design. These streets and their inhabitants were stuck in a never-ending night. Caedessin led the Wanderer through the crowd into a nightclub, tuning to meet his stare through the neon glow of the dance floors and the halls every now and then to see if he was still following... Should his curiosity be as mighty as his eyes gave away, he would follow her shadow as long as needed. A barely perceptible door at the back of the place was given away only by the terminal by its side - it was guarded by no one. The Commorrite placed her hand on such terminal and the door slid upwards. "Here" the woman sighed. Inside the small room there was nothing but a low square table and a low-hanging candelabra. It was a meeting place. The Lacerai sat on the floor before the table, crossing her legs. The gesture looked terribly painful for the leg that wore the Dark Eldar armour plates, but her crimson lips gave nothing away. Upon closer inspection, Caedessin wasn't so young. She still possessed the athletic demeanour of a Lynx on the prowl, but her skin - though not yet wrinkled - possessed the quality of a woman of age: that alabaster firmness. "Please, take a sit, Wanderer." She commenced. She then wove their fingers together and rested her chin upon their crossed form.
Two figures darting from an alleyway. Two stalking, slinking shadows losing themselves in the twilight of the floating world. And though the Ranger found himself wondering - in the pause between breaths or the brief wait as a reveller swayed out of his path - who he had to thank for his escape, he never quite managed to think of a reason not to follow her. In among the spires and fluted columns of the classical architecture he was used to, the Wanderer found hints of the harsh yet still glorious remnants of the old Empire. Darker features that spoke of Commorragh, the city of slavers and pirates and less pleasant individuals. Yet it was said, whispered perhaps, that in the Dark City one could find anything. Kythramil had yet to test that theory. At the moment, he had other leads to follow. They had led him to Khai-Dazaar. What if this woman had her eyes on the very same prize? If she'd wanted the tablets, she could have stabbed him and left him in the alley. Or shot him. Or shouted out to warn any of the many men he'd fought with over the last half hour. The Ranger permitted himself a small smile, shaking his head minutely at his own paranoia. Besides, hadn't he left his Craftworld to make new discoveries? To find new things? He ducked away from a languid beauty with haunted eyes who called to him as he passed. Garish neon and coloured smoke, dancers, the scent of sweat and spilled wine. Clubland was a maze the young Craftworlder would have found hard to navigate, and he followed the stranger like a guiding star. She stopped to open a plain door and slipped inside. Kythramil followed her. At this point, he was more than intrigued - he had to know more. Inside, the room was bare save for a small table and an ornate candelabra. The light was good enough, and she settled on the floor in a coiled pose that left him in no doubt of her ability to rise with sudden and lethal speed. Kythramil elected to kneel, sitting as comfortably as if her were pouring tea for a friend, though in truth his throat was dry and his arm was beginning to throb in dull pain now that the adrenaline of the fight had ebbed away. He glanced over at the elegant rescuer as he spoke. "Thank you for your aid. I am Kythramil. Biel-tan is my home, but I am a star-traveller, as you can see." He set the gun down on the table so that he could work more easily. He shrugged out of the long coat as he spoke, wanting to assess the state of that arm wound. He winced. Deft fingers worked the cloth loose from around the bloodied graze. "Of course, you know the two questions that I'm going to ask you, don't you?" An impish smile lit up his youthful face for a moment, despite the injury. Green eyes tried to read her expression and failed. The lady had an ageless quality to the maturity of her face. Her mode of dress - now that was another mystery. But two questions were what he'd stated and two there would be. He checked that the piece of wraithbone tablet he had just acquired was secure in its pouch before continuing. Kythramil took out a small bottle of salve and a dressing from the pouches on his belt and started to clean the graze, always keeping his attention at least partly on her, out of both respect and curiosity. His tone was serious but polite, somewhat formal, showing his Craftworld upbringing. "Why did you help me, and why have you brought me here?" He paused, though only for a fraction of a second. "Much as I admire your sense of dress, milady, I cannot believe it is just because we share the same taste in coats."
"Kytrhamil... Well first you should allow the healers to attend you, Wanderer." The Pathfinder made an alluring gesture with her hand and two Craftworldians dressed in white came up from the door, quietly bowing to the ranger as if asking if they could tend to him. "Worry not, the personnel in these meeting rooms are trained to forget what they hear upon leaving the stance. One of the many wonders of walking the Path of Service in one such place like Khai-Dazaar." Observing for a moment too long, the cat-like eyes of the Commorrite silently assessed the man - his pain and his demeanour - before replying. "My name is Caedessin Elsyeth Ydranor," she began. The unnecessarily long name spoke of Commorrite royalty. "I fought beside you because it's the Craftworlds' bidding that I help my kin." The woman paused, the silence gave room to think about the contradictions between her obvious Commorrite origin and doing the Craftworlds' will. "The war council of Siam-Hann calls me Master Pathfinder, but I don't consider myself lost enough in the pathless Path to be called so. I am merely a Wanderer passing down the teachings of the original Master." Images and scents of Y'thel the Black Lance came to her mind and she allowed herself to relish in them absently, making yet another awkward pause. She apparently had no issue with doing so. "I brought you here because the threads of Morai Heg have tangled with my whim to create this outcome. At times, great things result from just following your gut... I saw the signs, I answered the call, and here I am." She shrugged, not giving anything away. "There is... Something in that pouch that you value, correct?" She pointed with her finger, her voice void of intent. (OOC: You have no special rules or talents regarding concealing. )
Kythramil took a moment to look at the approaching white-robed Healers before nodding graciously and allowing them to do their work. If the lady had wished him harm, there would be so many more ways to do so, and in any case he too was young on his Path, certainly not prey to the paranoia that often went hand in hand with walking the Way of Danger. He thanked them for their work wordlessly as they retreated, silent and discreet as promised. "A beautiful name," he countered, still not relaxing entirely. If she were working for the Seers, then ... but why would they choose someone from the Dark City? But then again, he had never trodden the Witch Path and knew only vaguely how the runes showed the future, apart from the fact that it was all very tangled and hard to predict. So if she was who she said she was, doing what she said she was doing, what was there to fear? Only the same things he always had to be wary of. Kythramil's expression brightened, the flame of youthful enthusiasm never entirely quenched in his heart. After all, she'd asked him what he held; she hadn't simply knifed him and retrieved it from his corpse. He was sure the average Commorraghan did that sort of thing as a matter of course. Therefore, by that same rather innocent logic, she didn't want to. "If I may say, you do not look old enough to have travelled this Path for long enough to fall upon it," his fingers made the sign of Remembrance of the Mother, Isha, over his waystone for a moment at that thought, "you do not have the weathered look they have. Nor," he paused, fractionally, for her almost unblinking stare did have a quality of experience to it, "are your eyes haunted so. I have spoken with Pathfinders, that has been my privilege, and they always want to discourage one from the mysteries of the Way we have chosen." He sipped at some of the water the Healers had left them, thoughtfully savouring the taste since his recent brush with death. He took a decision. "This? Well, yes, I have been through rather a lot of trouble to get it," he understated, opening the pouch and carefully taking out a small bundle wrapped up in thin silk. Dextrous fingers unwrapped several small pieces of wraithbone tablet, dark with age. The Ranger laid them all out on the table, arranging them just so. Laid out like this, they looked like fragments of a much larger piece. He traced one of the signs for a moment. "They say that when Eldanesh strode out to fight Khaine, he took the final sword that Vaul had made with him to the ill-fated battle. After his death Anaris was passed along the line of his descendents, until Inriam the Young, who ... lost it." How terrible it must be, knowing that one was remembered by history for this, the loss of the greatest treasure of his line! The young Wayfarer always felt a stab of sympathy for poor Inriam. He turned over one of the pieces to show the rune of Eldanesh on the reverse. "We know - that is, we have a name for a location where it was lost: the Sea of Broken Tears. And I think that this tablet, if I could get the rest of it, tells me where that is." He took another sip of the water. "Of course there are many problems with this. The location itself, well, that may be close to or even inside the Eye." He did not want to name the Eye of Terror. "The story may be all a pretty metaphor. Some say that there are many Shards of Anaris, each serving as a potent relic, but that the original sword itself is gone. I disagree. I think that the sword of Eldanesh was lost, exactly as history tells us. Perhaps there are other relics there, maybe there are other things we can being back from those days to help us in our hour of need against the darkness?" "Perhaps ... what some say is true, and I am just a day-dreamer. Maybe so." He flicked a glance at her, as if she might laugh. "But I say, if it was lost, maybe someone can find it?" [OOC No, absolutely none, and he isn't very good at hiding anything except himself in dark corners ]
As Kythramil complimented her, the Commorrite shook her head slowly to brush it off - yet the smile he had inflicted upon her lips wasn't concealable. Oh youth, she said in her mind. Oh ever-forgivable pretentious innocence. "Well thank you, Kythramil" she said, laughing under her breath.
Caedessin's smile faltered. Aye, indeed they always tried to talk you away - and they were right to do so! Walk too far upon the Wandering Path and you may never be able to return to the Craftworlds to live as an equal. Stray too far from their customs, from their way of life, and you become a pariah forever... Not a fate anyone in their right mind would wish upon someone. Then again, there was Y'thel... The tutor who had taken her in when she was being hunted down by her own Kabal, who had shown her the stars with his ever-present melancholy - that shadow behind his smile, that accursed woman he had lost to transience... The Soaring One, Elisafanyr. Some Master Pathfinders were able to show you that a fulfilling life could happen even beyond the reaches of a Craftworld and outside the constrains of an Exodite world. Such had been Y'thel before he too passed away. Kythramil set down his glass, the deaf sound bringing her back from the memories. He spoke again.
Ah, idealism... Heroism and vanity both wrapped and concealed beneath a pair of dreaming eyes. The burden, the blessing. Caedessin thought. A grin was slowly creeping upon her face, and she shortly burst out into laughter. She took her time to relish, without minding that she would probably dishearten or anger young Kythramil. "Oh my child, look at you! All dusty and roughened up, beaten and sore, just to get that old piece of wraithbone that may or may not be a piece of an interstellar map to a legendary location within the Eye of Terror! Priceless!" The Pathfinder stopped, leaning forward to gaze at Kythramil's shifting expression. "Well I believe it is worth having a look" she stated in a mockery of a confidential tone, an enigmatic smile replacing the grin. Suddenly standing, Caedessin began walking around the room, musing. "Tell me, Kythramil, how long ago did you leave your Craftworld? And which were your previous Paths?"
