"Well, I don't think you can call me a child- " he began, cut off by her laughter. Probably to the graceful stranger he did seem like a child, given all the things she'd doubtless seen and the experience showing in her beautiful, worldly face. It was a little hurtful, though, to be laughed at. The young Ranger steeled himself. If he was on the Way of Danger, a few harsh words wouldn't be the worst he would face. Indeed, they already paled by comparison with the laser burns and bullet wounds he'd suffered even to get this far. He was lucky that Eldar skin - especially youthful Eldar skin - is so hard to scar.

"It's all right," he said, with a small shrug, "you don't have to believe me or tolerate my 'foolish fancies'. I know how it looks to other people." His tone softened. Something else he knew was that the jaded and cynical did not want to be told that they were jaded and cynical. "I don't need you to agree that what I am doing has merit, although of course I would welcome that. I didn't start out on this Path to get the approval of others." He smiled, his tone level. "If I wanted that, maybe something other than the Way of the Outcast, hmm?" The smile broadened into a grin.

"Of course I haven't been away long, as you can probably tell. I miss it sometimes, at night, the feeling you get from the Infinity Circuit, not touching, but always close ..." Now he really did sound like a baby. He straightened up a bit and carried on, trying to appear at least somewhat more travelled. "Which is good, because it grounds me and keeps me focussed on why I am travelling."

"The first Path I took was the Infinity Matrix technician. I studied working with souls, understanding how they moved within the Matrix, how they might assist in the Circuits and join and leave the devices that we use. I - didn't get to spend very long working with the honoured dead," he looked a little saddened at the lost opportunity, "which I regret, because they had so much to tell ... but the Seers told me I must move Paths. They said I was too bright. I don't think they meant that I was too great an intellect. More that - well, that it was time to move on." He was aware of talking too much, of words spilling out because it was some time since he'd spoken to another Eldar. And it is poor form to talk too much about oneself, when one is raised in the ways of the Craftworlds.

"Next I took some time on the Path of the Bonesinger, just enough to give me the basic skills, because I knew I would need it if I travelled. I knew I had to take the Path of the Ranger to do what I wanted to do, so it seemed sensible to prepare. That's why I followed it with the Path of the Loremaster, but to be honest I - well, I hadn't the patience to stay inside, reading, when I could be outside, finding."

He smiled again, though this time partly at himself. "And so here I am. And here you are. A Princess if the name tells me right. " Was she really from the Dark City?

"You should be careful though," he added, his wide eyes sparkling with a hint of teasing, like the youth he was, "I am sure you know of the wisdom of Cegorach: "Now I have power over you, for I have made you laugh.""


[OOC the wisdom of Fools ]

The Pathfinder had listened to Kythramil's reply with a smile leftover from her laughter. The man was steely, aware, well-educated in the ways of socializing... His Craftworld life still showed from beneath his skin - and he knew it - and that was the best part of him, he did not care.
"Consider me warned" she said comically, allowing herself another laughter at the witty comment of the ranger.
"I do not believe you naïve, Kythramil. In fact I may know a troupe of Harlequins that can help you get inside the Eye itself - so you can search for your destiny there. I only think you're not ready for such journey - not yet."

Walking slowly around the table, Caedessin came close to Kythramil, looking him in the eye.
"My flagship is in need of repairs. I've got a team of Bonesingers working on it, but you should lend a hand. After that we are sailing to meet some mon-keigh and get a deal underway - I could use your blaster there as well."
Pausing for a second, the look in the eyes of the Commorraghan made it clear, she was inviting him.
"You might learn a thing or two if you come along. Embrace Morai Heg's knot here and be rewarded with the coming of your destiny - or waste such exquisitely laid-out chance and face the consequences, either way 'we are shaped by the Fates just as we shape them'." She quoted.

The Pathfinder turned to leave the room behind.
"Dock of the Shattered Ice Breeze, ask for the Vent Iladre" she said as she moved out, but as the crowd engulfed her, she turned to ask one more thing of the Wanderer.
"Do avoid trouble on your way there, Kythramil."

Kythramil rose and looked to his rescuer. There was something of the thread of Destiny about this, right enough; the air crackled with it, the subtle psychic senses lying unawakened within him - for the most part - feeling the nexus a tingle on his skin. Fate sketched a mocking bow and held out a hand. The Wanderer could not resist taking it to join the dance.

"I will be there. As for trouble - all I can say is that I will try my best to stop it from finding me." But is such not the way of the Ranger in any case? He smiled, and bowed slightly. When he looked up, the elusive Commorraghan was already leaving, the half-seen flicker of her cameleoline coat around the door-frame the only sign that she was ever there.

He gathered up the small wraithbone fragments, a dream made tangible, small pieces polished by age. He wrapped them neatly. He took out a seamer from a utility pouch, the small cloth-bonding device humming faintly as he pressed the rune on its side. Neatly, he re-knit the torn and burned cloth of his garments, small threads extruding from it to match the colours. He shook it. Half-empty, but still with enough life left in it to be useful. All the while his slender fingers worked, his thoughts were racing.

He knew this was dangerous. He wouldn't be much of an exponent of the Way of Danger if he avoided it because of that. The Ranger knew something of the risks involved, but also suspected that perhaps he could not grasp the seriousness of them as he now was. Armoured by youth, protected from being crushed out of the idea by realism, he would take this chance precisely because he would not fully accept that what he wished to do was impossible. And, even with the dim cognizance of the fact that it was so, the dawning of even that much knowledge was drowned out by the rising tide of what he slowly came to realise was excitement. For all the nobility of his purpose, Kythramil felt himself grinning, eager for the chance to embrace the unknown and sail among the stars.

He took a last look and left the room of the Healers, threading his way through the labyrinth of the pleasure-dens and out through the edge of the district. Jumping onto a public transport, he passed three stops and changed to another going in the opposite direction. One cannot be too careful; but he was too impatient to continue the ruse for long, and headed straight for the docks afterward.

The Dock of the Shattered Ice Breeze was not hard to find. The more difficult thing was getting past the forbidding port guards, less a police force than a private army, that graced the upmarket sector with their heavily-armed presence. Luckily he apparently looked less like a slightly scruffy vagabond than he looked like one of the crew of the ships already in port, so he was allowed to pass. Or perhaps Eldar really did all look alike to unobservant Humans.

He stopped a tall, aristocratic-looking soldier with her hair in a tall topknot and politely enquired where he might find the Vent Iladre. She turned, and pointed a single finger at the ship berthed behind her. He nodded his thanks.

Like a splinter of black ice, the sleek lines of the vessel dominated the bay. He sought out the sound he was searching for amid the noise and bustle, the high, almost discordant tones that called forth semiliving matter in strange harmonies. Then, following that wordless song, Kythramil went to report to the Bonesingers.

The imposing red hull of the battleship stood before the insignificant figure of the ranger, contrasting heavily with the darkness of space and the stars beyond. Around him, on the dock, there were Corsairs and Rangers moving busily around, some carrying supplies to and from the ship, some bidding farewell to lovers...

Walking up to the outwards-service grav-lift, the Corsair found the Bonesingers. They let him on to a platform, which was swiftly propelled up several floors. Beside him was a single female Bonesinger of black untamed hair and a tattoo of the Serpent which sat delicately upon her right cheekbone.
The young woman seemed startled by the sudden swift motion and the lack of security handles.
Kythramil and her arrived to a hole with the diameter of a Wraithlord.

"Kythramil, correct? I am Minnaloushe" started the Singer. "I've brought an extra set of channelling antlers and a sceptre for you." Said this, the Singer knelt to open a small wraithbone box containing a single flute and the supplies aforementioned.

Perched on the throne-like command chair of the Vent Iladre, Caedessin observed as Kythramil and Minnaloushe prepared to "sing" her hull closed. They had no means to see her in the shadows, but if they could they would see a cat-like grin.
A single holopad hung from her wrist, suspended by a silken black thread - the rune read "Anamnialoc".

Kythramil found the ship easily enough and followed the directions to the ascending platform. He was not the only new hand it seemed - there was another young Eldar who quickly supplied him with the equipment he would need to work.

"Thank you," he responded politely, greeting Minnaloushe with a warm smile. "Yes, I'm Kythramil, from Beil-tan." He noted her serpent tattoo, the emblem of the Saim-Hann clans. "But lately on the Path of the Wanderer, as you see."

The Ranger watched as the Bonesinger pushed back her wild hair from her eyes and opened the box, handing it to him wordlessly. Kythramil felt as if he were being appraised all over again. He straightened a little, conscious of being still somewhat muddy and dusty.

"I haven't worked with these in a while - I only usually work on small projects ..." He gazed up at the ship, crimson, vast. He brightened. "But I suppose the largest work is only a series of smaller endeavours." He took the antlered headpiece out of the box, holding it up to the light, watching the wraithbone's subtle gradations of form and colour as it turned. Since he'd taken the Ranger's Path he had only performed small repairs or very minor works, for which a small collection of runes was sufficient. This work took him back to his short time on the Way of the Bonesinger, and he paused for a moment, bringing back the memories and slipping into a semi-trance. For something like this - he reached out a hand, running it in the air just above the ship's surface, feeling the aura that lurked within. Even damaged, it felt predatory to him, with a hint of the power of a hunter barely contained, but it also carried notes of sanctuary and overall, speed. |He smiled. That ought to please the girl from Saim-Hann.

Taking up the sceptre, Kythramil caught her eye as the signal that he was ready to begin.

"I am but modest in my skill, so please, you lead the harmony and I will follow." He waited for her to begin, then added his own voice to the song, dipping a little lower as he caught the rhythm, then soaring into a pure, wordless cadence as the psychoplastic began to form, then bud, then flower across the rent.

"Well I'm a Corsair now that I'm under captain Caedessin. I guess that makes us two outcasts... And also, two undertrained Bonesingers." She admitted. "But as you say, this is merely one big version of an armour repair."
Minnaloushe smiled back, trying to reassure him should her words discourage him. She pushed the veil of hair behind her ear, Kythramil seemed "cute" - however, the two had work to be done and she wouldn't be the one to begin the procrastinations.
"They say, Kythramil," she began. "That to truly mend its wounds one must understand the Wraithbone - just like a Healer empathizing with the injured body, the injured mind..."
Looking up to the Vent Iladre's breach, the Siam-Hanii sighed.
"This was done by a Tyranid organism in a space battle - one of those grimly big ones that resemble a cruiser. It pierced here to seed its Genestealers."
The Siam-Hanii paused to imagine the gruesome scene and the desperate battle unfolding around.

The Ranger nodded, watching the young woman as she readied the ritual gear. She seemed confident enough, even as she admitted to knowing less than one long on the Path would know.

"Perhaps we can learn together, then," he suggested, "in any case it's good practice." As he listened further, the tall Wanderer felt a growing sense of discomfort build into dull horror. Kythramil knew what had happened at Iyanden, though he'd been too young to be there. He knew that he would have gone to the aid of his kin - that was a certainty - but part of him was relieved that he had not been able to, and he felt ashamed of that part. All this complex chemistry and more surged forward as he looked at the ravaged hull, scarred by who knew what terrors.

What the vivacious Saim-Hann girl had said was true - one needed a certain amount of empathy with one's subject in order to tease out what it needed from raw warp-stuff - but the transformative process needed a touch both delicate and controlling. He must not get too far into wild imagining and the dark memories of things he had never seen. Kythramil focussed his will and latched onto the one bright point: the ship, and at least some of the crew, had survived. They had not been lost. The Tyrannid menace had been defeated and could be so again. Why, just by surviving, he and Minnaloushe and Caedessin and all of the Eldar were winning the battle that was forced on them every day by a hostile Universe! Being here, being alive, thriving, that was his victory. That was the victory for their whole race. To not go quietly into that long night.

His singing grew stronger, and the notes more confident. The breach was there, a riven scar, true, but it and many other hurts could be healed.

Kythramil glanced at his companion, then he reached out and touched the back of her hand lightly.

"It's all right," he said, not even sure if the strong young woman even needed his comfort, but wanting to offer something, "I know I can't even imagine what they went through to get here, but just remember this: they did."


[OOC Thanks to Fields of the Nephilim - Last Exit for the Lost and Psychonaut]

(OOC: That Dylan Thomas phrase! <3)

The Bonesinger smiled devilishly at Kythramil's touch, adorned already by the antlers.
"You've got a good voice, Kythramil. Perhaps I'll create the arrhythmic highs" she said, nearing the flute to her mouth.

Time went by and the duo seemed lost in the hours as matter was willed into being. She, a turmoil of high-pitch, him the cello-like hum. The melody didn't quite make any sense, but it was still pleasant to the silent wraithbone.
Inside the battleship, through the transparent dome that veiled her figure, Caedessin observed as the Bonesingers worked on... Yes, he had the spirit. And so did she - the willingness, the dedication.
It was... Soothing, different, to observe young Kythramil without a look of worry - tough she could very well see a scowl of pain when he teased his injuries. He would be a fine addition to the crew, should he survive what was to come...

To being with, as he always did, Kythramil lost himself in the music. The notes flowed around him, and he was the conduit for power he could pull down and tease much as a spinner creates yarn from wool; only his thread was potential, and his woven fabric the hull of the ship.

With time - he did not know how much had passed - Kythramil lost enough of himself in the music that he could start to hear other parts, the countersung harmonies and careful dissonances of his fellow Bonesinger. Minnaloushe played as he sang, but her skilled work used the flute as a circuit will use a transformer, relaying the warp-stuff to the ship through the notes.

Gradually the hull reformed under their ministrations and those of the other teams. The breach healed, and the young Ranger could feel the end of the song. He whispered the last note and closed his eyes, as if wishing his beloved goodnight. There was a sense of ending without finality. His shoulders slumped, and his whole posture radiated tiredness for a moment until he took a deep breath, straightened, and looked at Minnaloushe.

"Well played, sister! You have the melodies of Lileath." He bowed, swaying slightly, mildy euphoric from the success of the work on top of his brush with death not hours since. Kythramil smiled, still feeling a little ungrounded, as if he might float away. "I believe I could do with a drink and something to eat. Shall we go and see what Captain Caedessin's hospitality runs to?"