The Commorrite laughed, her voice ever the low-pitched purr. Kythramil had sat on the distant Trimerojian system, whose name meant "embolden". There was something of an ironic symbolism to be noted there. She suddenly remembered the times when Y'thel was still living, sat in that very chamber for endless cycles by the side of her mentor - he had taught her so many things she'd forgotten, so many names, and so much apparently useless data that to this day was crucial for her as the captain of the Vent Iladre.
Seeing the dreamer before her, the slight coloration of his cheeks and the way he toyed with his already perfect topknot... It made her feel the weight of her decisions - ever since she'd killed her father's Lhamaean and fled the City Of The Captive Suns until the moment she decided to bloody her blade for the life in the eyes she stared at in that moment.
She was a tutor, of sorts, no longer a scorned exile for the denizens of realspace.

"Oh don't be modest, Kytrhamil. My words will have only the effect you hold in your heart" she said, hoping it had been sagely. She hadn't had a lifetime for literature and enlightenment as many-a craftworld-born, and her quirky philosophical phrases had all come from books she had stolen or things the corsairs quoted from poets of their homes.

Clearing her throat, she then stood. The conversation - as any Eldar exchange - had lasted a good fraction of a cycle. "It wasn't that Farseer Aranethyr saw what others failed to, what separates him from his council is that he actually cared for these visions. He has an idyllic belief that there is more to life than oneself, that there are things worth fighting for..."

The Commorrite then walked toward the direction of the door, and pressing a button to the side it opened - the illusion of space shattering around them, further interrupted by the device she had interacted with - buttons. Such demeaning technology to rely on! Only those terrible criminals deprived of their psychic abilities through a surgery had ever the need to utilize them back in the craftworlds - those not brave enough to take the Star Walk - and there she was: a captain in her own ship utilizing such primitive tricks.
Her face was held high still, apparently unknowing of the stigma non-psychic technology carried with it.

"So will stealing a single battleship help these Anamnialocii make a difference in the seemingly never-ending fight against the Devourer? Probably not. But that small frame of possibility is what forges a legend, hmm?" She tilted her head.
"We Eldar are designed to experiment - the Fall is proof of such."
She then quoted, "and if the experiment is a glorious failure - well, rather a glorious failure than a life that ends up being nothing but a dismal accident."

"To face the impossible with improbable solutions just because we can is his duty as a madman - and we as his equals are laying down our lives to aid him." She laughed. "Enjoy your trip with the bards, the pariahs and the pirates, my dear."

"Half a passing - then I'll tell you your role in this our mindless crusade."

Kythramil rose as the Captain did, and as he did so the sky shattered, the stars whilring and falling like the End of Days. It was almost as disconcerting as the effect when he first entered, and a part of him wanted to cry out like a lost child, or a sinner deprived of the grace of Heaven. A more grounded part of the young Wanderer knew that the screens had been switched off, and that this meant the interview was at an end. Caedessin used the button tech of the exit panel to open the door back to the mundane world, and he was free to leave the star chamber.

"I will see you then, Captain, as you request," he said, bowing his head. "I think - I believe - that our Farseer, there, is an idealist. Like myself. It is ... it's strangely conforting, as much as it is disconcerting, to realise that such a sentiment can last until one's old age." He had had a short lifetime already of being told how his youthful, idealistic nature would tarnish, how the Wandering Path would lead him only to jaded cynicism. Kythramil had resisted the notion. Perhaps he would be right.

"As for a trip with the bards, pariahs and pirates, well, are those not the people with the best stories?" He allowed a small grin to show once more, warming to the situation. He was slowly becoming more at ease with his environment, as ever-changing as it was. And the conversation they had shared had taught him as much as many hours of formal lessons.

As he watched Caedessin leave, he realised that she had used the console to activate the door and the display, and not her mind. He'd heard that the denizens of Commorragh were blunted psychically, but in truth it hadn't really seemed possible. To choose not to be psychic, for the young Craftworlder, would be like cutting off a limb, and so he had aleays dismissed the idea as fanciful, just another example meant to show the dangers of life in the Dark City. The idea that the Ynneas Eladrith had somehow allowed their powers to atrophy seemed even more unlikely. Part of him wanted to take her under his wing and teach her how to use the mental controls, the lightest touch of mind-power to open and close such simple things. However, he knew he was no Seer, and that he wouldn't even risk thinking of such a lesson, even if she had not been grossly offended by the idea. Still, he suspected it would go down better than his other impluse to open the door for her.

The tall, proud Captain knew her way about the vessel, and he did not. Kythramil didn't want to look as directionless as he felt, so he sauntered off for a few paces as he worked out where to go. He wasn't tired enough to sleep, and he knew only one other person aboard the ship - the young Bonesinger, Minnaloushe. He remembered she'd said that she would be either in the Fleeting Moment hangar, or the dining-hall. Given that she seemed a curious sort, and the hangar most likely to offer something of interest ... the Captain can supply whatever you wish, if you can find it in the hangar bay ... he decided to look for her there.

Kythramil did not know his way around the Intemperate Phantom, but he did know how to ask for directions. And it seemed that asking for Minnaloushe generated two kinds of response. The first was a kind of second hand acceptance, as if a young man who knew her must be a good sort. The second was to earn him a look with narrowed eyes, an unspoken suggestion that whatever he was up to, he had better be on his very best of Craftworld behaviour regards the youthful psyker. Fortunately, as his search - like so much - was an innocent one, the second passed largely over his understanding, apart from a vague feeling of being put on notice and the urge to stand up slightly straighter and look less like an Outcast. Thus he entered the hangar bay, heard a familar voice from somewhere in the depth of a crate of supplies, and saw a familiar pair of boots suspended above the ground as their owner dangled inside.

"... why in the name of lost Vaul's Artifice would you store that under anything so heavy?!"

"Rytheris? Brother? Would you lend me a hand here?" The pilot asked, her voice echoed from within the Exodite wooden crate she had dived in - head first. This Rytheris wasn't there to answer, though, as the only Eldar near enough to be the one Minnaloushe called to seemed to have been engaged by a female with a datapad.
"Thing is, the pelt is was under the bones. Why would anyone-"
Climbing back out, the acolyte Bonesinger turned to find Kythramil instead of her fellow corsair.
"Oh. Hail, wanderer. Are you done indulging the captain?" She asked.

Around the two, the hangar that resembled more of a bazaar had wares of all origins and values coexisting with jetfighters, transport vessels and Serpents. Even a Dark Eldar Raider. The hassle of the crew echoed, becoming a single tune of dozens of pitches and rhythms.

"So... You ask me to take on two destroyers, a battleship, several escorts and uncountable fighters and bombers, with my fleet alone? Are you sure about this-" the deep and feminine voice paused in suspension. There was a hologram before the figure in the darkness - it was an armoured Seer.
"Farseer Aranethyr?" Asked Caedessin.

The hologram responded. "I regret to ask you to do this - to spill the blood of your crew -"
"They are all sworn to me... Or at least most of them. They know the risk" cut the captain, deeply feeling the losses to come, but not giving anything away.
"The threads have shifted, and where there was room for negotiation through intimidation now there's only room for a quick act of violence. We need the enemy slain - down to the last mon-keigh - before the second cycle of the battle dawns" decreed the Farseer. "My Host will also suffer from this change of plans."
"Do you think knowing your forces face danger as well makes things better for the Vent Iladre? Just do what you need to do and ensure my men don't die in vane" cut the corsair, again, severing communications immediately after.

In the ensuing silence, the Fae Lacerai sighed, with a sleek hand reaching for her forehead.
"This just got a lot more complex in very little time. Admiral, new engagement plan..."

"The good Captain is done with me, for now, I think." Despite the strangeness of that meeting, that, he felt, was definitely the way it was with the Fae Lacerai, though a small part of the youth held a growing cognisance that perhaps that was more of an illusion than it might seem. Kythramil went to lean on the other side of the sturdy wooden crate and peered in. Which of the barbarous treasures the young Bonesinger had been after, he could not guess at. The box was piled high with all manner of things. Worth a small fortune on any Human world, quite a lot of them would be very tradeable on the Craftworlds as materials for art and in some cases, as fascinations in themselves.

"I'm not the brother you sought, but I'll gladly help move things until you find what you need," he offered. Among his saensirrian he had often been asked for the heavy lifting. A fact, he surmised with an internal shrug, that probably had more to do with a generally affable nature than any great strength.

Kythramil reached down and stroked a soft pelt, feeling the fur run through his slender fingers. A sensual appreciation of the magnificence that the beast had once been, a tactile one of the sweet and sleepy warmth it would provide. Or perhaps it would just decorate someone's fancy boots, which would be rather a shame unless that someone was in a position to make good use of the utility of the fur as well as the fanciness. A part of the Wanderer's aesthetic was derived from the Exodites, and the rest was his own barely-tempered curiosity, but that was all overlaid with the Craftworld's own mores. That part half expected to be told off for touching.

"It's busy enough in here that I feel ... unacceptably idle."

"Thank you, Kythramil, just hold this dragon's skull a second while I get the giant lynx pelt beneath."
The pilot again dove in the crate and then Kythramil could appreciate that what seemed as a pile of bones the size of Minnaloushe was a single complexly-shaped skull - of a Raezorthol dragon.
With the wanderer's aide the pelt came out, also surrealistically large. There seemed to be no end to the exotic wonders the Intemperate Phantom was able to house.
"I hear one of my brothers traded this entire crate of Exodite goods for a shard of flammable ice-stone from the planet Figelattwe. Have you heard of that curious little thing? One of the wonders of the universe, no less" she mentioned as she focused on the feel of the textures of the dragon skull.
"It's made of burning ice" she finished, her words losing focus as her attention went to the bones.

"Would you be so kind as to pass me the flute in my rucksack?" She asked. There was a look of suspicion in her smirk.

Burning ice? For a moment the young Wanderer wondered if he was being teased with one of those elusive items often used to haze newcomers - like a 'long weight' or 'striped paint'. But the Universe was a place of infinite marvels, and he knew could not hope to compass them all within the mere scope of the possible. He watched the Corsair lose herself in the depths of the crate of wonders for a little while, daydreaming, thinking about the treasures inside and seeing, in his mind's eye, the myriad origins contained within just that one box. How many more did the vessel hold? And this was just one cargo bay ...

"The flute?" He shook his head, getting back into the present with a little difficulty. He found it without difficulty, carefully extracting it without disturbing the antlers or rummaging through the private contents of the bag. "Here," he offered, passing it down to Minnaloushe. "What do you think is wrong? You look ... like something's on your mind." Of course, she also looked like a gyrinx that had its mind on something small and fluffy, but he kept that thought to himself.

Perched on the edge of the crate, Kythramil had a hundred questions. But, as befits one from the Craftworlds, he managed to keep his curiosity in check for now - if barely. It helped that it was mostly focused on what had the Bonesinger intrigued.

Minnaloushe reached back for the flute, pulling herself upright at the time she grabbed it. Sitting upon the edge of the crate along her new and handsome acquaintance, the corsair winked.
"Have you ever felt such a lifeless bone? All living things pulsate an energy that lingers even past death, yet nothing powerful remains in the bones of this once-mighty and enormous creature..."
The strong and rugged fingers of the woman stroke the skull once again, trying to feel its roar...

Without a pacing, she began playing her flute in steady, ear-piercing notes that only a Bonesinger would stand. The particles of this "bone" were not dancing to the arrhythmic rhythm.

"Minnaloushe Aetherios, daughter of Exarch Aetherios and doom of all basic atom structures, are you done evaluating my prized piece of loot?" Asked a voice barely audible through the cacophonous of Minnaloushe's onslaught. The notes stopped.
"Yes, Rytheris son of who-knows and lord of the fools." She smiled, jumping from the crate gracefully and picking up the pelt she and Kythramil had extracted.
"It's fake. Though I'll still keep my reward - this fur is authentic!"

Kythramil winced. First, at the crime being done to music in the name of investigation. He had an acute sensitivity to off notes and disharmonies, a consequence of perfect pitch. And second, at the result: the huge - and doubtless expensive - skull wasn't real. This, he doubted would go down well, and it did not. The Corsair's description of the one who sold him the fake was both lengthy and quite evocative, if a little hard to believe anatomically.

Throughout the Eldar's caustic appraisal of the piece and its former owner - soon to be re-acquainted with it in intimate fashion, if he were to be believed - Kythramil had to avoid more than a sidelong glance at Minnaloushe, because he knew if he met her gaze he would catch her smirking, and then it would all be over. No more composure for the man from the Craftworlds. So he kept his eyes on the ground.

He was about to murmur something in sympathy for the poor duped Corsair when he felt a sudden tug on his arm. Minnaloushe signalled with a look now that she had his attention: time to go. Leave this poor man to his lamentations. Kythramil opened his mouth to comiserate, but she shook her head and dragged him firmly away. Two pairs of boots rang on the deckwork. Minna gestured that he should follow as a Ranger is meant to follow: swift and silent. Slightly bewildered, Kythramil did as he was told, the young Corsair throwing a comment over her shoulder as they rounded the corner of the next bay.

"It's a wonderful object lesson, Rytherishka! Every time I'll see the fur I will think of you!" she called sweetly. "And I'll remember to always test my merchandise!"

Her laughter was drowned in more cursing, but Minna was already onto her next plan. She thrust the fur into Kythramil's arms.

"Here. You said you'd help carry things," she said insouciantly, shouldering her backpack. "Did Caedessin tell you when she'd want you back?"

The young Wanderer thought about it.

"No, but she did say half a pass. I suppose I'm to amuse myself until then. Get to know my way around the ship, that sort of thing."

"Pft, boring! You can do that when we're stuck in transit. I have a much better plan." And with this, Minnaloushe led the way. Kythramil, his arms full of fur, had barely time to shrug and follow.

Her quarters, a room full of... Her - Minnaloushe, in every detail. It seemed odd to have such a personalized place in a battleship, but lest not forget, Minnaloushe had spent almost her entire life on board the Intemperate Phantom.
The bed was round, pushed against the elliptic wall, and above it was the real cranium of an Exodite dragon mount - strange pink and yellow flowers grew out from one of its eye sockets. Hung over one wall, there was an Eldar sitar next to various signed music crystals from different bands - In Flames, Cradle Of Mon-keigh, Wraithbone Maiden, Architects and many more, covering the wall almost completely. There were a couple of swords and a Laser Lance laid against another segment of the wall, to the side of a primitive set of drum-seats and the oddities went on and on.

"We'll just drop this here and we'll hit the lounge - you have to see it! Caedessin turned it into..." The girl seemed to consider something. "Why ruin it?"
Minnaloushe set the pelt on the bed, and turned her curious gaze upon a curious man. "Kythramil?"