Vengeance Resplendant.

Dawn. It was finally dawn. An experience that few managed to see in a single lifetime and fewer believed had ever happened more than once. This was not due to the idiocy of the masses, however, but due to the brutality of life in Sal’tillavaan. Known as the Black Realm to some and the Expanse of Eternal Day by others this place perplexed Commorrite historians with few ever agreeing on its original origins or purpose. The realm could have been considered small by those vertically challenged, but to those with feathered pinions or nimble craft the spires rose almost endlessly until a single great peak was reached. At the base of the web-city lay a dense jungle of writhing vines and corrosive leaves. Flowers bloomed with intoxicating pollens that paralysed and excited, carnivorous plants snatched away entire expeditions that were foolish enough to leave the habitable zone without Flamers and Corrosion-Misters.

The night had lasted for two cycles, and the chill it had caused was welcome. It was the only time when the plants would cease growing and the denizens could be free from a Viridiplantae threat, but now it was daybreak once more. Once every eight hundred cycles the light returned, and all those in the lower levels wished that they were elsewhere when it finally occurred.

The vines that had once been dormant now thrashed at black stonework and constricted around pillars and columns with frightening swiftness. Loud cracks were ignored as the civilians went about their daily lives. As long as they remained calm the plants from Shaimesh’s Forrest would leave them alone… or so they hoped.

As one ascends through the boiling heat, intense humidity and hallucinatory fragrances, flocks of feathered Scourges are noticeable, tearing apart those that they’ve plucked from the ground with razor talons and impaling some others upon great trophy pikes. Some were even taken back to eyries, their eyes plucked from skulls before their bodies were slowly lowered onto great thorns to create an attractive nest for their debauched mating ritual. Some of these ‘decorations’ consisted of entrail bunting and precious gems forced into gaping wounds.

The markets and Pleasure Houses attracted millions from all around Commorragh, creating a bustling haven for those that sought to escape their former masters, or their former selves. It is easy for one to become lost in the Black Realm, but once one has been found there is nobody to help them.

Even though Sal’tillavaan welcomes all thieves and villains, all Eldar and pirates of any origin, it has a strict set of rules and unbreakable codes. During the cycles of night bounty hunters and mercenaries are left to roam free of harassment by the Kabal of the Fortuitous Fall where they would normally be hunted. In the night traitors turn traitors in and the winding pathways turn into flowing rivers of gore. Once daylight returns (the walls of the Webway emitting a blinding light) the Kabal shelters those that have come in search of refuge and secure all entry points to the realm, making sure no more bounty hunters cross the threshold.

Through this act of kindness all manner of scum can gather to trade and be recruited for the Kabal. Through this generosity the realm acts as a port for mercenaries and pirates. What is the price of this protection? It is simply the souls of others.
_________________

The Voracious Varanid resided at the peak of one great tree, held aloft by ancient anti-gravatic suspensor units that create a gentle whine as the calm breeze rolls in through the agape windows; the wind is the only thing providing little solace from the scorching heat. An orchestra stands out on a balcony creating music so soothing that it slows the heart rate of any who dares listen for too long. If one looks out from the extended overhangs or one of the numerous windows you can view the city in full beauty. As the light starts to grow the port becomes more beautiful with every waking moment. Flower buds (some as large as a Grotesque) of the most vibrant purples and reds open along thick vines, exuding their exhilarating fragrances. As the light makes its way through masses of leaves the infrastructure of the endless needles and spires is revealed.

Where the vines and stalks have yet to invade tall, polished, black structures are revealed in varying states of disrepair. It seems in some places that the entire realm is held together by these sentient beings. Long bridges of interwoven tendrils exist managing to support the thousands of feet that trudge over them at any one time; these connect the four masses of needle-habs to the grand central structure.

Long swathes of silk are lain out across the sun-heated tiles to create soft pathway that seemed to lead towards a large vault door. Whether the door resembled a vault for aesthetic reasons or for practicality was unclear. Either side of it were stood two Incubi stood immense in their green-tinged armour. Between the pair of duos stood a single well groomed woman in black and red Ghostplate armour. Her long purple gown flowed freely in the breeze and the hovering cherubs that followed her released sweet incense that stained her with the scent of beauty.

She looked around at the gathered band of ramshackle Eldar, watching them sweat as the fans from a cherub kept her cool despite the outrageous heat. She was the only person, other than the Incubi present, that could stand the heat. Usually even Kabalite or Mesh Armour would help control temperatures, but a request had been made for them to remove their helmets before they reached the door so that the emissary of the Dracon could better recognise who she was dealing with.

“Usually this place would have more frequenting customers, but Sire Dsyarriv Jaillvór Saravan, the Vanquishing Scream of the Fortuitous Fall, has demanded that it be closed for this ‘meeting’.” The woman’s voice was soft, even for an Eldar. “I can tell that you’re all eager to meet with the Lord Dracon in his dark, air-chilled lair, so let’s get straight to business. I need your names, your ages and I want to know little bit about yourself, seeing as I’ll most likely be going with you on whatever expedition we’ll be facing…” She grinned to nobody in particular for a moment. “Being the Dracon’s favourite, and all.”

She smiled, pressing a rune on her wrist to bring up a hologhost recorder. This was partly to remember who they were and partly to make sure they were who they were attempting to pass off as.

“So, let’s start, shall we? I shall introduce myself first; as I’m sure you’re all dying to know who I am! I am Tell’vataan Flarisyen Hierarch, the iron fist of the Lord Dracon. I was present on the last mission the Dracon sent out… it didn’t end too well.” A disconcerting grin came to her face. Just what could this woman be hiding? “Enough about me, tell me who you are.”



Note: To the Dark Eldar the light of this realm is horrible, painful, and even somewhat depressing. The heat is intolerable.

To those who do not originate from the Dark City the light is not harsh, but more pleasant than in the rest of the hellish metropolis of star-scrapers and eternal conflict. The heat, however, is still very unpleasant.

X'leith: You notice the unwavering Incubi stood guarding the door. They have their helmets equipped but you do not, due to the emissary’s request. You cannot help but notice that one of the Incubi is looking straight at you. It’s impossible to tell his facial expression from behind his Helm.

Maeve & Zaonath: You stand closer to each other than you do to your Dark Kindred, feeling safer at first due to your shared Craftworld roots and despite any interest in your twisted cousins.

Sarele: The Hierarch has a number of twinkling gemstones and jewellery dangling from her elaborate clothing.

Keshariel: You stand away from the Craftworlders, looking at them with a hint of curiosity. You’ve not met one of your cousins in person before… it could be interesting to observe their esoteric ways.

Myrrick: You stand slightly behind the rest of your kin… away from the great Klaives of the Incubi. There are a few flowers known as ‘Bilewrithe’ growing aon a windowsill nearby. If consumed they can lead to debilitating stomach cramps, internal haemorrhaging and, in a few cases, myocardial infarction in most humanoid races.

Myr wears a wide brimmed hat to try to shade his pale eyes from the abusive light, his expression is almost always one of half pain as he squints against it. Eager to please, he quickly steps forward and bows deeply to the Hierarch. He rises up, a smile on his face as he mops at the sweat on his brow with a handkerchief pulled out from his vest.

"A pleasure, m'lady, a true pleasure. My name is Myrrick Las'illyin, your humble and obedient servant. I am but one hundred and seventy-four, but I trust my youth will not displease you. I have been many places in this city, studying cuisine, and art, and beauty, and chances for advancement like this are as rare as a beauty like yourself."

He 'spots' the flowers and walks over, plucking two from their roost.

"As to what I bring to our little gathering, I would suggest it is my understanding of the medical field. Take this flower for example, like yourself it is a beautiful thing, and also like yourself it is quite dangerous if treated unwisely. I would like to have a chance to keep yourself, and even," he motions to the others, "everyone here quite safe from such unforeseen dangers, at least as best I am able. I am undoubtedly the least of these fellows in matters of cunning, and skill at arms, but I assure you none shall be exceeding me in desire to please, and is that not the greatest benefit of all?"

He smiles and bows deeply again.

Amused by the discomfort of others in the group, Maeve found the brightness of this place almost pleasant, despite the heat. Leaning in slightly closer to Zaonath as the Heirarch spoke to the group, she whispered and gestured ever so slightly in Keshariel's direction. "He's been watching us for some time."
She watched Myrrick's prancing and flattery of the Heirarch and wondered at the ways of her dark cousins. When he was done, she stepped forward.
"Maeve Lassar, of Alaitoc. I am only 60 years of age, but I am fluent in varying languages."
She bowed slightly, and stepped back to her original place.

Zaonath stretched her arms languidly, and yawned. She hated waking up early. Her black robes felt uncomfortable as always, but not as uncomfortable as the psychic staleness the whole city radiated.
"The warmth certainly is a nice change for the dimness", she muttered to herself, remembering the cold shrine of the Dark Reapers.
She flinched as Maeve leaned towards her. The young corsair pointed out of the wych who had been staring at them.
"Really?" she replied to her comment. Zaonath was amused of the slim wych. She wondered how much he ate with that unhealthy body.
At least he isn't as young as the rest of this rabble.
She succeeded in not laughing at the weird green colors on the wyches armor. She soon forgot about him when Hierarch finally began to speak.
Zaonath tried to be the first to speak, but she dared not to interrupt the weird fellow who started presenting flowers.
Flowers are too short-lived. Natural death that comes so quickly does not please me.
Her thoughts were interrupted when she finally got the chance to speak.
I bet they will be impressed.
She drew her sword, an elegant witchblade, and held it in a small salute. She smiled at the two alarmed incubi. Her introduction began once she was sure they were not going to attack her.
"Faeluchu, four centuries of age, who has tread long on the path of the Seer as well as the Warrior. I will not be treated any worse than a comorrite, and if I find disrespect, my sword will not respond for her actions."
She sheathed her sword to her belt, and smiled to the Hierarch.
"...and you can call me Zaonath."

"Eeeeeeee!" Sarele howled. The sound of an eagle rung through the air and the place soon fell silent as the last echoes died out. An awkward silence took place as he strode forth and paused for a moment.

"I am Sarele, former member of Kabal of Violet Storm and now I serve the highest bidder." he put up a hideous smile, revealing his razor sharp teeth and glared at the Hierarch's jewelry and gemstones. Nobody could determine what Sarele was looking at, his eyes were pure black like a shark's protective lens. In fact, he does not have visible iris.

With that said, Sarele hope that he would be less suspicious now and gain a shred of trust. Or at least make them feel comfortable that there will be no sudden backstabbing due to rivalries and such. Being a freelancer usually imply money and payment to be their loyalty, which the Hierarch must have, by the look of the luxuries she is wearing.

"Deliver message or kill targets, that's my trade. I look forward to get paid, my lady" his smile widens even more, something everyone thought not possible. But Sarele bowed slowly, his left hand behind his back but still visible enough for the Incubi to see, and his right hand clutching his own stomach. He then let out a screech and fell back in line.

Sarele did not want to reveal too much about himself, fearing that his reputation as the Jinx Solarite would bring trouble and risk. This reputation from his old Kabal is well known only through the their territories and areas, so the chance are they have not heard of s small fry like him. If the Hierarch have heard of him, he would have to bring up his other reputation as the Solarite who always gets his targets.

As the Craftworld Eldar with the sword functionally threatens their host, Myr casually slips a few steps further away from her. Not to suggest any insult to the Craftworlder, oh, dear no!

But, y'know, just in case any sharp objects started flying through the air, it was usually best to be a few extra feet away is all.

He smiles politely at the Craftworlder though, simply *charmed* by her answer, most assuredly. If the Heirarch or either Incubi looks at him though he'll make a strained expression, of mild astonishment - for certainly he should not be associated with any repercussions there.

Keshariel found a certain beauty in the flowers of Sal’tillavaan; he was there for curiosity, after all. The oppressive heat of the place was a little easier to bear in the scant armour of a Wych, but it still made him wish, slightly irritably, that he was breaking a sweat for much better reasons.

The others gathered here certainly provided him with much to be curious about. There was a slight fellow, wearing a broad hat, who seemed eager to please; he also, the Wych noted, seemed to have a knack for always being at the back of the crowd. The very opposite of a publicity-hungry arena champion. Keshariel tilted his head slightly, studying the newcomer as he spoke. Now why would someone so keen to be in everyone's good graces make such a show of being meek? Interesting.

There was an Incubus, or at least someone trained by the Shines, and Keshariel noted that his combat prowess would likely be exemplary. Also, the fellow probably wouldn't say much, which ought to cut down on arguements. No problem on that score.

The smaller man was the first to speak, followed by two other Eldar who'd had Keshariel's attention from the moment they entered because ... well, several reasons, the most pressing of which was that these two were actually clearly from the Craftworlds. He hadn't thought it possible. Here, in Commorragh, standing freely and unowned. Remarkable. Of course out of habit the tall Wych had given a cursory glance to their feminine allure, but that was more the professional gauge he gave to all those who were a potential audience. Old habits die hard. Craftworld women? Here? ... extraordinary. Keshariel looked some more. Both of them shrouded in cloaks or robes, which might, or might not, be a shame.

One raised a fancy sword and brandished it threateningly, which the tall arena fighter considered a sign that she too had a past in some kind of show combat; the need for spectacle, making a statement to one's potential opponents - he could relate to that. Still, the Hierarch probably wasn't going to take too kindly to it, so best not get too attached to the spirited lass.

Next to speak, or rather screech in a blood-chilling cry like that of a huge eagle, was a slender, taloned warrior in ghostplate. Keshariel couldn't quite get the measure of him. Extensive body modification was common among the rich of Commorragh, though it had never been of much interest to the vain Wych for himself. But there was something ... when is a bird, not a bird?

When he felt they had said their piece Keshariel stepped forward slightly for his turn in the limelight. He bowed formally, as one might when giving a private showing to a select arena audience.

"Milady Hierarch. I am Keshariel Ilestrion, known as The Severer, sometime warrior of the Wych Cult Aria of Destruction. I have come here to see what interesting challenges you may have for someone with my talents. I am a good shot with a rifle, but I specialise in hand to hand fighting. I am at my best," he caught her eye for a moment, holding her gaze, "when working up close."

"Since you ask my age, I have thrived in the arenas of the Dark City for over three centuries, with no resurrections. As for any other areas of interest - I have a good eye for detail and an excellent imagination. If you are to accompany us, Lady, I shall look forward to working with you in the field."

The tall Wych resumed his station, pride in his heritage keeping his stance proud, a certain caution as to his surroundings keeping his senses alert.

The heat is relentless. X'leith stands steadfast, not willing to succumb to the heat. He looks around and feels shame for the way the others are reacting. Have they no sense of pride? As X'leith is checking his surroundings he notices a fellow Incubi staring him down. He takes note of all the intricacies of the Incubi's armor. All the scratches, dents and spikes have been etched into his memory. X'leith will find out his "brothers" intentions but now is not the time.

Tell’vataan ends her little speech. As to not draw any unnecessary attention to himself X'leith introduces himself. "I am X'leith Kahreign, I hail from the Kabal of the Crimson Lotus. That is all you need to know."

With a glare he lets Tell'vataan know that he does not intend to tell her anymore.

Lady Tell’vataan looked to the chemist, her facing quizzical in its ponderment. “You’re certainly a peculiar one. In my long… long career I have never met with one of the Dark Kin so eager to please others.” She brushed the back of the flower with her hand, impressed that he had noticed its potential. “What could somebody as cheery as you be hiding, I wonder?” The Hierarch vocalised her thoughts, feeling rather fond towards this shorter than average street-chef. He certainly knew how to stay alive around his superiors.
“I am undoubtedly the least of these fellows in matters of cunning, and skill at arms, but I assure you none shall be exceeding me in desire to please, and is that not the greatest benefit of all?”
“Indeed it is.” She nodded approvingly. “There is a fine line between pleasure and pain. A line that can be crossed or wound upon itself on several occasions in one lifetime. It’s just a shame that we do not all get to experience this as much as we should.”

The corsair was the next to talk. The twang in her voice had been a giveaway that she was not from the Dark City. Maybe her youth and initiative could keep her alive. She didn’t seem very forthcoming with information, but the Lady greeted her with a smile nonetheless.
"Maeve Lassar, of Alaitoc. I am only 60 years of age, but I am fluent in varying languages."
She bowed slightly, and stepped back to her original place.
“It is nice to meet you, Maeve.” She stepped towards her and forced the Corsair to clasp her delicately manicured hand. “I thought that you were one of those Alaitoc Outcasts the moment I set eyes upon you. That wonderful blue trim on your cape… how it brings back memories or a massacre long ago.”
Alaitoc had only a few run-ins with the Dark Kin in its time, but the grim joy that the Hierarch wished she would obtain from any visible displeasure of the Corsair did not come. She seemed indifferent. How odd.
“Usually when one becomes an Outcast they still care for their home. Your coldness on the matter of the agonies of your ancestors is tantalising, Maeve.” She stepped away, knowing that time would be short until the Dracon would wish to see them.

The Hierarch was forced to raise her hand to stop the sudden advancement of the Incubi. They were on edge naturally, having a Psyker nearby. They would much rather see her writhe as the Kin Gift stripped her mind with flames and lightning.
“You may want to watch how you handle you weapons, Zaonath. Next time I shall not stop them from hacking you apart, limb by limb.” The Lady paused. “Trust me.” She whispered in the Warlock’s ear at a distance that was usually reserved for lovers... “They will.”
She took a step away from the witch and brushed at her robes. The presence of Craftworlders made her feel dirty. She had shaken the hand of one and got far too close to another. She would have to order her slaves to scrub her skin clean at a more convenient date. Hypocrisy was always rife in Commorragh and Tell’vataan was no exception to the backstabbing trait.
“If you keep your sorcery and blades at bay then I shall treat you with the respect that I give Commorrites. Heritage means nothing to me, the Fortuitous Fall, or anybody else within Sal’tillavaan. Respect must be earned and shown lest one have their eyes ripped from abyssal sockets by shining talons and their flailing body be kicked out into the wilderness.” She paused for a moment. “It is most disrespectful to flaunt one’s blade in front of one’s host. When you are called before his Lordship I suggest you keep such imprudent behaviours to a minimum.”
She twirled on the spot and flicked her long, black hair aside.

The street-chef had stepped back in a slightly inconspicuous fashion. Wise; she thought. If her incubi had stormed forth then the Witch would not have been the only one to be cut down.

Then the screech came. At first the Hierarch didn’t know whether to pat the wingless Scourge or throw him a cracker. Upon further inspection, however, this man seemed to be most pleasing.
“The matter of payment is not up to me, unfortunately, my avian friend. The Dracon shall decide upon the correct payment for the task at hand. I am sure that you shall not disappoint, however. It’s far more than your life’s worth.” His eyes were fixated upon one of her more precious gems… she thought. It was hard to tell when one contained no colour in their eyes. He would serve well in T’llionoch… “You appear the kind that prefers to watch the enemy be rendered down at a molecular level from afar.” She had noticed the Blaster that he possessed, but something about him screamed out that he was preferred desolation from at range than up close. “Do me a favour and look after your kin.” She flicked the diamond with her thumb into the air above their heads and hoped that he’d catch it before she moved on.
If he was truly a good Scourge he’d do what she said.

The last two guests certainly grabbed her attention. Keshariel stood out in his iridescent Ghostplate and well toned body. He wasn’t like the gangers that she’d dealt with previously that only seemed to care for the size of their muscles. This man… he truly seemed lethal.
“Welcome, Keshariel the Severer and X'leith Kahreign to this delightful realm!” Tell’vataan would have moved closer to greet them if it had not been for the Incubus. She knew who to show politeness and respect to within Commorragh and Incubi were always good to have on your side.
“I shall certainly look forward to seeing your prowess, Keshariel. I am sure that one hailing from the Aria of Destruction shall not fail me.” She smiled before turning to face the Incubus at a safe distance.
“Many who have not spent long around your kind would see your mannerisms as hostile, Incubus. Incubi have always thrilled me… for more than one reason…” With an end to her inane mumbling she resumed her post, knowing that X’leith would not reveal any more.

They stood around for a moment while the Hierarch noted down the last details she wished to remember. The glowing rune slipped back into her gauntlet before three bleeps were released in quick succession.
“It would seem that my master would wish to meet with you now. Follow the Incubi, if you please.”
She gestured forward as the vault door slid with grace from its four-metre thick socket in the wall. One of the Incubi headed the procession with two flanking (one at either side) of the single file flow of Eldar. Behind the first Incubus walked Sarele with confidence and eagerness to escape the heat. Behind him came Maeve, then the Witch, The Severer, the Incubus and finally the chemist. The chemist attempted to remain at the back of the line as expected, but the Hierarch insisted that he move before her. He obliged at the risk of offending the Lady… and the final Incubus that looked down with an inscrutable death-stare at him.
The moment they entered the chamber something remarkable happened for the Dark Eldar. Even though they had never even considered the possibility of this happening, they had to allow their eyes to readjust to the pocket of night. The difference in temperature was an instant relief for them. Audible sighs came from the Ynneas Eldarith while the Craftworlders did not seem as fond of returning to the shadows.
Fog rolled at their feet. The chamber was a thirty metre long oval with great wall murals of wanton destruction and desolation being a far cry from any of the beautiful plant life outside.
A central walkway ran up the length of the vault to a throne upon which a shaved-headed man resided. His eyes were pitch black and what little stubble that came through on his scalp was just as dark. Large rings dangled upon limp skin beneath his tattooed eyelids. Even to those who did not know him; he did not look pleased.
Balustrades encircled the central walkway creating elevated pinions for half a dozen more Incubi to hide. If anybody thought that this Dracon was paranoid they would not state it.

“My liege,” the Hierarch bowed deeply, encouraging the others to do the same, “allow me to pres-” She died.
A retina burning beam scorched reality and evaporated the flesh of the Hierarch’s torso. She had not been able to scream as her lungs had been removed from being. Luckily the others had followed her bow and been spared of the Blast Pistol shot, even if it did startle them to draw arms.
The Dracon, however, seemed not to care for their panic and quickly took charge. “Lower your weapons, children of Khaine. The hilt has been removed from my spine and now my mercy shall be bountiful.” His voice echoed with an unholy resonance that only those deprived of life-essence developed. He happily supped upon the fleeing soul of his former servant however as he glided through the ranks of those gathered before him. “If you follow my commands you shall not feel the same fate.” He looked between them as his skin started to tighten up against his frame in front of their eyes. He didn’t need to ask if they understood: the message was clear. Even as he moved back to his throne he carried on muttering to himself about betrayal and vengeance. From what the party could make out from the Dracon’s grumbling the Hierarch had been responsible for the death/disappearance of the last collective sent out on one of his tasks.

He attempted to calm himself as he turned to place himself comfortably back in his thrown. “I am Dracon Dsyarriv Jaillvór Saravan, the Vanquishing Scream of the Fortuitous Fall, Curse of the Tellathrax Gulf, Nightmare Incarnate of the Quinosis System and Grand Plunderer of the Kribben-Varmacht Trade Routes. Usually I would have my slave there announce my titles, but she seems to be a bit breathless.”
There was an awkward momentary silence but it was certainly advisable to laugh at his poorly constructed joke.
“To understand what it is that I want from you two simple things must be clear. I shall not tolerate failure.” He raised one long finger. “I shall see all traitors suffer as if they conspire against the Supreme Overlord himself.” A second digit came to meet it. “Now, to know what I do want you must know where allegiances lie. This realm, the Domain of Rancid Light, is the home of the Kabal of the Fortuitous Fall. I serve Archon Yig’vaft Ryinyth without question. He answers to the Grand Archon of the Kabal of the Pierced Heart, Lord Dernia Cavash himself. Where my allegiances make me, by extension, follow the laws of T’llionoch, know that I am still a subject of Overlord Vect… even though at times it may not seem like it.” He spoke very openly… anybody that could not handle the information would be murdered before they could leave.
“I simply cannot be bothered to go into more detail about dull bureaucracy, so hear my warning. You are all here for your own reasons and I am guessing that many of them are power-centric or a longing for adventure. Complete a simple request from me and you shall climb the echelons of power. You will face numerous challenges, as is the nature of the job that you will be faced with.”
He looked around to make sure everybody was listening.
“Recently a personal belonging of the Grand Archon himself has been stolen from T’llionoch. It is highly doubtful that you shall be able to return it, but information is required. Find out who stole it and why. You might even ear the Favour of Lord Cavash himself.”
He took a drink from a goblet and realised a crucial piece of information that he had neglected to mention. “I know of one man out in realspace who might be able to help you… for a price. I have no idea what he shall want, but if you want an invaluable ally then I suggest you do an act of kindness for him. Favours are worth more to him than souls. You might even feel more at home around him, Corsair.” His hand rested upon his pistol as he waited for answers.
”What say you? Will you take up arms for Lord Cavash and a lifetime of glory?”


Craftworlders: Witnessing the Dracon regenerating before you is somewhat disturbing.

X’leith: More Incubi are present and each seems to be more concerned with you than the rest of the party. They do not show any outward signs of aggression, but curiosity is a dangerous thing within the Dark City.

All: It seems highly unwise to disagree with the Dracon’s request. His Incubi appear ready to pounce. The Dracon has a small chest upon a table at his side containing some supplies that he will provide you with upon accepting the task.

(Mungwa: I’m not picking on you; it’s just unwise to draw a Witchblade in front of Incubi and a Hierarch! You’re lucky you still have your limbs! A lucky dice roll decided that you’d keep all of your body parts! )

Zaonath snorted as the hierarch turned away after whispering her.
Still, better reaction than what my exarch would have given. Poor Shalliyo, he would be so afraid when his little reaper talks to him like that.

When they went inside, she hoped that she would have been able to go after the hierarch. Zaonath knew already that in Comorragh, a potential enemy at your back meant that you were good as dead.
She was nervous as they entered in the darkness.
If they think I am afraid of this, though, they are wrong. They are so wrong.
Zaonath blinked a few times and tried to make sure her eyes adjusted to the lack of light.

As they came to the dracon, she wondered was he scared of their little group, with so many of the incubi, the Ynneath-kins very own aspect warriors, watching over him.
Zaonath's thoughts were interrupted when the Hierarch was shot. Almost by instinct, she ducked and turned around to make sure no one was charging at her.
When the situation calmed, and the dracon spoke, she decided that no one else was going to die anytime soon.
The soul-feeding of the dark-kin made her curious. She stared at the corpse of the hierarch and tried to remember what the warlocks had taught of the regeneration. She soon turned away in disgust.
She had gave up her soulstone long ago, but the thought of being fed upon by someone like the dracon felt more disturbing than the silly warnings of the narrow minded seers.

'Slave to announce titles'? The hierarch is a slave? His sense of comedy is less impressive than his guards. Zaonath, however, grinned at the joke and took a cautious look at the corpse once more.
When the dracon was finished, Zaonath took the opportunity to speak first.
"You have my blade, then. I will find the archons personal belongings, and return them in a state better than what they used to be!"
She decided, however, not to give any salute this time. The dracon, as she had seen, has maybe even worse understanding of humour than the hierarch.

The diamond glimmered in the light, falling and turning slowly. Sarele instantly caught the gem with his teeth. His gaze never left the Hierarch and his smile remained wide.

"How generous my lady, thank you...", seconds later Sarele had produced a satchel unnoticed and released the diamond, letting it slip perfectly and smoothly into the satchel. The satchel disappeared just as quick and Sarele once again bowed,

Upon entering the chamber a bad feeling crept through our careful Scourge. Knowing in his gut that something bad was about to happen, he kept his awareness extra sharp and scanned the Incubi ranks stationed in the chamber. His survival instincts told him though, that the Incubi were not the problem. His senses directed him to the Dracon, who was raising his arm.

The sudden burst of darklight caused Sarele to be filled with adrenaline but he managed to stay in control and focus. His hand was on the blaster's trigger and his other hand raised to guard his blaster. Even though it was the Hierarch that lies dead and no more shooting was taking place, Sarele was ready to fight for his life.

“Lower your weapons, children of Khaine. The hilt has been removed from my spine and now my mercy shall be bountiful.”

With that, the Dracon continued his talk and Sarele knew there would be no more shooting. Unless this Dracon had more double agents within his ranks in the chamber. But that was unlikely, since the majority in the room is Incubis protecting the Dracon. Sarele lowered his blaster, took the finger off the trigger but still held the blaster and kept his gaze on Dsyarriv's hands. Just in case, you never know for sure around here...

“I simply cannot be bothered to go into more detail about dull bureaucracy, so hear my warning. You are all here for your own reasons and I am guessing that many of them are power-centric or a longing for advent..."

At this time, Sarele felt the danger was over and looked at the Hierarch's corpse instead. There were still jewelries that survived the blast. Such a waste of gemstones and beauty.
"Oh, it would be so much sweeter if I could spent some time with her, too bad there's nothing left to abuse.", he thought.

Sarele moved slowly towards the corpse, while still facing Dsyarriv and actually looking in the Dracon's eyes. He then carefully crouched down and attempted to pick some gem off the Hierarch's body. But what Sarele was really after, was the holo-recorder.

"... archons personal belongings, and return them in a state better than what they used to be!"

Zaonath didn't play around with her sword this time, which Sarele found unfortunate. He could imagine the Dracon blasting the psyker's face, that would certainly be entertaining! Still crouched, Sarele turned his gaze from the craftworlder to Dsyarriv and smiled again.

"Eee! Eee! " Sarele let out in a softer and lower tone.
"If the payment is good, I will take up arms and glory for Lord Cavash."

A gemstone was pinched between Sarele's fingers and he used it to get the Vanquishing Scream's attention and understanding.

Again sensing the eyes of the incubi in the room focusing on him put X'leith on guard. A slight inkling of doubt crept into his mind. He was wondering if the heat was actually getting to him slightly. The thought was immediately squelched. As he glanced at each of the incubi he noticed an immediate, purposeful lack of eye contact. He wondered what could be their issue but decided that there were more pressing issues at hand.

"I will serve you to the utmost of my abilities, my lord." He offered a a bow and then resumed he typical steadfast stance.

The promise of adventure almost brought a smile to X'leith's unmoving face because he knows that with adventure you are guaranteed violence.

Maeve went rigid as the Heirarch forced her to take her hand, staring blankly in her face as she tried to disturb her.
As she walked behind Sarele she examined with wonder the feathers on his scalp. What extensive modification he'd had- How odd the ways of her cousins were. Her own tattoos were nothing compared to this scale of altering oneself.
Upon entering the chamber, Maeve made sure to stand further from Zaonath than previously. She was wary of another dangerous move on her part, and the reactions of the incubi. She was not, however, prepared for the sudden execution of the Hierarch. Out of instinct, she drew her sword, sheathing it again when the Dracon commanded.
Yes, she was disturbed by the Dracon's regeneration, but still she watched with a sick kind of interest. She forced a chuckle at his poor joke.
Maeve did not need the threat of the incubi to accept, she was already excited by the promise of power and curiosity about whom the Dracon had spoken of when he said she might "feel more at home around him".
"I shall serve you."

The arena veteran thought he'd got the start of a good rapport going with the Dracon's lieutenant, which was a pleasant way to pass the time and a nice little boost to the ego. In common with many Wyches, Keshariel's ego was that of a pedigree - in need of a lot of stroking and inclined to sulk a little and start shredding the furniture if not given its due. At the moment it was purring nicely.

He followed along with the small group into the Dracon's actual, as opposed to his extended, presence, where she was almost immediately relieved of her responsibilities, along with most of her important organs.

This was something of a surprise to the Wych, although looking back, there were signs of something in her manner - all those references to failure, perhaps. The Wych took in a deep breath as the dying spirit fled, though mostly out of habit. It was plain where all the essence was really going - the shrivelled, aged husk of a man on the throne, now filling out into the proper sleek form of an Ynneas Eladrith of power. Taking any of the soul he fed on would be a much more lethal version of swiping one of someone else's chips. With a brief speculation whether it would be worth learning the names of anyone he'd met here so far, Keshariel paid close attention to the Dracon's renewed form and his speech.

He'd heard of the Pierced Heart of course, though he wasn't sure that their Archon, the fancily-titled Grand Archon Lord Dernia Cavash, had ever set foot in the arena of the Aria of Destruction. Rumour had it that he was highly eccentric but then, rumour had that to say about most Archons. He was also rumoured to have the ear of Vect, which made about as much sense as the rumour that he'd once dated the glacier-hearted Lady Malys. Keshariel decided to put rumours to one side and just do what he always did with those in the higher echelons of power - treat them all as highly dangerous, extremely privileged madmen. Or women. The Wych was at pains not to discriminate.

So to answer to this one was to answer to Archon Yig’vaft Ryinyth who was in turn a servant to Archon Cavash; that was interesting because if true, it was a fairly direct chain to a place where one could, conceivably, get the attention of the very highest echelons of the Dark City. Keshariel grinned. He liked the sound of that. Coincidentally, it timed nicely with the Dracon's rather basic joke, but that was all to the good.

"I shall take up your mission," he said, stepping forward slightly with a bow, "and I look forward to bringing you the results you desire, my Lord Dracon."

"Such information as we will need to find and identify this man has already no doubt been prepared for us, along with such supplies as we may need - for I am certain that a Dracon such as yourself need not be concerned with such minor expenses - but I note that you said we are to find him in realspace; might I ask what manner of transport we will be taking?" He kept his tone well-modulated, respectful, but the Wych knew it was important to make eye contact with the Dracon as he did so. Only slaves and lackeys cannot meet the gaze of their master.

Oh my, that had been a rather quick execution. Myr immediately smiled and forced himself to look jovial even as he felt his heartbeat pick up a few degrees in his chest. She had been a person of prestige, power, and potency, and had been cut down as quickly and mercilessly as a common ganger in the streets. Myr made some sad calculations of how much higher one clearly needed to climb in order to not fear too many summery executions.

In any case, everyone else was looking fine with it, so it was important he acted nonplussed as well. It wasn't that he actually gave one fig that the Heirarch was dead, naturally, but her death had been a reminder of just how dangerous this whole affair was.

Note to self - keep standing behind the Incubi and his thick armor.

Myr smiled wider and swept his hat off his head in a bow to accept the Dracon's offer.

"To serve you? To refuse at this point would paint us as fools or cowards, and assuredly I am neither, for it is but my fondest wish to serve ably in this endeavor and to reap what rewards you feel are commensurate with such loyal and capable service."

He smiled at the others, happily nodding to those who had also agreed, "I am certain we are well suited for this task, and certainly Realspace holds no worries for anyone here."

By the Dark Muses, Realspace? What a boorish and horrid place to have to go. To be forced to drag oneself from the center of the universe, here in Commoragh, to some disgusting backwater somewhere in Realspace. It would all be quite horrid, and unquestionably filled with horrible little sub-races and their horrid little habits. The only potential positive was that there might be some decent opportunities out there, and for someone like him that was always for the best, he supposed.

He kept smiling...as he slowly eased behind the Incubi a touch.

The Dracon’s face was inscrutable as they accepted one by one. His body language failed to change with their affirmation of wishing to undergo the task, and it would have been stupid to think that it would have changed. Who in their right mind would seek out a task from a Dracon just to throw it back in his face? He knew that they’d all accept.

“Of course the payment will be good, Scourge. Are you trying to insult me?” The Dracon hissed slightly; being the lion after the pigeon. “I am a Dracon. Whatever I can pull out of my pockets will be worth more than anything that you’ve ever had your hands upon.”
Dsyarriv leant forwards, face a portrait of grave seriousness. “I have been betrayed before. I have put shreds of trust into those that would seek to throw it back in my face. Do you know what happened to them? They died. Not death, no. That would not do. Those that lose my favour suffer True Death. Do you understand? I shall provide you with whatever worldly form of currency you wish and you shall take it. You shall not try to sully my reputation in the hope of getting more from me. That just won’t do. Name what you want and you shall have it. Slaves? Gems? Soul-chits?”

"I will serve you to the utmost of my abilities, my lord." X’leith answered next.
“I expect so, Shrine-Blade.” He used a slightly archaic term for the Incubus. “I know of the skill of your kind. The collective reputation of the Incubi shines bright; live up to my expectations. “

“Have you set foot in realspace before, ganger?” The Dracon was curious. “There are many fun worlds out there. Imperial colonies that are rife with plunder. Paradise Worlds where the grass feels like silk up your feet. There are even worlds where Mon-keigh are foolish enough to kneel before Eldarith as their saviours and lords; these barbarians are rarely of any use, however. For every drop of pleasure to be found out there a million worlds of horror exist. Don’t underestimate what the galaxy beyond the Dark City is like.”

“Wych. Step forward.” He ordered in reply to Keshariel’s questions. The Dracon nimbly pressed a series of runes upon the back of his hand before pressing a latch upon the chest. The lid hovered in the air, suspended by anti-gravitic generators that let out a gentle hum that visibly aggravated the aged Dracon. He batted it away without a second look as to where it might land. Carefully he plucked the contents like strings upon a harp or ripe fruit from a tree.
“In Docking Claw Teyvarecht a pirate vessel captained by Grosht Val is preparing to leave. In a few hours it shall be departing, heading straight for your first destination. That, however, is as far as it can take you. The Sheed are not a race that like to stay in one place for long and, frankly, I’m amazed that I convinced them to wait for you. Take this,” He extended his arm, hand clutching what seemed to be a hand-written letter. “It’s what he demanded to allow you on board. I can’t say that I care for things like this, but this poem was written by a member of the Sisterhood of Lhilitu. It’s alright, I suppose, if you care for such nonsense.”

“Witch, Corsair. Step forward.” The pair moved forward, standing either side of Keshariel due to Maeve’s weariness of the Psyker’s previous ‘blade-skills’. “Witch, do not expect to get along with the Sheed. They are not fond of your kind, and you won’t be fond of them. It is said that every one per dozen is a pariah; a complete blank in the warp. Have you ever been in a pariah’s presence before?” The Dracon did not know if the others knew of pariahs either and thought that he’d allow them to experience their company first hand and without warning. It could prove interesting…
“Seeing as you’re most likely the only one here to have ad experience with Corsairs” he nodded at Maeve, “I think that it would be best if you took the information regarding your destination and who you’ll be dealing with.” He held out a data-crystal in the palm of his hand and waited for her to take it. It was a simple piece of technology that any cogitation machine could translate. “You’re heading to a Genesis-Spire named Sanctity in the Oblivion Abyss. You’ll find the man that you have to deal with.”

(You are now free to do whatever you wish. You can go and find supplies, go for some light murdering or head straight to the Sheed vessel.)

Sarele: From the Lady Hierarch's corpse you have obtained a diamond, two rubies, a small pouch of half-a-dozen saphires that was hanging from her waist, a single syringe of Hypex and some scrap robotics/electronics from her cherubs, if you so wish to take them. It seems that her weaponry was damaged in the short (very one sided) gun fight.

The tall Wych did as he was told, stepping forward to take the aged Dracon's scroll and memorising his instructions. It wouldn't do to forget a rendezvous right at the start of the mission, even though it sounded very much as though they were to undertake the first part of their journey in a vessel crewed by their lessers. Oh well. At least he would have something to read to pass the time. The Sisterhood (and the Brotherhood, too, probably, though that wasn't of such immediate interest) of Lhilitu were skilled eroticians and anything they wrote would certainly be worth reading for anyone whose pulse hadn't shrivelled up and died, which sentiment he did not communicate to their dessicated employer. Instead he gave a short bow and stepped back.

"I shall provide you with whatever worldly form of currency you wish and you shall take it." From the sound of this they had a fairly large tab, so Keshariel decided they'd leave for realspace with enough provisions to prevent them from having to eat whatever disgusting fare the lesser races let pass for cuisine. And, since it was apt to be cold, he was going to make sure he had a nice warm coat to cover up with if the occasion demanded. Those Craftworld girls seemed to have a fashion for long, all-embracing clothing - he might ask them about their tailor. So long as he wouldn't be mistaken for one of the sweet-natured little lightsiders himself.

So, he had the poem which was their passport to travel, and the Corsair had prudently been given the information the mission would depend on. He nodded to himself; it was probably what he would have done. Division of the information to stop any one person grabbing all the power. A smart move. The foreign ideals of egalitariansim and communal wealth were still pretty much unknown to the Commorrite, but he could appreciate that for this mission to succeed, they would need to work together in some way. It was going to be a challenge. Still, it didn't have to be all work.

He turned to the acquisitive - well, he wasn't one hundred percent sure, exactly. Sarele sounded like one of the winged messengers that thronged the Commorragh skies, but he was missing that crucial component. Keshariel decided he'd go with Scourge for now and steer clear of mentioning the lack of pinions. After all, it was unlikely he'd simply been unable to keep up with his Haemonculus' payments.

"You seem to have an eye for things of good worth - what say we go and get provisions for this mission before we set off? I am sure we all have enough of our favourite weapons and suchlike, but do we want to risk eating and drinking anything these .. Sheed ... might provide?" The Wych wrinkled his aquiline nose at the barbarous syllable. "Since the Dracon has indicated that we may have whatever we require, then I intend to be mindful that we will represent his interests and thus his reputation." He made a small nod in the withered old man's direction, guessing that he wouldn't trouble himself with mundanities like currency - that would come from a servant. Yes, a nice new fur-lined coat, perhaps in the style of the earthbound Exodites - barbarian chic - and maybe some boots.

Keshariel paused for his compatriot's reply and then stepped across to speak to the Corsair.

"I have never travelled with a Corsair before, but I know you will have skills I do not possess and knowledge as yet beyond my ken." For once the arena champion wasn't trying for flattery; it was a simple statement of fact, as his body language made clear. "What do you know of these Sheed?"


Take the scroll, talk shopping, ask the Corsair what she knows about their transporters and then go and get provisions with whomever wants to come along; that's Keshariel's plan. Oh, and read the scroll. Of course!

Maeve plucked the data crystal from the Dracon's palm. "You shall not be disappointed." She tucked it into a pouch underneath her cloak.
More sure now that the witch would not pull out her blade again, she stepped over to her. "I suppose you're not going to have much fun with the Sheed. Are pariahs really that bad?"
After speaking with the Witch she turned to Keshariel.
"The Sheed? Well, the female's you'll find quite understanding, they're willing to speak tongues if necessary. The males, not so much. You'll need a translator, I suppose I'll do for that purpose- I learnt the language from a female some time ago. Oh, and the males are also very agressive. They often attack the Imperium. ... Are you going to get something warmer to wear?"

Even though Sarele was once squad leader and performed his role well, he decided to not take command or lead this odd group of warriors (and artists?). How he was considered to be a good squad leader varies between two groups of people, those in his squad and those not in his squad. The first group would say Sarele is a terrible squad leader since the whole squad usually gets wiped out, except for Sarele. While the latter would say Sarele is the a great squad leader, because he gets the job done and always gets the job done. The jobs usually mean destroying enemy tanks or heavy armor and sometimes infantry. With this in mind, there is actually a third group of people who cannot really tell if Sarele is a good or bad squad leader. All this third group knows, which is the enemy, is that he is good at taking out their friends but in the same time very good at getting his own squad killed.

"You seem to have an eye for things of good worth - what say we go and get provisions for this mission before we set off? I am sure we all have enough of our favourite weapons and suchlike, but do we want to risk eating and drinking anything these .. Sheed ... might provide?"

Sarele nodded. This wych is not all about the violence and fighting in the arenas it seems. This one has its priorities straight and seem to have experience outside the arenas.

"Since the Dracon has indicated that we may have whatever we require, then I intend to be mindful that we will represent his interests and thus his reputation."

Our wingless friend shifted his attention to the Dracon and let out a soft howl before speaking.

"Apologies my Dracon, of course I didn't mean to insult or question your wealth. We will succeed.", now a bow followed. The composition of the group would mean a good chance of success, regardless of what they could encounter in realspace. At least, this is what Sarele thought. What the group should worry about is backstabbing. But this kind of action would surely not take place until the end of this quest. Sarele knew of this too well. Another screech.

"Yes, we will need supplies and gear. Equipment and food we aquire ourselves and trust in. " Sarele had already a vauge list of items to aquire and decided to set aside his newly aquired gems to barter some more expensive stuff for the job, if the Dracon's reputation is not enough. How Sarele simply wanted to find the nearest clinic and buy new wings.

Maeve's input on the Sheeds bothered Sarele little. If they prove to be troublesome, killing them and take command of the ship would do us all a favor. Lacking pilots in the group makes resisting in killing the Sheed's pilots is a good idea.

"Maeve, how long will our journey take? Myrr-...Eeee!" Sarele let out a strange screech, trying to hide his unifinished sentence. He wanted to order Myrrick to prepare a list of items for the journey. Drugs, medicine and poisons could come in handy. But Sarele decided not to make the order since he didn't want to take lead. Also, because everything mentioned above could be bought or aquired on the way to the transport.


I take everything I find, too bad I must have missed the holo-recorder. Plan for Sarele is go shopping, get to ship. Find some fun/pain/pleasure on the way but not priority

"Poems?" Zaonath sneaked over to the wych to see if she could perhaps read it, and listen to what the corsair told to Keshariel.

The plans to go shopping bored her, however.
"I have everything I need. Food will be no problem. I ate two hours ago, how will I need anything for the next two days?" She stopped to ponder for a while. "I am sure they have something to drink though. I just have to check that nothing they give to me is poisoned."
"I think I should head over to that Teyvarecht-place. First though, I want to find out who this Grosht is."
She went over to the dracon for a few last words with him, and queried him for more information of the corsair captain.

After that, she went off to find the Sheed. She gave quick nods to the others of the group, but talked to none.
She wondered is it safe to use runes on Comorragh. The Farseers always told that to know the coming dangers, one could be more prepared to them. That sounded logical to Zaonath, but she was not sure did she trust the runes anymore. She wondered how she had gotten into this situation.
Pirate ship, paranoid dracon, ogling wych, young corsair, wingless scourge, little blonde ganger. I hope that at least that incubus is normal enough. Silly place, this city. Cant wait for a chance to kill one of these ynneath-kin. I already missed my chance on the hierarch.

Maeve's words were positively dripping with sarcasm. "How am I supposed to know how long it takes, Sarele? Do you see a cogitation machine on me?"

Sarele let out a terrible howl. "Eeeeeee! Then let's not waste more time and move on!"

He then turned away towards the exit. How stupid he felt after Maeve's reply. In normal circumstances, which would be back in his days as Solarite, this wouldn't happen. If it did he would simply put a blast hole on the person, just like the Dracon did to the hierarch.

"I'll wait outside."

Screech.

The tall, elegant Wych listened attentively to Maeve as she told him what she knew about the Sheed, who sounded typically barbarous and exactly the sort of thing he'd expect from the lesser races. But it was good to know nonetheless, so he gave her a nod of thanks.

"Are you going to get something warmer to wear?" the Craftworld girl asked him.

"Why, do you think I should?" He turned to look down (only in relative terms; he was simply taller) He ran a hand lightly down one tautly-muscled arm in contemplation, idly testing the temperature of the white skin, wondering if the light draft across the bare flesh really was going to be more trouble than he was used to.

He titled his head slightly, regarding her with an equally slight smile, mostly in his wickedly amethyst eyes. "You are plainly well-travelled and knowledgeable in such matters. What would you prefer me to wear?"

He looked for Sarele, with whom he'd already made an agreement of sorts to go on a supply run. The two of them - the Scourge and the Pirate - had a small, not too friendly exchange. Every band of Eldar does this to begin with; there is always a little jockeying for dominance and place. Soon everyone either settles down, or the shooting begins. Keshariel waited for the Scourge to finish before signalling to him with a gesture that they should move out. He offered his arm to the lady, as a gentlemanly escort might. After all, just because this is not High Commorragh, there is no need to behave like a savage.


[Keshariel wants to go and get mundane supplies - food and drink of a more suitable nature for Dark Eldar - then a few recreational supplies (ok, drugs) but not spend too much time on this. Then he wants to shop for some winter wear, with the lady's advice if she wants to give it. Whether or not she does, he's aiming to get a nice fancy, fur-lined coat in a dark colour and a nice pair of fur-lined high boots. That should take the chill off.]

"Let's just make sure it's something that will keep you looking nice. Not for me, of course..." She said coyly. Although slightly reluctant at first, she did take his arm.

Well, there were a number of options in front of him. Most were fairly unpalatable. Go along with the Wych and sit in the corner watching him strut around for the Craftworlder? Or tag after the *other* Craftworlder, who for some reason seemed excited to go blundering into the middle of a band of smugglers and other riff-raff all by herself.

...neither sounded overly smart.
That said, at least one sounded profitable, besides, it would be useful to begin ingratiating himself properly with a few of the more aggressive and dangerous members of the gang. It's always nice to have a few of them thinking kindly of you when the laser beams began to fly and the knives were drawn.

He eased out from behind the Incubi and smiled pleasantly at him.

"Dear friend, X'leith, I think it's clear you are a man of action and capability, and likely to be bored if we go along on what is, in all honesty, a rather tedious shopping trip with the 'girls' (he contentedly included the Wych and Scourge into that group with a dismissive wave of his hand). Men of discernment and skill, like ourselves, would best be used ensuring the safety of all of our team members."

he smiled again and motioned after the departing Zaonath.

"After all, that silly Craftworlder is about to walk off with half of our information for this mission, and hasn't even told anyone where she's going. That seems risky, and foolish. I suggest you and I accompany her to ensure, not only her safety, bt the safety of the mission and the integrity of our honor as warriors in service to the Dracon."

He bore a serious and grave expression on his face as he nodded meaningfully.
Truth be told, he mostly wanted the Incubi along to protect his own skin, after all, not too many people would be dumb enough to pick a fight with an Incubi...or anyone accompanied by an Incubi.

"We'll meet you shoppers down at Teyvarecht at peakcycle! In the small veranda by the statue near the entrance!"

That should give them a few hours to satiate their shopping urges and also, hopefully, not give the daft Craftworlder he was trailing too much time to get him into any trouble an Incubi couldn't handle.

He smiled again at X'leith.

"After you, my friend, after you, we don't want her to get so far ahead we loose track of her..."