Vengeance Resplendant.

Myr quietly slipped further away from Zaonath. Between her and that Incubus he was honestly starting to wonder what the Archon had been thinking hiring these people...then again, maybe *he* was the odd one out on account of a terminal case of sanity. He made sure that he wasn't between Zaonath and any of the Sheed, after all, if they wanted to storm forward and rip her limb from limb, so much the better, but he didn't intend to be trampled in the process.

As soon as the witch was released and strutting around, Sarele had turned around and away from the group, fiddling with something. It looked as if he was trying to zip his pants, or tighten up leather straps around his leg-armourplates. But it was all in a conceiling fashion, slow, calm and carefully under his new great coat. At one moment things went clumsy and a deft irritating mumble could be heard. The huge abominations facing Sarele observed but did not act immediately, maybe because things looked harmless. Or because it looked rather awkward. After a half minute, just in time for Zaonath to finish her threats, Sarele was done and turned around to face the suspense situation. He then shot Zaonath in her back, almost at point blank range.

Turning to the leader of the Sheed.
"Thank you for getting us out of this mess and my apologies, our friend here will not be disturbing any of us anymore during the voyage. This wych over here, Keshariel is his name, possess a token from our dear Dracon. That incubi over there and that Klaivex is with us and their names are X'leith and Tarrar. Our chef Myr, Maeve that's her with silver hair.", this time Sarele avoided to let loose any avian sound. Sarele signalled Keshariel to show the token.
"Now we're the cargo but we would like to be referred as passengers instead. If you don't mind, Il'd like to get on the ship as soon as possible and I'ld like to have either a room for myself or simply a space away from these peaceful and important people. Thank you and please let us make haste."

With that, Sarele holstered and hid his splinter pistol in his coat and bowed slightly as a gest of gratitude. He then proceeded to walk calm and steady towards the large ship, in hope that no more trouble would surface. Sarele disliked conversations and discussions, especially when he has to say something. But at times like these, Sarele's survival instincts forces him to improvise and communicate with others. Surprisingly, by using what little he remembers from previous conversations, personalities and other impersonations, he can often manage to participate in a conversation. Or at least, bear with others and talk. Commanding others to do things is usually easier, he just need to say "Kill it", "shoot it", "run away".

In case his little presentation and speech did not satisfy the hideous creatures, he had left his splinter pistol safety off, his blaster's safety off and two plasma grenades set to impact-mode on each of his side pockets on his coat.

Earlier in Sarele's shopping spree he had been looking for a specific non-lethal poison. Locals called it "Dreamcatcher", it is more of a drug that is used for neutralizing and putting creatures to sleep. Unlike the weaker races' type of sleep drug or paralyzing mediums, this poison is crafted by lesser Haemonculus and works on any living being regardless of ammount. Such advanced drug does this by activating and inducing the sleeping process of the victim. The Dark-kin have been using this for capturing other slaves, often by weaponizing the drug into gasform. Sarele hoped the vial would be enough for the entire voyage and if not, he would try and get Myr to make more.

-----

I couldn't resist, so I posted now...

Switch ammo on splinter pistol then shoot Zaonath in the back with Dreamcatcher, hopefully she will sleep well and somebody will take the initiative of carrying her onboard.

zzzZzZzZZzzzzzz........

Myr happily rushes forward to loot the body when it looks like no one else will.
Odd people, no sense of decorum or propriety.
He pockets the plasma grenade first and then happily starts patting her down looking for hidden pockets while debating if he would have enough time to sell her corpse off to a fleshsmelter for a few chits before they shipped out.

Then he paused.

Oh...bother...

She was still breathing, how unpleasant.

His opinion of Sarele dropped a few notches as he considered this development. He cold probably just knife her and move onward with his day as was intended. That said, the semi-functional Scourge was, sadly, the most leadership likely target in the whole squabbling mess, and it probably wouldn't hurt to get on his good side. He paused and glanced up, realizing some of the Sheed were looking at him and that he'd probably paused a bit too long over the body. He smiled charmingly at them and pinched at her skin.

"Small, but good eating, yes, good eating I think." He gathered her up in his arms and slung her over his shoulder. Trying to smile as he stood up, cursing the strain on his knees. "Yes, the boss likes his meat fresh, I should make sure his meal will be ready for him, yes!"

Setting off before any of the Sheed decided to showcase that they had any brains at all rattling around in those distorted skulls of theirs, he set off after Sarelle, loudly pondering the proper spice mixture to bring out the flavor in Craftworld meat. It being a bland and insipid flavor, for the most part...

So that worked out, if Sarele was daft enough to want to spare the wich's life then Myr was the agent of helping that happen, and showing he was smart enough to catch onto the boss' desires. Plus, he'd just saved her life also, a debt he wouldn't let the deranged Craftworlder forget.

Yes, everything was looking a little brighter now. He smiled as he staggered after Sarele.

Standing there, blood flowing from the trill of "battle", X'leith prepared to attack. Before he acted he noticed the others going the diplomatic route. It also appeared that the sheed were getting reinforcements. His orders were not to fight any threat. He could learn from this event. He will hold back...for now.

Lowering his klaive to his side but still easily accessible, X'leith attempted a joke. "You may not wish to eat me, my spikes my prove indigestible."

Incubus humor is a bit lacking but the thought of these beast suffering internal hemorrhaging from is armor was cause for a little personal smirk.

If the Klaivex decided that fighting was the right path then X'leith would provide support.

The tall Wych made his way across the square. It had been an invigorating workout; he stretched languidly and made the final run to his destination.

He landed amid what could only be the Sheed.

Huge, muscled and with the solidity of a small continent they lurked and glowered, shifting on their brutish limbs, weapons held in what looked like a mere afterthought: these were creatures obviously used to dealing death up close and personal. The Sheed promptly agreed with his assessment by cracking open the bones of the dead for marrow. Keshariel could see the uses of such brutality, but while his arena-trained instincts searched for the best way to deal with such a beast, it was the idling of a reflex. This was not the time to start a fight, and these were after all the ones tasked with giving them transport.

“Can I be of assistance?” He asked, looking at the creature before him. The Sheed's response was punctuated by gunfire. The Wych didn't mind too much. When one has encountered an angry Succubus, then any other foe seems merely able to hurt and kill. Both fixable in the Dark City. However, he was in no hurry to spoil his perfect -

Oh. It seemed that some of the others - well, fairly, one of the others - had some strange ideas about diplomacy. He sighed. If psychic ability was gained in inverse proportion to common sense, then there was wisdom in Vect's dictates after all. Fortunately Sarele dealt with the problem swiftly, and even if it meant that the little chef conducted a pantomime about eating her afterwards, at least the Witch was quiet now. At least, probably a pantomime. Keshariel had already decided not to eat anything Myr made.

"Thank you for getting us out of this mess and my apologies, our friend here will not be disturbing any of us anymore during the voyage. This wych over here, Keshariel is his name, possess a token from our dear Dracon. That incubi over there and that Klaivex is with us and their names are X'leith and Tarrar. Our chef Myr, Maeve that's her with silver hair.", this time Sarele avoided to let loose any avian sound. Sarele signalled Keshariel to show the token. The Wych produced the token as directed, careful to allow it to be seen properly but not allowing it to leave his grasp.

"Now we're the cargo but we would like to be referred as passengers instead. If you don't mind, I'd like to get on the ship as soon as possible and I'd like to have either a room for myself or simply a space away from these peaceful and important people. Thank you and please let us make haste."

Nicely done. The Wych approved of the neat summary, and the subtle use of language. The broken Scourge was clearly still very much the diplomat. This would be useful.

"She's alive? Perhaps we should take her blade... For, um... Safekeeping? Just in case..." Maeve suggested. This made sense to the arena fighter, so he stooped to collect the sword. It gave him a small burr of disapproval at his profane touch, and in return a slight frisson just for handling such a forbidden thing. The psychic sword had certainly never been touched by one so thoroughly unpsychic, but Keshariel was not in a position to speculate on the philosophy of this. He straightened and, holding the sword in a carrying, rather than jugular-pointing way, addressed the primary Sheed. The biggest one, by the look of it.

"As the gentleman says, we are the ones the Dracon arranged for you to transport." he confirmed, though he thought Sarele had done so perfectly well; he just thought it important to make sure the serpentine folk knew he could speak and wasn't more party snacks to be enjoyed en route. "Please escort us to our cabins; the Lady here will require her own, as will I." He indicated Maeve with a subtle tilt of his head, an Eldar gesture he hoped the Sheed could follow.

With this (hopefully agreed - he didn't want to share with the chef, for example, and he felt that the dour Incubus might kill any hope of a recreational mood while they were stuck in transit), Keshariel strode on after the Scourge and his struggling aide-de-camp. Pausing, he turned to Maeve, offering his arm once more.

"Shall we go, milady?"

Maeve smiled and took the arm offered to her.

To the Sheed it looked like the cargo had no intention on staying in one place for long. This was, to the leader’s surprise, a most agreeable concept. At least it was after that Psyker had been put to sleep. He had been tempted to break the Witch, but doubted his captain would be amused at the concept, especially when there were so many uses for one… the thought made his peel back his thin, scaled lips in a dark smile as he contemplated the favour he would win.

"Now we're the cargo but we would like to be referred as passengers instead.” The Scourge had stepped up to the role of being the diplomatic leader here and, although it caused nothing in the way of harm to their relationship with the Sheed it did not seem to be overly helpful, either.

“Sounds just like something cargo would say.” The Sheed leant over, large nostrils flaring in Sarele’s face and snorting the air. The aliens really had no such understanding of personal space. “You, Eldar, are wise.” He chuckled as he moved away once again, gesturing with one of his hands at the unconscious Psyker that lay at the feet of the Chef. “If you’d left her any longer I doubt you’d be here to take these breaths.”

One of the grunts near Myr made a snorting noise at his comment. It was a noise that was reminiscent of both disappointment and amusement. Later, however, after the issue with the crazed grenade-wielding Witch had finished the alien’s view of the chef increased slightly. A piece of cargo willing to make snacks out of something that moments ago wanted to get them all killed? This one was wise.

As he walked off ahead of the others, however, the alpha male crawled his way in front of Myr and opened his maw to speak: “Take it to the Captain. I’m sure he’ll want to inspect this… specimen… before anything happens to it.”

The rabble of Eldar were escorted through countless corridors and hallways under the watchful – or oppressive – gaze of the hulking beasts. To anybody who knew anything about the interstellar vessels of other races the interior makeup of the Sheed vessel could be identified as containing components from dozens of different civilisations. The majority of the wall panelling seemed to be of Imperial origin. Many of the segments had battle-scarring and dried blood plastered upon them, as if the Sheed had infested a once proud ship and picked off the crew one by one, until they could dismantle it for their own use.
In places words were written in unknown texts upon components designed to lock into other ships. The bowels of the ship seemed to be constructed mainly from scavenged gothic arches, but they were littered with unfitting pieces of round and refined technology in places, while from some tubes bubbling canisters containing iridescent liquids rested.

After what had felt like hours of travelling they finally came through a large set of doors and onto what was clearly the bridge. Scattered all around the deck at regular intervals were consoles manned by Sheed females, Mon-keigh servants and other beaten and scarified slaves.
On a central plinth resided a Sheed with pearlescent scales of white and blue. His talons were of a fear-filled midnight and his armour was polished and well kempt, unlike the armour of his servants. From flaming eyes set deeply in shaded sockets he observed them; only allowing them to approach once he beckoned them forward.

The residual thrum that flowed through the Psyker’s blade was silenced with a cold uncertainty that made the Eldar more uncomfortable the closer they approached. Keshariel noticed this instantly and, even though it was relieving to have that sword stop reminding him of the psychic presence, found the annoyance replaced by a new sudden horror.

Maeve noticed this much stronger than the others. If Zaonath had been awake she would have been scratching at her skin or dropping her grenades to end the unnatural presence. X’leith had felt it too. His body had stiffened, but he refused to show any other signs of being weary. As Myr placed the Witch down upon the ground before the eldest alien he felt it too, although it was unclear whether this was the same sensation or the fact that the beast was addressing them.

“I am Captain Tsalisaanth Tsak,” aged words slipped from his mouth, hissing with a soft authoritativeness, “welcome aboard. Now, tell me, what is this?” He nodded towards the unconscious psyker, knowing full well what rested before him. “You’ve brought me another conduit? How thoughtful.” It was hard to tell whether the last part was a verbal expulsion of thoughts or a subdued fit of rage he wanted to keep to himself.

“How long until we make realspace, Captain?” The largest of the trio that escorted them onto the bridge asked with more respect than he held for the Eldar.

“Two hours.” One of the serfs called out, knowing it his place to answer. The Sheed carried on as if the human didn’t exist.

“Making it to realspace is all well and good, but without the throne’s cerebral-barb we won’t be able to traverse the ether.”

The ether. They all knew what that was. The Sea of Souls.

“An untouchable…” Maeve whispered aloud, X’leith and Keshariel close enough to hear her summary.

“What is this ‘cerebral-barb’, Captain Tsak?” The Klaivex bowed as he spoke, resisting the urge to lash out at the Captain.

Tsak turned his head to view the Klaivex with a contemptuous stare for a few seconds. “It’s a piece of the navigation-throne. It, however, has been stolen. Without it we will take years instead of hours to get to our destination.” After a moment of contemplation he looked upon the gathered pointy-eared humanoids, not disgusted by their presence as others had been. “You’re all supposed to be in the cargo bay for the voyage, but I bet you arrogant ‘galaxy ruling’ types think you deserve more as your birthright? You find me the cerebral-barb and bring to justice whoever stole it and you shall have your own cabins. We set off for realspace now. You have two hours.”

-------------------------------------
Captain Tsak is an untouchable, also known as a blank. Blanks negate the effects of psychic ability and make even normal people feel uncomfortable.

There are multiple decks, although there are some obvious places to look for rumours. There’s a mess hall, armoury, kitchen complex, a drug den and a sparing arena. You can split up to investigate these areas individually by trying to persuade answers from the Sheed, or you can go together room to room. There’s safety in numbers, especially against the wrath of the Sheed, but you only have a limited time period in which to find answers.

Mngwa: Your character wakes up on the floor, screaming in terror as her soul is repulsed by the untouchable nature of the Captain.

Zaonath's eyes bursted open.
"Wh-what is going on?"
She looked around, finding herself on the floor of something that was apparently a command bridge of some weird space vessel.

"...however, has been stolen. Without it we will take years instead of hours to get to our destination.” the big alien in polished armour spoke. The creature was different.

"WHAT?" she shouted as she scrambled up. "Years? No way!" She shook her head and tried to think.
Is this what all those silly wimps talked about at Ulthwé? Exarchs and Seers? That avoid blanks? This is them?

She backed away, looking for any route out from the presence of this weird creature.
My blade... where is it?

"...You find me the cerebral-barb and bring to justice whoever stole it and you shall have your own cabins."

Huh? Okay... sounds like a better deal than sleeping on its lap.
She slipped away from the bridge door, trying to keep herself concentrated on the obvious mission:
Find weapons and a barb!

So the Captain needs this 'cerebral-barb' or else his warp journey will take an awkward amount of time...but is in such a rush that he wants to leave immediately and not leave us much time to find it? Myr's eyes narrowed slightly, not trusting that situation at all.

He slipped up alongside Sarelle.

"It seems to me that it would be unwise to allow the witch to wander alone - at least if it is our intent to avoid any potential...misunderstandings with the Sheed. I would suggest you leave her a minder before splitting off the men to go searching for this cerebral-barb. I also think it would be wise to consider that the Captain is not being very honest with us, if I may suggest perhaps one of our members could do some quiet asking amongst the crew to figure out why he feels such a sudden need to depart with haste and in an unsafe way."

Myr smiled slightly.

"As for me, I wouldn't mind checking out the ship's mess for guests, you can learn so much about a people by what they choose to eat and how, and I doubt there will be much there that is palatable for us in any case."

Whilst walking down the corridors, Sarele distanced himself from the rest of the group. He tried to observe and inspect the cultural difference between the may sectioned walls of the ship. It was to Sarele impressive work that he enjoyed, it looked twisted and painful. Painful for the ship in a way, a being of other's parts, multiple beings making one greater being. No sane and willing thing would allow this to happen. Perhaps now Sarele understand the haemonculus better, how their enjoy and love their work and ideas. But this part of the hallway was ugly, being mostly dominated by human constructions, with many of those silver-metallic colors and octangular-round things inserted into the steel. And those hideous red paint on the hulk, and strange skulls with pointy big teeth. Further down that hallway everything became more and more messy. Wodden panels, metal frames and bolts were fastened to the hull in a very non-symmetric of logic design. Stupid humans, such bad craft. Sarele was suprised that the Sheed was able to make this ship work. Now they passed a section with even more red paint, followed up by some blue circles.

Upon reaching their destination, Sarele could not help but stare into the Sheed Captain. Because of the nature his eyes, it is not possible to discern what Sarele had his gaze on. The only way to know is if you have that strange feeling that something is looking at you. There have been situations where many people simultaneously felt that feeling. But Sarele can only watch one at the time.

“I am Captain Tsalisaanth Tsak,”, the creature spoke. Sarele was already in trance, he felt strange but in the same time very non-existing. It was as if his evil spirit was detached from his body, and slipped further and further away. It floated towards the Ilmaeas, wherever the closes one might be. And in his little trance, he could only dread this feeling. This was the feeling of being dead, departed and emotionless, lifeless. Sarele was dying.

Sweat oozed from under his feathers, his scalp started to drip. One tear managed to slip from his eye. He was paralyzed and almost deaf. He heard the Sheed Captain's voice in slow-motion and faint. But he understood every word of it.
"Untouchable? What is that?", Sarele wondered. Still in a half-trance and sick, he now wondered if he would survive this.
"Not untouchable to my blaster... The captain, shoot...". At this moment, Sarele would not have minded if Zaonath quickly cut the creature down.

“It’s a piece of the navigation-throne. It, however, has been stolen. Without it we will take years instead of hours to get to our destination.”, it continued. Why do we need to know this?. Focus, break free, come back! . Sarele had his eyes closed now and backed away from the captain. He had been inching away during the conversation out of reflex. And he had stepped out of the blank area-of-effect. Now Sarele felt his soul return, attached and his survival instincts kicked in with rage.

"Iiiiiiiee!", Sarele let out in annoyance. Such daring creatures, to take up a mission of transporting agents of a powerful Dracon and then order us to find an item in order to travel? Sarele made a note to inform the Dracon of this and hope the Dracon would punish these creatures. Gritting his razor sharp teeth, breathing violently. The Klaivex had turned to Sarele's noise and had almost raised his massive blade.  The Sheed had turned their heads, slowly and with raised brow.

Quickly reassessing the situation after gaining control of himself, Sarele attempted to make an excuse to get away from everyone. He wanted to be alone. Noticing that Zaonath was missing, Keshariel in possession of the with's blade, the Klaivex and X'leith standing firmly in place and Myr slipping up next to him, Sarele prepared to respond to the Captain's request.

"It seems to me that it would be unwise to allow the witch to wander alone - at least if it is our intent to avoid any potential...misunderstandings with the Sheed. I would suggest you leave her a minder before splitting off the men to go searching for this cerebral-barb. I also think it would be wise to consider that the Captain is not being very honest with us, if I may suggest perhaps one of our members could do some quiet asking amongst the crew to figure out why he feels such a sudden need to depart with haste and in an unsafe way."

Myr smiled slightly.

"As for me, I wouldn't mind checking out the ship's mess for guests, you can learn so much about a people by what they choose to eat and how, and I doubt there will be much there that is palatable for us in any case."

Very well spoken. Myr would make a perfect advisor to any archon or leader. Which Sarele thought is fitting. If he gets too tired being around any member of this party, he could simply use whatever Myr advises. Of course, as long as it does not involve any obvious harm to Sarele. But Sarele did not reply or seem to listen to Myr. Slowly approaching the Captain, this time looking for the border of death, Sarele stopped before he felt too sick again.

"Excuse me for my noise.", Sarele followed the Klaivex's example, and bowed slightly, almost pulling up his blaster and fire. "We will find this item for you and return it to you. The sooner we reach our destination, the better for both of our parties.", Sarele finished. He tried hard to not provoke Tsak.

Without knowing where to start looking things were looking stupidly impossible.
Why would a thief stay on the ship? No matter. I need to be alone, I should just walk away and search...

Sarele suddenly pulled Myr's arm, almost pressing his sharp nails too hard against his skin. Myr wqas a little confused, since seconds again Sarele seemed to ignore Myr's existance. He then whispered: "Go ask around, take that X'le...". Remembering that this pair did not fair well before, Sarele changed his mind. "Take the Klaivex with you, ask nicely." Sarele had now loosened his grip and turned to Klaivex Tarrar.

"Please keep Myr in one piece.", Sarele commanded the Klaivex before letting loose a loud shriek. Splitting up the two trained warriors and assigning them to the other members was obvious. They are the most reliable members in the party according to Sarele. Even though Dark Eldars lack honor and trust in nature, the trained warriors are said to be loyal mercenaries. The Klaivex would be the most reliable of them all, because of his orders to protect us and because of his rank.
"X'leith and Maeve, go look somewhere else together.", the scourge snapped.

Now moving towards Keshariel in speed, Sarele was swapping out the poison vial on his splinter pistol.
"Keshariel! Go with our less gifted cousin. Only give her back her sword if the situation needs it.", said Sarele with a raised voice. When he passed Keshariel, he gave him the vial of Dreamcatcher.

"One snake, one Klaivex, one Incubus, one former gladiator, one corsair, one ex-scourge and one crazy psyker. We're all more capable in combat than these hideous space-dwellers, it should be."
Then Sarele proceeded alone towards the nearest exit.

Myr sidled up to the nearest low-ranking Sheed he could find, quite content with his mission as he smiled and caught the beast's attention.

"My pardons for the interruption, but could you be so kind as to direct me to our quarters and also wherever it will be that we shall be fed? I think it best that I make sure the cabins are ready for my companions and also that the food will meet our needed standards."

He didn't offer anything specific, but his hand did drop meaningfully to his belt near the small pouch that held some of his soul chits, at least the ones that weren't better hidden.

Yes, let the others run around doing menial leg-work for the incompetent and obviously untrustworthy captain - he would protect himself, and by lucky coincidence, the rest of them by figuring out why they were being lied to.

And then perhaps they'd let Zaonath stick her sword in things...as long as Myr was at an appreciable safe distance and could disavow involvement if anything went wrong, naturally.

It had been a while since the tall Wych had felt anything this negative and unpleasant. If he had been of a more psychic mind, he might have felt a touch of this soul-sickness looking upon the form of an Archon or any of the older Haemonculi, their psyches stained black with centuries of embracing depravity and sin. For himself, he was still young in the ways of the Ynneas Eladrith, and still had quite a bit of depravity he still wished to embrace. So he had nothing to truly compare to the horrific, wrenching, sucking void in front of him.

Keshariel took an involuntary step backward, adrenaline surging through him as the sudden horror triggered his fight response. He calmed himself with difficulty, taking several deep breaths, and managed not to jam both his ceremonial Wych-blades into the abomination's skull up to the hilts.

" ... find the cerebral-barb ..." What was the trinket, and why should they care? It was plainly a test to see how compliant they would be. If the Dracon could only find this as the best option, perhaps he could take his mission and shove it up his no doubt extensively reworked poste- Oh. Sarele had not only accepted this little play-mission on behalf of the group, he was assigning them partners with which to begin the merry little hide and seek. Keshariel held in a sigh. There was no sense in being stubborn and at least he'd not got the little weasel to babysit.

No, he'd got the crazy psyker.

Sarele seemed to recognise this, though, as he clandestinely handed Keshariel the vial of Dreamcatcher. Wise. If she stepped out of line and into the line of fire again, the Witch would be taking another extended sojourn in the land of dreams.

"You are with me," he said to the reeling psyker, offering her a hand to steady herself. Normally, he reflected, such a forbidden woman would at least elicit a curious response, but so far her antics just seemed to verge on the edge of psychosis. And insanity, at least without the added flair of power and influence that graces many an Archon and tempts many a would-be consort to bed, just wasn't something he found attractive. So it was with a simple professionalism, devoid of any hint of flirtation, that he shepherded her away from the Living Void and into the labyrinthine corridors of the upper sectors of the ship.

Thinking along the lines of a test, he found a slightly less cowed, and therefore more important slave, and asked him,

"We have been tasked to find a 'cerebral barb'. Where would we find such a thing, and what does it look like?" He paused. "More to the point, what does it do?" Keshariel had suspicions about the Null-Mind's mention of a conduit. Still, the crazy deviant wasn't getting her fancy sword back just yet.


Go to upper part of ship, find slave, ask questions. If the Captain or one of his buddies has hidden it, Keshariel reasons they won't have dumped it in the bilges or something. Well, it's a place to start.

Zaonath is not getting her sword back until after class is over

"My sword!" Zaonath simply stared at the witchblade as Keshariel approached. She took the offered hand, while at the same time trying to clutch at the blade.
"It's my sword...."

The witch followed the wych, too confused to let go. She tried once in a while on grabbing the blade, and muttering to herself.
Keshariel addressed a slave, asking about the barb.

Zaonath had a small flashback as she stumbled over, after reaching for the witchblade again.
"Give me my sword or i'm telling the exarch!" she screamed from the floor. She didn't really care that the wych was speaking to someone.

Keshariel turned to respond to the shrieking chi- no, woman, once he had finished talking with the slave. He regarded her with astonished attention at her display, his head slightly to one side, the sword kept well away from her unhinged clutches.

"What is an Exarch?" He shook his head slightly, explaining in a clear voice that he hoped she would understand. "You are not getting the sword back, because you keep attacking everyone we meet. You are a danger to yourself and others. You are not back on your soft, easy-living Craftworld now. Here, such prima donna behaviour will get you killed."

"If necessary, by me."

"Now pick yourself up and start behaving like a true Eldar!"

Where did they get a Blank? This was running through X'leith's mind. Knowing that the so called untouchables were incredibly rare it must have to some feat, or some amazing luck to procure one of them. The uneasy feeling the incubus was feeling was different than just pain. This was new to him. He seemed to enjoy it slightly. Not because it was comfortable, because he could use this to further his art. If I could hone my skills with this level of uncomfort then I could fight through anything.

X'leith turned to the Klaivex and spoke. "How would you like to get some sparing in once this barb nonsense is resolved? This would be a great environment to improve out mental fortitude in combat."

Upon the completion of the conversation, X'leith headed off to find this barb. He was eager to begin training. "Good, Klaivex, I am heading off to find this "barb". Would you care to join me? We could find some sport while looking for thieves.

The blankness of the Captain was immediately apparent to Maeve. She steeled herself as she got closer, remembering that she'd n'ever really gotten used to it last time she'd been on one of these ships. Would there be more of them? They were hardly uncommon in Sheed communities. Oh dear, Zaonath is going to have an awful time waking up. I do hope she doesn't become more hostile...
"...You've brought me another conduit? How thoughtful." Oh gods. I hope not.
"You find me the Cerebral Barb..." Maeve shuddered at the mention of it. That had slipped her mind previously. Did she really have to see that again? "...And bring whoever stole it and you shall have your own cabins. We set off for realspace now. You have two hours."
Sarele quickly dished out groups to everyone. Maeve turned to the Incubus to ask where he suggested searching first, but he had already asked the Klaivex to join him. She shrugged- she'd been the only Eldar on a Sheed ship before, it wouldn't make any difference to be off by herself again. The others might find it more helpful to stick together, but she felt she recognised enough of the foreign characters written on the walls to get a fair idea of where she was going. Perhaps she might find a Sheed more willing to help her if she spoke in its own tongue? Although they might just treat it as a parlour trick like some of the others had. She sighed, and walked off in search of the horrid instrument.

After the Scourge had taken charge and dicatated where the gathering of Eldar were to go the group quickly dispersed, like dust in the wind: quiet and deadly. They crept in their separate directions unsure of what to make of the Sheed, their Captain or the task at hand. Was it merely a test, or was it something deeper, something more important? It seemed that there would only be one way to tell for certain; to retrieve the cerebral barb and return it to the master of the ship…

It seemed the Myr had other ideas. He was suspicious, that much was clear to the Klaivex that tailed him. There had been a brief conversation between the two Shrine-blades in which the Klaivex had shrugged to the suggestion of training. It was always good to train, but sometimes it could get tedious, he thought to himself. It was difficult to trust a creature that was both untouchable and seemingly reptilian. Myr and Tarrar progressed to the mess hall, past numerous slaves and chambers along the way. The worst part about the Sheed ships was the fact that they couldn’t keep things simple. Even the Imperial’s knew to keep corridors running long and straight, but from where the aliens had grafted ships together path ran into room, making travelling awkward and staying away from danger difficult.

Before the Incubus had been able to finish saying “Care to join me?” the Klaivex had been lost. And so had the Corsair. It seemed that the Klaivex had followed the chef and Maeve had gone off on a side route at the Incubus’s slightly rude act of ignoring her. To tell where she’d gone would be like trying to peel a deceased foes face from his skull with a cocktail stick. There were dozens of capillary hallways that went in many directions. Some were darker than others, lit by flickering glow-globes while others were seemingly pitch black, the faint outlines of creatures becoming apparent if one stared for too long. A little longer and the distinct sound of blades being drawn could be heard. X’leith thought it better to chose one of the other halls and try to find information on this barb, or whoever may have taken it.

Sarele wandered alone, his wits sharp and eyes keen. He had been searching for anything that might have been of use to them. Clues, suspicious looking people, the barb…
They were supposed to find this thing, but not one of them actually knew what it looked like. At lest he had taken charge and split them up. It would most likely be quicker this way, even at the risk of a little more danger. Something became snagged at his boot. He looked down to find a person dying on the floor, his weak grasp around the Scourge’s ankle. This man seemed to be Eldar in origin too, but not of the Eldarith Ynneas variety.
“H-help…”
The Scourge looked down at this man and viewed his surroundings. There was no sign of a struggle in the immediate area and this man appeared to be sick; something not common for Eldar. Something was off, however. This man’s voice, though weak, came with a power that was somewhat off-putting. “Help… me.” He dropped a small stone to the floor. A precious gem!
Further up the hallway a door had been forgotten, left open a crack and unlocked; a perfect place to hide a heinous act. He whitnessed the Spirit Stone upon the man’s breast and came to a dilemma.

It was an interesting state of affairs, a Wych having to babysit a Witch while holding a confiscated blade which repulsed to the touch. The worst part was that the Craftworlder had even threatened to go to her Exarch in some lucid throwback to a younger state of mind. How impertinent! Also, what was an Exarch?
At least after this temper tantrum Keshariel had been able to find a slave that may have been of use to them.
"We have been tasked to find a 'cerebral barb'. Where would we find such a thing, and what does it look like?" He paused. "More to the point, what does it do?"
The slave, a lesser Sheed with a malnourished form and cracked, discoloured scales looked up from her duties discerningly and somewhat aloof. “Cerebral barb?” It asked, straining to speak. The poor creature was blatantly starved and brutalised, but that was the leastof the Eldar’s concern. As the Wych motioned for the slave to continue, Zaonath attempted once again to reclaim her prized blade. The almost childish mannerisms of the mad psyker made the Wych hold the Witchblade high above the Craftworlder’s reach. Zaonath made bitter curses and childish pleads to reclaim the sword, but to no avail.
“The cerebral barb…” it reminisced, “only once have I seen that blasted thing used; never again shall peace be found.”
One of the Eldar listened, curious. The other reached up like a mon-keigh for a shattered dream.
“That barb… it’s essential for our travel. I heard rumours that it had gone missing, but I had not been certain.” She leant forward, whispering for only the Wych to hear: “Make sure that friend of yours is kept away from the Captain if you get the barb. The barb allows us to navigate the immaterium, but for the price of a beacon-soul.”

Around the ground many boxes and files were littered. Many of these proved of no interest to Zaonath. She could not stand on them; they were too flimsy to support her weight. She kicked them aside in frustration to hear one rattle in a fashion recognisable and dreadful. Having spent many years serving as a Dark Reaper had helped her appreciate how weapons of all kinds could be used with a scalpel’s precision, even if the scalpel was in the form of a bomb. Zaonath kept silent for a moment, figuring out what to do next. The logical thing to do would be to dispose of it and question the female… but that was logic, and the Witch seemed to prefer emotion to reason.

Myr and Tarrar had found the mess hall with a small detour to find the cabins that they would be forced to reside in… the worrisome part was that there were only four of them. Somebody might have to share with the Witch. There was one upside, however. In each room an assortment of cheeses and crude meets had been presented with bread and some sort of spreadable fat. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than anything served elsewhere.
The smell of charred flesh and singed hair was the first thing to meet the senses as they entered the dining area. Long, ovular tables went in rows down the room leading to a large whining unit that seemed to provide whatever filth was being eaten. Few of the crew were present, but as the newcomers walked in it became apparent that there was an air of poorly subdued hostility. It might have been the lukewarm ground up slave-mince that they were forced to eat making the Eldar look exceedingly appetising, however.

X’leith moved quickly through the corridors. He wasn’t sure of where he was heading, but he knew that he could get information from questioning the Sheed, or their slaves. After passing numerous shifty eyes without displaying any sign of concern, the Incubus arrived in a large stone-floored arena. Blood streaks decorated the scratched ground and pools of fluid ran into the recesses of cracked stone.
Around the arena stood many different creatures of rank and stature with differing weapons and battle damage. Some were daubed in bodily fluids while others stood around, surveying the carnage. In the Incubus’s mind this was one of two things: first, a gladiatorial arena meant for duels, dispute settling and pleasure; or a training facility for Sheed outside of combat.

It was Maeve who found the aliens coming to her instead of having to go to the aliens. One of the oversized beasts had made its way to the Corsair, hissed a greeting and smiled as the young Eldar finished the old saying in the serpentine tongue. This creature had no intention of causing harm. Maeve recognised her as a female, the calmer, more logical side of the strange race.
“It’s rare to find Eldar that would “lower” themselves to speak in our tongue.” She communicated quietly, so the patrolling male marauders couldn’t overhear. “Follow me.”
The alien lowered herself onto all limbs, scuttling through the darkness of the bowels of the vessel to find a safe place out of harm’s reach. “I’m sure you have plenty of questions… I’ve heard that Tsak has sent you to find a… trinket. This is dangerous business.”
The alien led Maeve into her own personal habitation unit so they could discuss the matters more privately.

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Sarele: The man will likely be a useful ally if provided with the correct medical attention. He possesses a Spirit Stone.

X’leith: Four prominent figures stand around the arena. Each one is Sheed. One possesses a Power Sword. One possesses an Eviscerator, a two handed Chainsword wielded in one of the alien’s great hands. The other two carry an assortment of whips and close combat weapons; the first is daubed in green war paint while the second is younger looking yet seems more aggressive. They might be able to provide you with information… if you prove skilled enough.

Zaonath: Your skill in explosives has helped you recognise a hidden bomb in one of the boxes near the desk. The female Sheed does not seem to have noticed you kick it aside, but the truth is all too apparent to you. There’s a bomb. What you do with this information is up to you. (Try not to get blown up)

All: Feel free to use your imaginations and do whatever your mind tells you, within reason. If anybody wants to carry on conversations or build them then I will be able to use either the RP chat box with you at some point in the next week or we can make conversations via PM.

Zaonath scrambled up and kicked some more boxes aside. She paid no attention at all to the wych nor the sheed who were talking.

"This isn't right at all!" she muttered, chewing her fingernails. She looked around, trying to think what this place was, in the ship. And where it was. She reached for her belt by instinct, at the pouch of runes, until she remembered she was still at Commorragh. Then she reached for her witchblade, which was not there either. Then she simply thought for a moment.

She glanced at the wych after a brief moment of silence (at least for her, not paying attention to any other sounds).

"Keep it." she said, waving her hand in Keshariel's direction. The witch would continue on a hunt for more weapons. She wanted a gun, a big one. "I will claim my blade later." she muttered, walking away to a random direction.

Any source of weapons will do... preferrably something I know how to use, though.
She walked a corridor and tried not to observe the weird walls of the ship.
She carefully observed every creature she encountered in the ship.
Someone here is bound to know where the armory is. If these stupid things even know to have one.

Any slaves, she ignored. The first warrior, she would stop and question.
"Hey! You look like you know where you have all the weapons? Where?"
If the sheed would respond in any disrespect, she would draw her witchblade she would trade it for insults.

And with this, the Witch wandered away in a random direction. Keshariel didn't know why. He didn't know where. He only knew that she'd been poking and rattling away at the boxes. Certainly for now, possibly for ever, he wasn't giving the crazy psyker access to anything so sharp, so he kept the strange psychic blade as he sifted the slave's words.

"... make sure you keep that friend of yours away ..." Keshariel took in the whispered words intently. He nodded.

"Well, she is no friend of mine, but ... I take your point. The Witch is a liability if allowed to run free, to herself as well. Unfortunately, as you can see she has not been gifted with a sense of self-preservation."

"Will it kill her to have the cerebral-barb implanted? I imagine it will. Given what you have told me of the horror." He fished out something edible from his supplies, and handed it to the slave. No harm in making it known that giving him information was a good thing.

He didn't need to find Zaonath. The Sheed Captain would do that, once he had his cerebral-barb. The question was, was the tall Wych prepared to let the psyker be fed to the thing's appetites? Keshariel paused. The mad Witch was possessed of powers too illegal to even contemplate for long in the Dark City, but she was Eladrith, even if of a debased and effete line. To allow one of a clearly lesser race, a brutish animal one at that, to think they could get away with treating even a psyker as a disposable resource .. well, now, did he want that?

He stalked away, catching sight of his athletic profile in the reflective surface of one of the observation windows. The long coat with its high, furred collar swirled around him, offering glimpses of the Wych suit beneath. He tilted his head, nodding approvingly. Perhaps a look one might adapt for the arena, after all. Some kind of cold weather hunt, perhaps. A winter arena, ice-hung branches, snow and blood on the ground, and himself, carving frosted death-kisses into his victims with the elegance of a lithe, nocturnal predator. Enchanting. He must mention it to the Succubus.

As distracting as the thought was it was not the time to daydream of brighter things. He was here, on this ship full of barbarians, with a tiresome mission to find their missing trinket, if missing it truly was. With a sigh the elegant Narcissus tore himself away, striding more purposefully after the direction in which the Witch had gone.

Keshariel had made up his mind. If the Captain wanted the cerebral-barb, he also wanted the psyker to go with it. If the device needed a psyker, it probably had a signature that would call to such as Zaonath. And she was helpfully crazy enough to take it. He grinned. Perhaps this might be fun after all.

Gathering his thoughts, Keshariel began to stalk silently after Zaonath, looking for her trail, planning to shadow her as had done on many infiltration missions. After all, one does not generally garotte an enemy from the front.



Keshariel is not planning to garotte Zaonath but to follow her stealthily in secret, and hope she finds the barb because she is extremely psychic. He wants to shadow her and be there in the background - he's not sure what his endgame is yet should she find it.

X'leith, upon entering the combat room suddenly gets a warm fuzzy feeling deep inside. "I don't not pretend to know much about your culture, but I assume you get your answers through combat. If that be the case, I have some questions"

His klaive slowly raises. "Shall we begin the interrogation?"

Suspicious to the figure on the floor, Sarele drew his splinter pistol and readied himself. Sarele flipped the eldar over. Howl.
"Who are you? What are you doing on this ship? Answer me!", Sarele threatened. With another quick glance around and making sure nobody was around, Sarele pondered on the thought of what to do next. The eldar wasn't too responsive nor making sense. Now kneeling and getting closer to get a better look on him.
"If you don't start talking, I might have to leave you here with a real wound.", another screech. Sarele started to pull on the man.
"I have time, I could help you in exchange for information, you did ask for help didn't you? And what is this?", Sarele was now picking up the gem and studying it, while still holding a painful grasp over the sick eldar.
"I will help you, it's just that I'm not feeling safe or trusting about strangers in a suspicious ship among suspicious creatures. You get it cousin?"

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Sarele will attempt to get information out of him, in exchange for helping him out, if he can. But Sarele will get information on the barb and the sheed first, then maybe help...