To Rise Above the Fall

[Please see the Out of Character thread for more information.]


The First Dance

Strong-willed, devious and capable free Ynneas Eladrith wanted for search and retrieval Realspace mission. Further details upon application to Dracon Seshella Verrax, Kabal of the Night’s Destruction.

You will travel to the abandoned third moon of Lyris 9 in the Menthis Cluster to find and bring back (whole and untampered) an artifact of interest to myself – all else in the vicinity is yours for the taking. Additional soul-chits to the value of standard raiding party rates per day will be held in bond ‘til your return.

Anticipate danger and risk. Worthwhile plunder and ancient secrets await those bold enough to seize the chance with an iron fist! Victory brings you the notice of a powerful Dracon well-placed to reward those she finds worthy. Further work an option to the successful crew.


Webway portal (two way) and map will be lent to successful applicants. Arms and armour not supplied. Ammunition will be compensated. Service of Repair arranged by request. Service of Revisceration, Resanguination and Cellar Renewal arranged at the Workshops of the celebrated Master Haemonculus Mistress Vriss Selventhrane. One Resurrection Free.

Haemonculi and Mandrakes need not apply.

By my Hand
Dracon Seshella Verrax of the Kabal of Night’s Destruction, the Stars Her Throne, Trueborn Lady of the Right Hand of Archon Ascaron, Lauded by Thousands, Held in Awe and Despair by her Loving Vassals, Feared Across the Cataraxian Gap, Most Sensual and Excellent Torturer, Queen in Crimson-Hemmed Garments.

To the Rule of Vect be True! Vengeance is Victory.


The notice, complete with pompous Trueborn titles and formula Gods Save the Vect coda, has been circulating the lower spires of High Commorragh and the more select establishments of the Ynnealidh for less than twenty-four hours. A location is provided for more information, and an informal meeting with the Dracon. The question is not whether she can be trusted; it is whether she wants the artifact badly enough to keep her word. To judge by the handwritten original the note has been holofaxed from, she wants it rather badly. Perhaps there is an opportunity here …

High above the tall, tapering spire of the Mews, where the slave-children say Mistress Selventhrane makes angels, Scourge messengers soar and glide on thermals, joined by a faltering shape on newly-bloodied wings. No-one moves to help him.

Having made the rendezvous at the appropriate time, you are shown by grim-faced Kaballites of the Night's Destruction to where Dracon Seshella Verrax, tall, voluptuous, high-booted and clad in the latest fur-edged sheath-dress of High Commorragh fashion - the only fashion that matters, here in the pleasure gardens that ring the base of the Mews - is waiting in the summer house. The old building is of elegant design whose glassless windows are designed to foil the echodroppers and vox-spies that would plague mere vitreous panes. Each window is instead shrouded in spidersilk-laced planes of pitted crystal, whose micro-grooves hold a venomed surprise for anyone thinking to be so crass as to break one. This much of the security is common knowledge, but the two towering Incubi either side of the lady, looking stoically on as she reclines, examining the keen edge of her djinn blade, are a visible extra touch. The Dracon rises, and it is easy to guess that the gemstones adorning the decorative blades in her hair have a more practical function, too. Carefully replacing the sword, she draws one of these and turns to the slender figure stretched between two of the posts holding up the roof, thoughtfully regarding her handiwork. The residual suffering hanging over the tableau permeates the air like incense.

The slender Dark Eldar male has been stripped to the waist and his once toned, muscular torso looks peculiarly wasted, the skin taut and dry. His mouth hangs slack but his lips are as dry as parchment, and his eyes flicker with a dull hopefulness as she approaches. Seshella considers him, the blade poised, but instead stoops to where a ewer of water is resting near his feet, just out of reach. She pours a glass and leans up, offering him the chalice. He drinks, eyes closed in something approaching ecstasy as the liquid is permitted to flow, only as long as she wishes.

"Not too much," she soothes, murmuring like one feeding a beloved pet. "More later. You are severely dehydrated. I will release you tonight and I want to be sure you will not gorge and split your liver." A shake of the tousled head, barely perceptible. "Good, good, then sparing you was not an error and you will live to repay my favour." She snaps her fingers, turning to one of the Incubi guards. "Cut him down and take him to the infirmary." If the Incubus objects to such menial work, he gives no sign.

"I dislike failure." With a bright smile the lady turns to you and bids you be seated. The summer house has a scatter of low divans, and a riot of soft cushions and bright paintings of olden days cover its walls, illuminated by flickering crystal lamps that are wrought in the shape of a hand holding a heart. Anatomically correct, each modelled organ oozes amber light instead of lifeblood, lending a soft radiance to the scene. The Dracon herself takes a seat on her couch, where there is ample room to sit beside her.

"So, you see the opportunity for us all in this." She smiles once more, bringing to mind the old proverb, When the lady smiles, the knives come out. "Excellent. I count three warriors, a Reaver, an Incubus, and oh - a Wrack." She rises, walking over to pay Excision her special regard. She notes his chains and curved blades, and smiles. "Black Descent, unless I am much mistaken, hmm?" Something in her approval has more the ring of an arena-master overlooking the beast-pits. "I am so glad you seem to have overcome that distressing smell so many of your kind have. Here." she slips one of the tiny blades out of her hair and hands it to him, hilt first, "you will find a use for this, I am sure. Something entertaining."

Pacing to the side of Kayle she nods, as one woman to another, a game of course for her status - in this room at least - is by far the higher. "Good to see one of the noble houses taking an interest in street life. It would be so dull if you were all birthed from the same gutter."

"However, gutters can hold many dropped treasures for those with the eyes to see them. I have chosen you from all the applicants for my mission because you, of all those who wished for advancement or merely for the money, have something else. Something I can see. You want this more badly than they do. You want success, and you are prepared to risk to get your place in the stars. I know that look, because I have it myself." Her gaze sweeps over the mismatched or battered armour of Chy'ier and Valarauka, the scarred skin of Daranúr. Finally, she looks up at the Incubus Caethir and his impassive skull-mask. "Your presence, though, that is a surprise, though a welcome one."

Seshella momentarily drops the facade of decadent society noblewoman suddenly and completely. With simple earnestness she brings out a small box and opens it to reveal a star-chart on holopaper - tough, durable, able to project a three-dimensional image and, in the better examples, show a sequence through time. This one is programmed to show the webway co-ordinates leading to portal closest to the mines on the third moon of Lyris 9 in the Menthis Cluster.

"The mines were abandoned several centuries ago, when the Kabal exploiting them was wiped out in a minor skirmish with some other, I forget which." This may not be the whole truth, but she carries on. "The point of course is that they have not mined them for a long time, which leads my careful research to conclude that what they abandoned will be intact. Bring me a rectangular box, dark red in colour, rivetted shut in the Imperial style, unopened and intact and everything and anyone you find in the way is yours and my favour besides. The portal site was damaged in the fighting so you will need to use the webway gate I've given you."

She lays out several more items: another map, this time of the mine workings and minehead buildings; a small two-way webway portal generator; two vials of Grave Lotus; three pip-ampoules of Hypex; two shots of Pain-bringer; and the personal seal of a Dracon of the Night's Destruction.

"Who'll carry the generator? Oh - best make it you, my honourable friend." She hands the portal device to Caethir.

"For the rest, I don't care. Use the seal to requisition provisions and a vehicle from the dockspur. It's designed to degrade over time, so if you're back in a few days it should serve as a means to identify you and bring you back to me. You have a short time for questions, then I have an appointment."

Strolling idly past on the way back to her seat, she leans in to speak to Kayle in a quiet murmur. "A dozen vials of Adrenalight from my personal collection if you manage to seduce the Incubus."




Extra Information:

Chy'ier: You can see a further six Kaballites hidden in the dark recesses of the summer house, standing still, and - a nice touch, this - an extra Incubus lying along one of the roof beams.

Excision: The hanging figure has not been tortured with blades, but has been denied water for you would estimate at least three days.

Stop laughing.

Who are you laughing at?

Her? What game? What are the rules?

Oh! Ok.

Chy’ier looks around frantically to start, but calms down after a second of searching for seemingly nothing.

I count five… no six! They’re not really good at this game.

Quietly clapping to himself. What do you mean there is another? Really? He said as he starts to look up.

OH! HI! You’re quite good!

Suddenly, Chy’ier looks down at his feet in a state of shock.

Don’t say that.

She is not a coward.

Yes I know the tied up man was a show, that doesn’t mean she is harmless.

Look! She has friends to protect her! They won’t harm her! He said as he gestures suddenly to the room, causing a grenade to fall from his kit and roll towards a far wall.

Oops. He said as he starts running after the grenade that finally stops beside a far wall.

Excuse me, sorry. He mutters a bit too loudly as he picks his grenade up and stuffs in his kit while walking back to his seat.

Besides, be nice she’s giving us food!

Seize the initiative. Or, at least, show some backbone.

Valarauka walked forward at a relaxed pace, reaching the assortment of supplies and picking up a the map of the mines. He opened the box and gave a quick glance at the holo. He looked back at his fellow enterprising Commorites, then casually closed the box, but did not put it down. Finally, he turned to face Seshella and bent ever so slightly at the waist so his eyes could meet hers at a very precise angle, one that he had learned to utilize when addressing his supposedly more noble kinsmen. He sought to convey confidence without arrogance, an acceptance of a difference in status without being defined by it. It had worked on many a stupid trueborn, but no one who can hire a pack of Incubi could be judged stupid. Still, it was worth a shot.

"My Lady, let me assure you that you may consider this job as good as done. I believe you have assembled a most adequate group for the completion of this important errand. We have everything that could be required...only." Valarauka narrowed his eyes slightly and let his genial demeanor transition into a flat, neutral expression, "Only I must ask a question or two. Does this small favor My Lady has bestowed on my honorable colleague-" in a fluid motion he gestured to indicate the portal generator held by Caethir using his hand that was holding the mine map, held for a half second, then returned to face the Dracon again to continue speaking, "Does this indicate any preference of My Lady for the choice of leader for our expedition? An experienced, capable voice of command would be most useful in preventing unnecessary delays and casualties, thus I would seek to remove any...confusion about this issue as soon as possible. Would My Lady rather weigh our respective credentials, or may we be free to decide the matter for ourselves?"

Valarauka finished speaking, putting an emphasis on 'decide'. He knew very well that he was not the strongest of the group physically. In fact, he may well be the weakest. He was gambling that this Dracon didn't want to see her precious sojourners kill each other soon, and would either give a clear answer or else trust them to talk it out. He hoped she would let them talk, as he willed his face to transition back to relaxed, confident features.

Lowering her head at the proposal ever so slightly, Kayle ran her eyes across the form of the Incubus and imagining the tall, well built physic scuplted through intense combat training, hidden beneath his bespoke armour and flashes of pleasure activities they could share racing in her mind, which resulted in a small smirk directed at her employer.

"I will need to take a look at your ships at the dockspur My Lady, meaning no disrespect, just I need to run through a number of checks in preparations for our trip-", eyeing up each of her 'accomplices' slowly, "-and familarise myself with the controls as I imagine I will be taking the wheel, so to speak" before turning slightly to face Lady Verrax again.

Leaning in towards her and mumuring slightly, "I assume proof will be required for this little wager of yours", keeping her voice low enough to not allow the others to know their game.

The Incubus begrudgingly cut down the husk of a Eldar from the ceiling. Caethir recongized him being from the Shrine of The Bloodied Blade, a small but honorable shrine. He had fought both against and with many of that shrine's pupils in several raids, and to see such a proud warrior of Khaine reduced to doing menial work made Caethir's blood simmer. But Caethir was not here to comment on the Dracon's use of her tools. He was here on The Guild's orders to complete this task of hers. The Guild had recently started trading through the Kabal of Night's Destruction's territory, and they dont want to start another turf war, pulling their resources even thinner than they already were. To This Caethir was sent to gain favor with one of their Dracon, and also hopefully gain The Guild another customer in the process.

The Dracon then started to go through and try to gain dominance over each of those that answered the call of her services. First was a Wrack. The Wrack was just like all of his kind, ugly and unelegant. Its pale and wiry frame hid a strength and speed that was decievingly good. Caethir knew much about the works of Haemonculi, and knew that although this wrack had no weapons on his to speak of other than some surgical tools, it was a dangerous being that would tirelessly follow its misson to the end. The Lady seemed to have a special interest in the Wrack, but to of what extent Caethir cared not.

Next the Dracon nodded to the only female of the group. This woman was dressed in a style that showed Highborn status, but it was interesting to notice the weathered boots and the smell of oil that a Reaver would give off. This points to just some Highborn looking for some fun and excitement. She most likely had no experience in actual combat, and would likely slow the group down. He would have to keep a close eye on her, as this mission must suceed.

The others of the group were not impressive at all, and the Dracon quickly dismissed them as low lives that did not deserve her time. Sadly if her Highblood arrogance would of not taken over her insight, she would of notice that the group was a weird assortment of characters. First up there was a particularly brutal thug of a Dark Eldar. His hands are that of a sword master, and his scars were a glimpse of hard life. Caethir would put a bet on that whoever left those scars on him, was not alive this day. He would be a worthy ally on this mission. Although Caethir was sure his skills were better than this mercenary, he did not want to lose such a potential ally. Maybe after all of this was done, Caethir would intoduce him to The Guild.

Another was a tall and skinny warrior. He carried no blade that Caethir could see, and his hands were worn only on the palms. Most likely this one prefered guns to the sword. Caethir did not trust anyone did not follow the blade, this one seemed especially distrustful. A threat from the front he was not, but from behind...

Finally there was a young one among the group. Almost feral in his actions, the youth looked like he scavaged everything off the street. Although he would probably have no traditional combat training, his eyes show that of a monster, feral and unpredicable. His actions were slightly off as well. A threat if not properly reigned in.

The Mistress finally came to Caethir. "Your presence, though, that is a surprise, though a welcome one." she said. It seemed she was truely suprised by the sight of an Incubus answering her summons. It was rare to see an Incubus without first going through his Shrine, and Caethir guessed having one show up would be disconserning to anyone. "Why thank you Miss. My employer would like a word with you, but being a busy Lord as you are, they thought you would be more inclined to give them some time if your job was done expediently." The Dracon nodded, and continued on with the briefing.

The briefing was short. It covered the basics of the plan. Get in, get out. Hopefully nothing too complicated. This object intrigued Caethir. Why would she go through such illregular means of hiring mercenaries to get this artifact, when she could pull Kabal rescources to get it? It was odd, but Caethir has learned over the years of service not to question the whys, just the hows.

"Who'll carry the generator? Oh - best make it you, my honourable friend." The Mistress sticks the portal out to Caethir. It was a smart tactical move on her part, give the one with the most combat experience the only way in or out. This forces the others to carry through with the mission, as she almost undoubtably realizes that once an Incubus accepts a job, he is honor bound to complete it. "Thank you My Lady" Caethir says with a slight bow, taking the protal and securing it in a pouch. He also walks up and picks up the seal, for it would be of importance later on return to Commoragh.

The slick one was trying to sweet talk the Dracon into getting a better status among the group. His sharp tongue working its cowardly magic. Caethir cared not. His mission was a simple one, and he had no connection to these riftraff other than they had the same mission. He would complete it for the Honor of his Shrine, and that was all that mattered.

"Mistress, I would suggest that you choose a leader as well. This is an... interesting group and it someone to focus it towards the goal." Of course Caethir cared not who would be picked. But he needed someone else to take the attention off of him. His job was to complete the mission, and nothing else. To lead would mean that 4 knives would be pointing at his back for the entire mission, and Caethir already had enough to worry about.

Daranúr sighed in exasperation. Yes, this could prove bountiful. Yes, this could make him rich. Yes, this could provide him with dangerous allies; but his question remained: why in this whole damned district was everybody so rich but they could not afford a simple, comfortable chair! He was a mercenary, not a member of the pleasure houses. How could he be expected to be perched comfortably upon a cushion?
He did not voice his concern, however, as he thought I may provide him with a terrible fate… judging by the Eldar that had been suspended above them in recent moments. With the Dracon’s command he finally gave in and clunkily took himself to the ground, settling uneasily upon one of the finely woven pillows. They were surely made for sleeping, not sitting!

Carefully he eyed up those that had been gathered in the Dracon’s presence. He Recognised none of them, but that was to be expected in such a vast city. The Incubus had caught his eye immediately. What could make an Eldar whose skill was forged in battle and whose stoic elitism was indoctrinated firmly into their mind from acceptance into the shrine want to take part on such a menial mission? This one must have a backstory… whatever it was; Daranúr didn’t even humour the idea of pretending to care. Having an Incubus would be an invaluable ally.
The others did not catch his eye much, other than the stumbling Wrack. Who had let him out to play? Daranúr wondered.
The others didn’t seem to bother him or catch his attention at all, but he had judged each one individually. That youngling, Valaruka, Daranúr tried to recall his name, he seemed to be the leading type… not the kind to lead and win, he thought, but the kind to lead and be found crying behind a boulder. He knew that only time could prove him right, so he sought not to make up his mind too quickly.
The mad one, Chy’ier, made the mercenary have to hide his amusement at his madness. This mission could prove to be fun, after all.

The briefing was over quickly with no questions or speech aimed at him directly. This was how he liked it. If everything else would go as smoothly then Daranúr would be very, very happy and very, very rich!

He waited silently to watch the questions of the others about leadership and other seemingly irrelevant factors before deciding whether to speak or not. He knew that the mission would get done one way or another, so for now he waited for the Dracon to answer the others.

The world seemed almost nonexistent for a time, the youth’s hidden eyes fixated upon the weary husk of a Eldar hanging from the garden column. The Wrack had not even registered the other members of this little troupe had arrived, or if he had, he never made any sign of the matter. Blank eyes as dark as the endless void of space peered unblinking through the horizontal slits of his visor, the only sound to escape him being the ragged and rather labored intakes of air that caused his chest to heave back and forth while the chains on his person rattled in tune.

Deprivation of water and food for an estimated three or four days, put on display for the arriving cohort to see. He knew exactly what this was, something he had seen all too often employed by Archons he’d been in service to or even his own masters… well, former masters. It was a display of power and a sign of warning for failure. While normally such displays came in a variety of unique and creative ways from flaying the skin and meat from a failure’s face to allow the ‘guests’ to observe the screaming skull, to something more ostentatious as forcing the potential mercenaries to dine on the cooked remains of their predecessors.

This however was neither interesting nor creative. Infact it was quite boring, to say the least yet, he could not deny the effectiveness of it. In a society where ostentatious and outlandish mutilation and torture was a norm, it was always the simple things that seemed to hold a more potent sway over its inhabitants. Eldar of Commoragh were taught to endure pain and suffering, many even delighting in the savage play of masochism. Yet to bring an Eldar low, without causing pain or suffering, and leaving them as frail and weak as a Mon-keigh infant. That was quite the potent form.

Immediately, the youth had taken a liking for this Dracon, first and foremost for her cunning ability to display her control of psychology. When he finally laid eyes upon her, he could not help but sense a sudden but subtle quickening in his own labored breathing. She was beautiful, of that he had no doubt. There was something and about his sleek curvy design that caused his eyes to wander slightly but what encouraged him further was the deadly efficiency she carried herself with. It reminded him of those Succubi that dance in the Flaying-Pits, moving with the bulrring speed and grace of a goddess to perform such beautiful and agonizing art. Perhaps this Dracon had taken training from the Wyches, a simple question he would never know the answer to.

His mind snapped out of this trailing thought when he heard her voice and the title of his status, Wrack. Head rising up slightly, he pulled his eyes from the floor and back towards the woman who was, surprisingly enough approaching him. He said nothing to the woman, his splayed and mutilated tongue fumbling for the words to speak, though he could achieve nothing. Social skills and never been his forte, and as a servant of a Flesh-Weaver, he never had to speak in general. But now that he was on his own, he would be forced to acquire such a skill in time…. And it was not exactly helping that his first test of dialogue was with a female so attractive.

Excision… ah yes, that was the name his ‘father’, his master had given him… Excision was taken rather by surprise when she evaluated his Coven of origins. Oh so many times before he had heard the jeering stereotype that ‘all wracks’ look the same, and too their credit, they weren’t that far from the truth. Despite their unique malformations and surgical processes, most wracks wore the same robes, aprons, and ceremonial masks. Perhaps it was the chains draped around his arms and back, perhaps it was the black ichor-like paint of his mask and armour plates, or perhaps it was the white swirling spiral marked over his faceplate that gave away his origins. Either way, she had guessed correctly, and being that he still could not find the words to speak, he simple lowered his head in a gentle, respect nod of confirmation.

To many, the obvious tone of superiority and ownership laced with that loving approval in the Dracon’s voice would be something to be scorned and loathed in feeling so looked down upon. To the transformed youth, however, it was actually quite comforting. Unlike most of his kin, the Wrack has always found a strange need for belonging, for approval. In his master, he had found that approval and the father figure he had so desperately desired for. The way in which the ancient haemonculus has spoken to Excision was something similar to the way this woman spoke to him. It was almost heartwarming in its own twisted way.

The Wrack seemed almost stunned when she approached him with the knife, at first nearly raising up his arm to rip her apart limb from limb out of instinct to defend. Yet the small dagger spun in the palm of her hand and her fingers curled around the blade. Was she offering him a weapon?... The wrack was quite certain that this Dracon did so simply to humor him as a small gesture, that she didn’t know that to give the acolyte of a flesh-weaver a blade in which to kill and maim with, was a symbol, a sign that the individual trusted them to kill and slaughter in their name. Did she truly trust him to do such a thing? Or was she simply doing so to play with what she might assume to be a dim-witted dreg… Without a word, the flesh disciple raised up a hand and took the small handle of the blade, weighing it and examining it before easing it into the dead slack skin on his back, using his gnarl hide as a sheath for his new killing tool.

Whether she intended to or not, he would kill in her name.

"Of course." Seshella replies, the response answering both of Kayle's questions. She continues. "It would only be sensible to have an expert at the controls. I'm sure you will choose a suitable ride. I have a trusted lieutenant at the dockspur who will be most cooperative in providing a vehicle."

There is a short pause as the Dracon takes time to settle comfortably in her seat, regarding those of the group who had asked her questions with a studied air, as if weighing their words with care and discrimination. With the tiniest of nods, as if expressing some inner satisfaction, she meets the gaze of Valarauka once more.

"A valid question under the circumstances.Though the novelty of an egalitarian approach would be most diverting, I am with you in this regard. Perhaps you do need a leader." Was there the faintest hint of emphasis on You? If there was, could it be a tacit agreement? The Lady Seshella's eyes are hard to read. "I shall leave that to your good judgement. I am certain such pugnacious and capable individuals will soon find a way of settling who is in charge." Her eyes flick over to the silent Daranúr, sitting uncomfortably in luxury. "One way or another."

With an expression of mildly tried patience she rises, conversation with someone of like mind (if not station, in the lady Dracon's eyes) interrupted by the sudden outburst of colourful conversation from Chy'ier. With precise, slow steps her bootheels click across the floor. As he scrambles after the grenade, stuffing it back into its housing, she merely halts in front of him, holding out one gloved hand imperiously for the dropped toy.

"Most entertaining. You bring your own choir. If only they were a chorus of administering angels, perhaps, or sirens to sing your praises." She looks into his eyes with a piercing, unwavering regard. "I cannot hear what you hear. But know this. Any hint, even the merest scent of warp-idolatry and I will have your hide, and you will account that a mercy compared to the retribution my Lord Ascaron would demand." She smiles, bright, brittle, cruel. "But of course, I'm sure you're just a little ... excitable." She leans in closely for a moment, whispering in Chy'ier's ear. "You're observant and quick. Talents that serve you well. If you bring me any particularly striking, relevant gems from the edge of perception, you won't lose by telling me in confidence and as early as they come to you. Am I clear, soldier?" Straightening, she favours him with another glittering smile and returns to her seat.

"If we may proceed without any further antics." This is not really a question, as her body language underlines. She turns back to Caethir, looking at the impassive Incubus helm lending him a dignified air throughout the exchange keenly, as if she might discern any clue beneath the blank mask. "As you have correctly identified, a successful mission will gain your employer the audience he desires. Unless, of course, you prefer to take the audience yourself."

Lady Verrax pauses for a moment, then gestures to one of her Kaballites, a strong, powerful-looking woman, though a little shorter than average. The Trueborn glyph on her armour marks her out as a senior operative, though that is more than indicated by the natural arrogance of her demeanour as she steps past the seated Daranúr. The warrior hands her a small currency-stick from a pouch on her belt, the kind that comes pre-loaded with a certain amount of soul-chits. She passes it to Kayle.

"This should expedite the swift acquisition of the vehicle and any provisions you need. Ask for Lykrettil'an. He likes to try to hold out for more of a bribe than he is really entitled to, but you'll find a use for some of your more ... martial compatriots if he gives you any trouble. Any show of muscle and he backs down. The man is all talk."

"There's a transit hub at the basal entrance to the Mews, or you can find a short-hop gate to the main dockspur artery at the edge of the gardens on the sunwise side. If you go soon you should catch him before he smokes away all common sense at the end of his shift."

The interview, at least according to Lady Verrax, is at an end. She rises once more, graceful and a little languid, and her two Incubi bodyguards are joined by another, flowing silently down from the roof-struts above like blood off the edge of a Haemonculus' table. As she is about to leave, she turns back to Excision.

She smiles, seeing that he has taken her blade and her wishes very much to heart, and runs an elegant gloved hand briefly across the top of his bald skullplate, much as one might pet a gyrinx.

"Do you see the little mad one, there? Do keep an eye on him, won't you? I don't want him running off anywhere he might get himself hurt for that chatter of his."




Extra Info

Valarauka: Seshella may not have been entirely taken in by your subtle shading of eye contact and deference, but reading her more closely she is slightly impressed by the tack you took and the way you conducted yourself. It would seem that seizing the initiative is a tactic that pleases her, likely because she considers it something she'd do herself.

Daranúr: Smokes away all common sense - there is a recent drug fad among those who fancy themselves too sophisticated to ingest mere alcohol, taken as liquid drops on something then smoked or as an aerosol-based inhalation that results in relaxation, a feeling of mild euphoria, vagueness of thought, sleepiness and, so long as one sticks to reputable suppliers, only occasional fatal occlusion of the airways. Known variously as mistlight, dream-drops, N-light or dreamsmoke it is a mid-priced designer intoxicant for low-rent individuals.

“Ask for Lykrettil'an.” He committed that name to memory. The life of a bodyguard and a mercenary taught him one thing. Learn the names of all potential enemies masked as allies. “He likes to try to hold out for more of a bribe than he is really entitled to, but you'll find a use for some of your more ... martial compatriots if he gives you any trouble. Any show of muscle and he backs down. The man is all talk.”

“We shall have no trouble from him, I am sure.” He nodded slowly, taking heed of the Dracon’s advice. He would not pay a bribe, not when the flash of a blade could make the acquisition of a vehicle keep the team in a heavy pocket. Whatever they saved now could be divided up, or stolen, later. He would worry about that, though, when they got to it.

A Kabalite stepped past him and internally he thought, ‘Aren’t you a little short to be a Trueborn?’ but considered it unwise to vocalise his thoughts. He was, after all, and expendable bit of hired muscle.

“My Lady,” he raised his voice with respect above the some of the others, seeking to gain her attention. “Our payment… I wish to discuss it. Soul chits are all well and good, but I have a question. Is there the slightest chance for a title or property?” The Sight of the Trueborn made his lust for power well up inside of him. He had been given many street titles before, ‘The Highwayman of the Piercing Kill’ had by far been his favourite, but it was rare that anybody ever took heed of it. Titles such as ‘scum’ and other derogatory terms spattered with occasional cursing were much more frequent.
He brought this up due to something he had not noticed before. The slightly slower than usual breathing rate of the Dracon, combined with her dilated pupils and pallid aura suggested that she was one of the countless taking one of the latest drugs in the Dark City. This drug, this Mistmind, could make her more reasonable to negotiate with… or it could have her flay him.
‘Oh well!’ He thought. One Resurrection’s free!

And like any bemused and pleasure gyrinx, or any feline creature for that matter, the wrack purred in delight at her attention, the low rolling growl rumbling from the back of his throat. With the same instinctual behaviors of such creatures, the youth leaned in closer to enjoy her comforting touch. Did it make him look like a fool infront of others? Perhaps but he was beyond the required need of approval from such people, only that of the ones he felt the strange attraction to. Lady Verrax was most obviously one of those individuals.

He barely even knew the woman, save for her name, rank, and kabal of origins, yet he already felt a twisted connection to the woman, a void in his black heart his former master had left upon his departure. What exactly this meant, he was not quite certain, though he knew now that his goal, his motivation to complete this task, was her affection and the prospect of torment. The reward was simply an added bonus. ‘Icing on the cake’, as the Mon-keigh term went.

When she spoke to him, he could not help but lean in closer, hanging on her every word and taking in each letter as though it were a commandment from some perverse deity. His head tilted slightly to the left, allowing him to hear her better but also allowing her to pet him slightly easier. It was oh so quite comforting. Excision’s eyes turned slowly, scanning across the contents of this little troupe to the fidgeting youth, a child by any Eldarith terms. Although such things were often subtle, Excision could tell the origins of this ‘warrior’ were the birthing chambers. Tubeborn always carried a slightly stale tang to their scent, almost as if you could taste the artificial nature of their existence. His body fidgeted and jerked, perhaps premature birth? Perhaps he had not been given the proper adaptation curriculum? Whatever the circumstances, he did not truly care. If the mistress so ordered his protection, then he would follow it to the letter.

This pleasurable moment of affection was also a rather brief one. Eyes flaring open, the wrack jerked his head towards the warrior known as Daranúr. That same purr that rolled from the end of his tongue quickly escalated into a bestial snarl of dissatisfaction. Two hands, his natural hands, snapped around the chains that hung loosely by his arms. The links rattled with each movement as they swayed with his body in a threatening manner. His artificial hands also snapped into life, black claws flexing with the spasming muscles as if ready to grab ahold of the warrior at any given moment. After all, how dare he impose upon a lady with his avarice and pointless questions, especially one so generous as to hire him in the first place.

Ungrateful wretch.

“Most entertaining. You bring your own choir. If only they were a chorus of administering angels, perhaps, or sirens to sing your prases.” Looking at the gloved hand, Chy’ier seemed unsure its purpose. Suddenly getting in inkling of an idea, Chy’ier quickly goes into his kit fishing for something that would most impress the poised hunter standing before him. “But of course, I’m sure you’re just a little excitable.”

“Yes, I think you’re right.” He quietly mumbled to himself as he now searched his kit with a purpose.

“…any particularly striking, relevant gems from the edge of perception…” Finding what he was looking for a shiny, milky colored ball of some sort. He quickly hands it to her, ”Am I clear, soldier?” but with misjudged speed of his hand, he missed the palm of her hand and accedentally pushed the ball into her sharp well manicured fingers causing it to emit a small wet popping sound and slowly leaked creamy white fluid that could only be from an eyeball of some sort all over her gloved hand.

"Soldier? Is she talking to you?” he whispered while looking to his right. Finally deciding not to dwell on it, Chy’ier slowly made his way back to his seat.

“I think you’re right, we should try and not provoke anyone. Her friends with the shiny new armor might shoot us.” He quietly whispered as he took his seat next to the pretty lady that somehow seemed familiar.

“…himself hurt for that chatter of his”

“I don’t trust that one either, make sure you watch him. Yes, if it comes to that you can have the knife.” Chy’ier almost inaudibly whispered to himself as he stared at the helmeted man.

"I shall leave that to your good judgement. I am certain such pugnacious and capable individuals will soon find a way of settling who is in charge. One way or another." The answer of a true politician. She cared not who was in charge, or that anyone was in charge at all. All she wanted was the job completed.

"As you wish my Lady" Caethir did notice the quick glance to the scarred one. It was interesting to see such a opposing warrior not try to vie for leadership as well, but he, like Caethir, most likely cared little for who pretended to lead. Everything would be decided on the battlefield, and that is where true leadership shows itself.

"As you have correctly identified, a successful mission will gain your employer the audience he desires. Unless, of course, you prefer to take the audience yourself." This was an interesting offer. Why an Incubus would have such needs for an audience alluded Caethir, but he must admit having a powerful Dracon indebted to him was apealing. It was a fleeting thought though. The sooner he finished his required amount of missions, the sooner he could return to the Shrine, and once again be among his brethren in the forge of combat.

With a quick knee and a bowed head, Caethir bid the lady adeu. "Thank you for your offer my Lady, but I have no such need. You will have your trinket soon enough." And with that, he stood up and started walking towards the hop-gate. He had all he needed. The seal would provide him with access to a vehicle, and this "Lykrettil'an" could be useful as a driver, athough he was sure that some force would be needed to coerce this individual. The others were still bickering over payment, and he even heard the haemonculus' plaything bearing its teeth for some reason he cared not to decern. Caethir cared not for their useless prattle. They were wasting his time, and that is something he hated.

Understanding the double meaning of the Dracon's answer, Kayle quickly began scrolling through many different ideas to provide evidence for the Lady's game in the back of her mind, as she observed the rest of the party with a smirk on her delicate features.

The antics of her 'allies' amused her she had to admit, much more fun then the painfully boring cowards of High Commoragh, though the Incubus was the most intriging to Kayle even before the Lady's wager. Why would one of them take on such a task? Her train of thought was interrupted by the Warrior who stepped in front of her.

" Lykrettil'an you say" she responsed while securing the pouch to a side on her belt as she considered the insult the Warrior had implied about her capabilities, "That won't be a problem, I can take care of myself and besides", she putured with a roll of her hips, "If he is as cowardly as you say I would only need to bat an eyelash for him to submit willingly", a curtious response but her eyes sparked with bottled fury at the Warrior for her insult.

Noticing that the Incubus had begun to leave the room, Kayle caughed the Dracon's eye and smirked, 'game on' she thought as she slithered out and began the hunt. Spying her prey in the distance, Kayle moved fluidly towards the dockspur considering her plan of attack. Maybe she could use the drugged up fool to engage the Incubus a bit?

Knowing her own experiences with Incubi while living under her father's rule, this game should be an interesting challenge. 'This will be fun'

With a small, frosted smile the Dracon turns from the momentary caress of her new pet, the Wrack's rising growl a background to Daranúr's request. A most unusual one, given the assorted mercenaries' perceived status as most would see it.

"You wish ... station." It was not a question. Lady Seshella moves to regard the scarred warrior with curiosity, as if a failed Scourge had dropped out of heaven into the midst of a society picnic, wings bloody, thrashing his last against cool moss and ivory. Her eyes glitter. "Well, I cannot fault your ambition. Ambition, as I am sure you know, can be a dangerous thing. Why, I hear no less a figure than a Dracon of the Black Heart came down with a fatal case of ambition only last month."

"Consider," she says, strolling back to her seat, where she reclines, reaching out for a small candied fruit which she consumes languidly before continuing. "Many Dracons would have you flayed for even suggesting that you might ape your betters. I, however, see more clearly and find all such fools insecure, watching every shadow for assassins that already walk in their midst. To give in to such paranoia is - unseemly."

"I prefer to reward the ambitious, provided of course that they have a proper understanding of my ways." She glances at the now empty shackles. "Know this. For such a mission as this, I would not even be willing to entertain the idea of your gaining station. For this - for this, I would provide you with the chance to take on work that could truly lead to your advancement. This, then, is your first sight of the ladder you hope to climb." She favours Daranúr with a smile, then frowns, noticing the sticky residue of eyeball on her glove as if for the first time.

Lady Verrax strips off both gloves and rises, and stalks straight across the marble floor to where Chy'ier is sitting, where she looks down at him, her full mouth tight in an expression of mild disapproval.

"Do you know how difficult and expensive it is to get the hide cured from one of the Medusae?" She shakes her head. "Of course you don't, you mad little starveling." She crouches down, looking Chy'ier in the eyes. One manicured hand moves up to touch his face, tracing a line around the orbit of his left eye with a perfect lacquered nail. "Focus. Focus, little one, or you'll be offering me a fresher tribute."

She rises, favouring the practical Incubus Caethir and the tall, well-spoken warrior Valarauka with a businesslike nod. The Incubus is already on the march, striding out towards the dockspur hop-gate. Seshella takes a moment to appreciate the power and purpose of his physique, her head tilting slightly as he walks away, before sharing a small and secretive smile with Kayle for but a moment.

"I am sure though the gentlemen there can ensure that you get a decent craft, your eye for what makes a good chassis, and effective armaments should be the deciding factor. Lykrettil'an will be sensible enough not to hold back too much, but the fool always keeps something back in reserve if he thinks his time won't be adequately rewarded. But you," her glance takes in the wider group, or at least those who are left, "have the tools to change his mind."

Motioning to the Incubi in her own entourage, Seshella sweeps forward, pausing only for a moment in front of Excision on her way out. She tugs playfully on one of his many chains. "Do come back, won't you? I have a friend that would love to meet you." With this she is gone, her bodyguards surrounding her as she steps out with determination for her next meeting.

Outside the pavilion, the gardens at the base of the Mews are a riot of floral displays and artful not-quite recreations of nature, each arbour or hollow or mossy embankment just a little too perfect. Following Caethir's lead to the short-hop gate, the journey to the dockspur is fast and efficient, the duration of the jump such that it leaves only the barest sensation of dislocation, easy for the habitual Commorrite to overcome.

The sprawling docks cover most of the sunward side of the tip of the spur, giving it its name. Light cruisers and space-going craft cluster around the point docking ring, the elite of the Kabal taking the best berths as they do everything else. A skyward glance shows a craft bearing the Archon's personal colours arrowing in, sliding neatly into place like a blade in a sheath. The lower docks, where the smaller pleasure craft, courier vessels and jetbikes of the more mobile, but less moneyed Kaballites are berthed, bought, repaired and refitted, are a warren of workshops and open air plazas for testing and flight adjustment. It is to one of these that Caethir brings you.

It is a medium-sized terminus with workshops on three sides. In front of one of these, three rather grubby-looking, oil-stained Tubeborn - two males and a female, though they have the look of the same batch - are hauling a vessel up onto a plinth, following orders from a fourth Eldar overseeing the scene with his hands on his hips. He is dressed in overalls, but they look more like a patched flight-suit. His dark hair is unflatteringly brush-cut and he has a scar across one cheek, but the remnants of once handsome looks show despite the lines around his eyes.

"Gently, you misbegotten whelps! Did the haemonculus drop the tube that spawned you?" he curses, shaking his head and clouting one of the assistants around the back of his skull. With practiced ease he drops to his haunches then slides under the craft. A hand snakes out to grab a wrench. "Access code," he snaps, and one of the assistant mechanics hands him a small device before one of the others notices that they have guests. Possibly customers.

"Boss! We've got more."

"More what?"

"I don't know, scroungers it looks like, with some lanky fellow."

A disheveled head pokes out from under the craft. "By Khaine, we call them clients, I've told you a thousand times." There is a yelp from the assistant. Lykrettil'an wriggles out from under the vehicle, rising warily to his feet. His eyes range over the group, up to the full height of the Temple Warrior, across the voluptuous form of the Reaver pilot.

"What business do you seek here, gentlemen - and lady?"



Extra Info:

Valarauka: Although this is primarily a vehicle workshop for small craft, you can see a rack of partially assembled weapons at the back of one of the booths.

Excision: Lykrettil'an appears to have had some extensive fleshwork done on his torso and limbs - you recognise the subtle changes in the way he moves, almost too fluid. Perhaps some subdermal plating, too, but not heavy enough to impede his stance.

Caethir: Lykrettil'an has the keen eye and alert posture of a combat veteran, though that was likely some time ago.

Kayle: This is a well-stocked workshop and the standard of repairs you can see on the worked-on craft is high - it seems that Lykrettil'an takes a real pride in his work. The materials on show, however, are not of the best quality, not matching up to what has been applied to some of the vehicles.

He was certainly wise enough not to ask any follow up questions or to argue. Negotiating for even becoming a Sybarite seemed off the table, so he dropped the subject. The Dracon had made herself very clear with her speech on ambition.
Was… was that growling her pet?
That wretched beast!
Was he growling at Daranúr?
He thought that the monstrosity might want to silence its tongue, lest it taste a blade. No, that was the last port of call. Making an unfeasible request and then brawling with one of the party was not wise, so he shot the Wrack a venomous glance and casually moved his hand to gently grip the pommel of his sword, noticing the beast jangle its chains in a manner that was more laughable that intimidating.
He was sure that a lesser denizen could have found it frightful, but he had fought with worse in his time.

He had noticed the Incubus storm off but paid him little attention until the others followed suit. It seemed that they might follow the skilled warrior, something that was wise in Daranúr’s eyes. He didn’t care who took charge, but as long as the Incubus was using his own initiative to get tasks achieve he surely would trust in him… and back him in any future quarrels that may erupt.

Into the workshop they walked, where Daranúr stood and observed in silence, watching Lykrettil'an ask his questions and how the others interacted.
He had no interest in what craft was purchased, only how.

On his short walk to ‘the docks’ with his new friends and the gross thing, Chy’ier couldn’t help but wonder how he could have angered such an ancient practiced predator. Not to mention how he would have survived such an encounter if it came down to it.

“Yes, yes you’re right.” Chy’ier quietly said to himself as he slowly checked the important items in his kit, being extra careful in making sure that his rifle and the knife attached to the fore grip were ready.

“Yes yours is right there” he said as he raised his rifle looking at the trinkets that hung off the rifle's foregrip as they sparkled in the light.

“Good idea, looks like we’re going to talk to these people.” Chy’ier mumbled as he checked the action of his rifle and clicked the safety off and subsequently slung it onto his back.

“Boss! We’ve got More.”

The Wrack's heavy growl only subsided once Daranúr walked away. He did not care about the pathetic worm's attempt at a venomous glance, as though he was supposed to be threatened by such a thing. Nor was he concerned by the warrior's hand touching the pommel of his sword. Excision watched him walk away, his feral snarl finally dying down before turning his gaze away and back to his newly found favorite. He watched her quietly, following her every movement and every glance with the fervent zeal of a hound watching its master... or its next meal.

He followed her gaze until it came upon the Incubus already departing from the garden. Excision had not paid him any heed until now, his interest in the armoured butchers severely lacking in all aspects. But the youth had seen the interest in Dracon's eyes, her gazing flowing over the other male's physique. Those wide black eyes narrowed beneath the blackened mask, yet another growl formulating in the back of his throat, though this was substantially quieter than the last. He allowed his rage to seethe over, watching the Incubus until he had disappeared from view. Was he jealous of the Incubus? Oh he most certainly was. Control of his emotions, no matter how little emotions he had to begin with, had never been the creature's strong point. It was so too here that he could not control his greed for the Dracons attention and his frustration towards the Incubus who couldn't even care less to begin with. Another head to add to his list of people to kill?.... Perhaps...

His thoughts were pulled from his potential prey as he felt the gentle tug on his chains, the Wrack's masked visage turning to face the Dracon who was no so close to him once more. His worries seemed to fade for a brief moment, a slight headed rush of blood reaching up to that patchwork of flesh that formed his face. His head tilted ever so slightly to the side in confusion. Someone to meet?...

He was utterly puzzled by such a statement, having absolutely no idea who could possibly wish to meet him. Despite this confusion, the Lady took a particular interest in his concern, something that caused a slight knot to form in his chest. Unable to formulate any words, though he had never been one to speak to begin with, the Wrack bowed his head low before his self-appointed Mistress and with a twisted, deep voice of bruised thunder he simply spoke. "Compliance..." And turned to depart from her garden.

As he entered the docking yard along with the group, he began to feel the nagging pain in the back of his skull. It was that slow build-up of pressure, pressing itself against his brain and blurring his vision slightly. He growled slightly in frustration, the physical withdrawals of his addiction beginning to take effect and disquiet his senses. He would need to kill something... and soon...

Valarauka had given a perhaps-too-expressive smile when he heard the Dracon's reply to his suggestion. While the others concluded their business with the Lady, he had quietly collected the remainder of the equipment that the group had been given, securing the maps openly on his gunbelt and the drugs in hidden compartments in his armor. As long as he had the maps, the group would at least have to ask him where to go. He would never give up the Hypex, but he might assent to distributing the other steroids, if he was asked nicely. He left the audience room a few minutes after Caethir.

I am finally getting my chance to leave the City again. Not on my own power, but working to further my own station, not just stay in the same insignificant position leading Kabalites to their deaths. Hmm. I suppose I might actually want to keep these fools alive.

Lost in thought, he seemed to los track of some time, and he arrived at the docks before he knew it.

"What business do you seek here, gentlemen- and lady?"

Well met, Lykrettil'an. I am Valarauka. Our company is here to requisition a skiff and supplies for a raid. This is a time-sensitive affair, so I trust our needs will be met...expeditiously. Our pilot will tell you what we require." Valarauka indicated Kayle: not a thoughtless gesture as if pointing to a servant, but rather as if he was delegating an important responsibility to a trusted friend.

Valarauka then walked away as if the matter was settled, past the craft to admire the weapons booth. He hummed a couple of verses of a particularly filthy Kabalite's ditty to himself as searched for one weapon in particular...

"You're Lykrettil'an, yes?" Kayle asked, taking in the form of the mechanic and have to admit she was less annoyed than she thought she would be as his eyes examined her, "Not exactly the drugged up layabout I have heard about, are you?" a murmur escaped as wicked smile played across her lips.

Eyeing up the vechicles around Lykrettil'an, she swayed across the workshop and ran a hand across the smooth metal of the Reaver Jetbike hull nearest to him, "What I need from you-" she leaned forward slightly, making sure the pouch on the side of her belt was noticeable, amongst other things, keeping her eyes firmingly on the mechanic, "is a raiding vessel in running order capable of carrying my 'friends' and I wherever we need to be."

Rising up off the bike, she strenched upwards with a small sway of her hips and ran a hand through her hair, "I hope for both yours and our sakes that this bike is not your best work-", she smirked ,"clearly at least one of your assistants I wish, doesn't know their fuel injectors from a Razorwing feather" revealing said feather in the palm of her hand.

"So the fools decided to follow... Good" Caethir muttered to himself. While he did not need them to complete the mission, the more bodies ment it would be easier to complete.

The solar winds were strong around the dockyards, and Caethir's coat whipped about as they came apon the workshops. He deeply hated the thing; its color, its material, and especially that he had to wear a symbol above his own Shrine's rune. It made him feel like a pawn to shadowy hands, but it was the symbol that he was a Guild Ambassador, and it had gotten him out of more than a few troubles. One day he would be able to burn this detestable thing, but until then...

"Boss! We've got more."

"More what?"

"I don't know, scroungers it looks like, with some lanky fellow."

There were four. The three doing the manual labor looked young and were of no concern. Caethir was in such close proximity they would be dead before they even made a move for the weapons stashed around the shop and on their persons.

The 4th though has the air of combat experience, although he seems to have gotten sloppy. The splinter pistol on his thigh wasnt in the best of conditions, and he even left the safety on. Although Caethir would bet that isnt the only weapon the mechanic had on him, he doubted the vet could do much damage.

"What business do you seek here, gentlemen - and lady?"

Caethir could hear a hint of fear in those words. An Incubus is a terrifying sight alone, add in some rough looking crowd, and they were a scary sight indeed. Caethir was going to use this to his advantage, and would stay silent. His presense alone should do enough to sway the mechanic to help them.

And just like he expected, The others started playing their part. The Sly One opened the conversation for the group, and passed it on to the Pilot. She used her wiles to ease him into helping the group. Each player moved like an elegant piece in Mon-Keigh chess. Doing their part to get through this without violence. Caethir believed that they could get through it, but he was prepared none the less.

Why the Sly One sulked away from the group disturbed Caethir though. What was he searching for? Caethir did not want to break his imposing stance, but staying still would mean lossing sight of the Sulker. He decided to put the mission first, and stayed with the group. Hopefully his wandering does not leave them under manned against the workers and any other lurking near by.

"Well met, Lykrettil'an. I am Valarauka. Our company is here to requisition a skiff and supplies for a raid. This is a time-sensitive affair, so I trust our needs will be met...expeditiously. Our pilot will tell you what we require." Valarauka indicates Kayle: not a thoughtless gesture as if pointing to a servant, but rather as if he was delegating an important responsibility to a trusted friend.

Lykrettil'an pulls himself up to a more upright stance, cleaning his hands as if absent-mindedly on a piece of Tau-skin rag while he listens to the words. He nods, as one professional to another, and makes a small bow of his head in acknowledgement of Valarauka's words.

"I see. Time-sensitive. No doubt. And from whom does this urgent request come?" He follows the tall Kaballite's gesture to the comely form of Kayle. While Valarauka walks nonchalantly to the back of the compound, Lykrettil'an directs one of the Tubeborn assistants to go with him.

"Sulveis, see to it that our guest doesn't have to search too far for what he needs, hmm? Some of those shelves can be treacherous, all piled up with gear like that. One careless touch could set off a positive avalanche of components, an Eldar could get hurt." He turns a radiant smile back to Kayle.

"You're Lykrettil'an, yes?" Kayle asks, taking in the form of the mechanic and having to admit she was less annoyed than she thought she would be as his eyes examine her, "Not exactly the drugged up layabout I have heard about, are you?" a murmur escapes as wicked smile plays across her lips.

"What I need from you - is a raiding vessel in running order capable of carrying my 'friends' and I wherever we need to be."

"I hope for both yours and our sakes that this bike is not your best work-", she smirks, "clearly at least one of your assistants I wish, doesn't know their fuel injectors from a Razorwing feather" revealing said feather in the palm of her hand.

Two things can be noted about Lykrettil'an: one, that he is a keen admirer of female beauty, and two, that he is smart enough to catch a drift and watch the magician's hand, not just her ... face.

"Drugged-up layabout? Oh, my dear lady. I'd say you wound me, but it really is a little early in the day for that." He plucks the razorwing feather out of her hand in a single, fluid motion and held it up to the light, studying the sharp edge, the subtle fluting on the barbs.

"Left side, outermost trailing edge of the pinion. An excellent position for manoeuvrability, but also the most vulnerable part of the wing." He offers it back to her with a flourish and a low bow. In recovering from which, he incidentally manages to make eye contact with Caethir, as if to say: I know you are there. There is no fear in his gaze, only calculation, before he makes eye contact with Kayle once more.

"I suppose from that fond description of my good self you must have been talking to her Ladyship The Queen in Crimson-Hemmed Garments, or was it Lace-Edged Knickers? I forget." He sighs. "Milady fair has plenty of experience of recreational substances, I can assure you that. However, I presume you're here for business. Flights of the body, not the mind."

Lykrettil'an's voice grows hard, and his playboy demeanour vanishes.

"All right, let's get down to business. You, Miss, are clearly gentry, not trade, so I won't bother offering you the house red." He gestures to Chy'ier. "First of all, tell that one to keep his hands off the paintwork and not to start touching things. You. Twitcher." He addresses Chy'ier directly for a moment, "why not take your shiny trinkets and go and sit over there away from the fusion core spares?" The veteran mechanic returns his attention to Kayle.

"Is that a Wrack? Oh, sweetheart, you need better friends."

He offers his arm to Kayle, strolling towards one of the small hangars beside the main workshop floor. He nods to Daranúr. "Why don't you put some of that upper body strength to good use and take the left side of this?" After slipping several catches, he takes the right side of the hangar hatch and begins to slide it upwards. It locks halfway, requiring a little percussive maintenance.

Visible half-shrouded under a network of powering cables and dust-sheets is the sleek hull of a Raider. There is a chemical scent of drying moleclue-bonded pigments, the latest fashion for a quick yet durable respray. The pierced lines of the craft indicate an elegant, high-end vessel, one designed with a clear eye for speed and rapid deployment.

"Now, tell me who's sponsoring you and expects me to let you look at my reserved merchandise, or better, stun my sense of paranoia into inaction with a large injection of soul-chits. I find that the weight of a nice well-loaded credit stick soothes me. Helps me to sleep at night."

Lykrettil'an smiles at Kayle once more, but this time it doesn't quite touch his suspicious eyes. "And I'm afraid it really will take soul-chits to get what you want, Miss. Money's hard to come by, love is available by the hour."


While this transpires, Valarauka walks away as if the matter is settled, past the craft to admire the weapons booth. He hums a couple of verses of a particularly filthy Kabalite's ditty to himself as searches for one weapon in particular...

There is a voice from a couple of feet behind him, the slightly diffident tone of an underconfident Tubeborn who's spent their life in service.

"Can I help you find what you're looking for, er, Sir?" Dressed in an oil-stained jumpsuit, Sulveis is not really a picture to inspire confidence, but he does seem to know his way around the workshops, piled high with parts and small crates as they are. The weapons-racks, though cluttered, are clearly well-maintained according to somebody's idea of organisation. Alas, there does not seem to be anything .. special ... on display. There are, however, several locked cabinets.


Back at the centre of the compound, the two remaining Tubeborn take advantage of the break. One climbs up on the hull of the jetbike, perching comfortably and drinking out of a vac-bottle. He takes out an ampoule and breaks it to add a couple of drops of clear amber liquid to the fluid, shaking it with a practiced swirl. The other, a stocky, slightly nervy female in a lighter-coloured jumpsuit, turns up her nose at the offered cup and instead scoots over to Excision.

She looks up at the battered, scarred hide and smooth mask of the Wrack, tilting her head this way and that, an expression of intense curiosity on her face. Finally, her curiosity gets the better of her.

"What's it like? How long does it take? To get to study with the Flesh-Crafters, I mean. Will you ever get to be a Haemonculus?"

"Ratchet! Leave the nice man alone." The assistant mechanic may be in the middle of a rest break, but he's not let all of his guard down. There is a clear warning in his tone.

"Ria'seckt! Not Ratchet, you ignorant son of a bhargesi!"



Extra Info:

Kayle: While the Raider is a respray,the work seems to be largely cosmetic - the craft is sound. It also looks to have had some modification to include a small closed chamber in the centre of the lower hull - the kind sometimes used for especially expensive goods or to keep snooty Trueborn away from any risk of exposure to a real sun on their delicate skin. In other words, a rich kid's plaything, but, these being Commorragh rich kids, likely a well-armed one.

Caethir: There is at least one other Ynneas Eladrith within the Raider's hangar, waiting in the shadows, well-concealed, but with no visible weapon targeted.

Daranúr: Evenflower, also known as Moodlift or moodies, in the tea is a recreational sedative with a relaxing effect, with a corresponding dulling of coordination and impaired judgement. A short-lived, cheap drug, of no use to anyone who wants to keep their combat edge.

Chy'ier: There are any number of small, shiny, mysterious objects scattered about the whole compound, in boxes, on shelves, in small piles. A magpie's paradise.

“Why not take your shiny trinkets and go sit over there away from the fusion core spares?” the mean man spouted in Chy’ier’s face. Quickly realizing that he was referencing the three ‘things’ sitting between an area with a bunch of weapons where his new friend ‘Val-air-ooka’ and another was looking, and a bike thing on some sort of gizmo with 2 people and the ‘thing’ with the knife was sitting.

Chy’ier quickly noticed a great place to sit that was not only away enough from everyone, but also had a pile of miscellaneous doodads that would be a GREAT place to find a proper shiny to add to his collection. “What!?” Chy’ier gasped to himself, quickly covering his mouth.

“Where?” he quietly said to himself as he looked around, spotting his target of desires instantly next to a rack of rifles.

“Is that a box of toys? “ Chy’ier muttered as he unshouldered his rifle and sat it next to him on the wooden box he had begun to sit down on.

“It is isn’t it?” he said as he pulled out a grenade from his kit and observed it for a moment, and then set it on the ground with his foot on top, holding it in place.

“Nah, we should wait. We don’t want to make our friends mad at us. When it looks like we’re leaving we can take one.” Chy’ier said to himself as he picked up a handful of doodads and threw them absent mindedly one at a time at the ‘core spares’.

Plink.

“Do you think they jingle inside like the ones before? Or glow like these?” he said as he glanced downward at the object under his foot.

Plink.

Plink.

Daranúr had leant against the wall since he had walked in. His nonchalance towards the mechanic and the dealings with him must have been apparent, but he was too bored to care. He looked around. This place was impressive, and in his earlier days he might have marked it for a burglary or two and then sell on the goods acquired later n to some of his contacts, but he thought that it was not wise under the circumstances. He made an effort to remember its location, though, in case this job ended in flames and he was forced back into making a living in any way he could.

Out of all of his companions here the twitchy fellow was the only one to have made him truly think hard about the mission. With somebody so… twitchy, could they really do what they needed? He wanted to see his skill with a weapon first hand but engaging in combat in the middle of the grease-Mon-keigh’s shop was probably not wise. He liked the twitcher, though. Once or twice he had to force himself not to laugh at youngling. It would be interesting to see how he progressed; this thought made Daranúr think that he’d have to end up protecting him out of some fondness. He had always secretly wanted people to protect, possibly a family, so this twitcher, Chy’ier, as he recalled, might have to do.

Snap out of it! He thought as he slapped himself brutally across his face, turning his one pallid cheek into an inferno of red pain. That’s what he got for drinking the tea. He didn’t want any of that, but the moment Evenflower touched his lips he could feel his perception change. He had smelt it in the air as soon as he walked in, saw the half filled cup on a counter and wanted to consume it for nostalgia’s sake, but it started to wear off as quickly as it had taken effect. He did not want to protect any of these people and he would certainly have to watch out for Chy’ier. In his past he had learnt many things, one of them being: it’s always wrong to underestimate your ‘friends’. He had found the foundation of vengeance “exess caution will put 100 knives at your back instead of 1 at your front” useful, but in return it was always good to keep an eye on those you did not expect to bring a knife to you, anyway.

"Why don't you put some of that upper body strength to good use and take the left side of this?"
Fine, Daranúr thought to himself, shaking his limbs back into life. He helped, begrudgingly, but at least he had something to do. Yes… this place could easily be robbed.