Disclaimer: The trolls in Great Britain at Games Workshop own Warhammer 40,000; I don't. I don't own the Ranma characters, either. The Emperor's Hand Chapter Nine: Demonstration It was roughly ten o'clock, and both Nabiki and Akane were skipping school. This was rather unusual, but also understandable. They were also walking into the Nekohanten, to meet this friend of the Shaman's. The sign said 'closed', but the door was open. "Cologne, we're here!" "Children," came the reply, "we're in the back." They passed through the dining room, and into the store room for the cafe. Mousse, Shampoo, Cologne, and the Shaman were there, as well as one of the most colorful sights they had seen. The figure was roughly human-shaped, but almost seven feet tall, and extremely slender. He wore a rainbow of colors in a multitude of patterns, scarves, and tassels. On his face, he wore a green and red mask, that was a parody of a frowning face. His head was covered by a black hood, with bright purple metal studs. "This," said the Shaman, "is a Solitaire, and the one I sought to contact." The figure bowed, and a voice issued forth from his mask. "I still do not know why I should help a Mon-Keigh, but I owe the Shaman a favor." He crossed his arms. "I will help, but this evens the scales between us." "Alright, Mr. Solitaire, let's get down to business. What _can_ you do to help us?" Nabiki put on her 'business' face, which would make the Gambling King jealous. "Think of him. Picture him in your mind. Drop your defenses, and allow me to see that image," said the Solitaire. "I think it would be better if Akane did that. She's his fiancee, after all." Nodding, Akane thought of him. Almost without her conscious thought, every time she had seen him flashed through her mind. From the time he showed up on their doorstep, a bedraggled girl with a wet panda, through his various challenges, and his dramatic rescues of her from foe after foe. She tried to keep it out of her mind, but one image that popped up was what she saw that first day, when she walked in on him in the bath. After a second, the Solitaire nodded. Turning to the Shaman, he asked, "Two people? I thought you said there was but a single boy." "That is true, my friend," said the immortal man. "According to Khu Lon, the boy is subject to a curse, of sorts, that causes him to change gender upon exposure to cold water, and back upon exposure to hot water." The Solitaire sighed. "I will pass this along to my brethren. Should they see him, they will use the Webway to send him home." He turned, and began to leave the Nekohanten. "But remember - this evens the scales between us. We owe you no more. And he shall owe us a favor, as well." Before Nabiki could protest, reality itself opened up, and swallowed the colorful form. "Well, that's something, at least," she muttered. "What now?" she asked. "We wait," said Cologne. "Would you like some ramen?" ***************************************** The entire Craftworld seemed excited, as the Eldar bustled about their business with a little more haste than their usual, stately grace. Even Ranma could feel it, as Eldaveril and the other Banshees seemed distracted during their morning spar. "Hey, what's up? Why's everyone so riled up?" One of the other Banshees picked herself up off the ground, where the pigtailed martial artist had put her. "We received word, yesterday, that the Harlequins are to arrive this afternoon," she said. "Harikins?" he asked. "No, Anial Gorwydd, Harlequins. They are the servants of the Laughing God, the Lord of the Dance, and are both warriors and performers." Eldaveril dropped her mask, and Ranma could see the odd transformation that flew across her features as they softened into her peace-time aspect. "They pass along the ancient history of our people by their dance, and use their dance as a weapon in battle." "Martial Arts Dancing?" he asked, puzzled. "Well, you could see it that way. Or, to use your terms, it could be said that their katas are so like a dance, that by performing, they hone their battle skills." "Oh. Well, when are they gonna arrive?" Ranma glanced around. "I mean, I'm probably gonna hafta get cleaned up." Teldurin, the Exarch, glanced at him. "I am sorry, Anial Gorwydd, but you will likely not be allowed to meet with the Harlequin Troupe. They tend not to like Mon-Ke... er, Humans, and would likely take offense at your presence." "Oh. Too bad, I woulda liked ta have sparred with 'em, sounds like they practice martial arts, too." ***************************************** It was a room in the Craftworld reserved for this specific purpose. Ailunaraven, High Farseer of Valdur Avendel, stood awaiting the Harlequins there, flanked by the other Farseers, and select Warlocks. The room, itself, was home to a Webway gate that none but the Harlequins could open, and was decorated in their own, inimitable style. Gleaming masks of various shapes and colors adorned the walls, connected by scarves of brilliant color and pattern, Mosaics representing the stages of Eldar history covered the floor, ceiling, and various wall sections, while the far wall was a single, black expanse. In front of the dark wall, a ripple in space echoed the opening of a Webway tunnel. One by one, thirty members of the Troupe of the Lethal Song stepped forth, each one a cacophony of color and a maze of patterns. Their Dathedi, or Holo- suits, were deactivated, but the eye still had trouble understanding the dazzling sight. First, came the Mimes, young Eldar who were in training, learning to be the warrior- dancers they aspired to be. Behind them, the actual Troopers, who danced the chorus in the performances of history. Next, given a wide berth even by other Harlequins, came the Death Jesters. With black suits, and bone ornaments, they had their huge Buanna, or Reaper, cannons, resting across their chests, below the death's-head masks that hide their grim faces, ready to dance the roles of darkness and death. After the Death Jesters, came the Harlequins own Warlocks, their shining blank masks hiding a mind that could touch the fabric of reality, and carrying a backpack grenade launcher that launched hallucination grenades. The last of the Troupe that emerged was their leader, he who was considered to be the mortal Avatar of the Laughing God, himself. If the others were a cacophony of color, then he was a symphony. Though numerous shimmering colors wove around him in patterns dazzling to behold, they supported each other, and confirmed him as an artist second to none. "Greetings, Priests of the Laughing God," began Ailunavaren. "The halls of Valdur Avendel are yours, and all here breathlessly await your performance tonight." "Greetings, Farseer of Valdur Avendel. Tonight shall be an honor, for we shall perform the Great Dance." The mortal Avatar glanced around. "In moments, a Solitaire shall be among us." The Farseers exchanged a telepathic murmur of amazement, as the impact of the Harlequin Avatar's words sunk in. Bowing deeply, the High Farseer smiled. "You honor us, High Avatar. The place shall be prepared." The High Avatar cocked his head, then his grinning mask transfixed his counterpart. "Your Infinity Circuit tells me there is a Mon-Keigh aboard, one who is held in high regard by the spirits of the Fallen." The assembled leaders of Valdur Avendel stood in shock at this statement. "Why, yes. He has been sort of adopted by one of the Banshee shrines here, and named Anial Gorwydd by one of our Warlocks." "Send him here. He should be here when the Solitaire arrives." Nodding to the other members of his Troupe, they began to draw forth the furniture that sat against the walls. They placed the seats and began to stretch around them. "Please, let us rest here in waiting." ***************************************** It didn't take long for Ardallan the Warlock to reach Teldurin's Shrine. Staying outside the door, he waited for the sparring match to end. Noticing him, the Exarch strode up to him. "Why do you come? Need you speak to your daughter?" "No, Exarch Teldurin. It is Anial Gorwydd I must speak to." He glanced in, and saw the pigtailed human demonstrating a particularly devastating leap kick to the gathered Banshees. The Exarch crossed the room to him as he was giving comments to the Banshees, correcting the form of one of them. She spoke briefly to him, and he stepped out into the hall, after bowing to the Shrine. "Yeah, whatcha need?" The Warlock smiled broadly. "The Harlequin High Avatar has requested your presence in the Gathering room. If you'll accompany me, Ranma?" "Finally! Say, this 'High Avatar' isn't like yer Avatar, is he?" "No," he laughed, "he's a Harlequin. An Eldar who is dedicated to the Laughing God, and second only to the Solitaires, and the Phoenix Lords, in his skill and battle prowess." "Then, c'mon, let's go!" exclaimed Ranma. He started to walk down the hall, then stopped. "Um, which way is it? And just what is a Phoenix Lord?" "It's right this way," said Ardallan. He led the human through the maze of the internal Webway, to emerge in the gathering room. Whispering, he added, "And I'll explain about the Phoenix Lords later." Ogling the explosion of color and movement that he saw before him as most of the Harlequins danced around the room in a symphony of grace, Ranma's eyes were drawn to a figure sitting near the middle of the room, speaking to the ancient Farseer, Ailunaraven. His full-head mask had a rainbow Mohawk sprouting from it, even as its grinning face shimmered in a pattern of ever-changing colors. "Izzat the High Avatar?" he asked, quietly. "Yes," responded the Warlock. The High Avatar finished his conversation with the Farseer, and stood, to walk to where the human stood, unheeding of the diving and bounding of his Troupe. "Anial Gorwydd, the Infinity Circuit speaks highly of you. I am the High Avatar of the Troupe of the Way of Heaven." "Um, yeah. I'm Saotome Ranma, of the Anything Goes School of Martial Arts. Pleased to meetcha." He bowed, a bow that was returned by the Avatar. "So, um, why'd ya wanna see me?" "To test you, boy. There is a tale spread throughout our order, that there should be a Mon-Keigh that shall appear within the Sight of the Eldar, who must be given a message." He stepped back, and the dancing of the Troupe ended. "If you are he of whom the legend speaks, then you shall be given the message. But the one who must test you has not yet arrived." "What kind o' test?" asked the pigtailed martial artist. The wall at the far end of the room rippled, and a figure stepped forth. More severe in his garb than the rest of the Troupe, he still was a riot of color. A simple black headband wrapped around his mask, and a single scarf hung from his belt. "Why, Mon-Keigh, it shall be a test that you will pass. Or you shall die." ***************************************** Akane sat on her bed, once more. Tonight it would be a week since Ranma had vanished, and she had found that all her hope rested on the actions of an alien who didn't even seem to like humans. Sighing, she reached over, and looked at her clock. Ten at night. She should be going to sleep, but couldn't. She knew she was missing something, that there should be something more she could do. But what it was, she couldn't figure out. Standing up, she crossed the hall to the bathroom. Noticing the sign on the door, she waited, and, minutes later, a rather drowsy-looking panda shuffled out. "Gruffle," it said. "Good night, Mister Saotome," she replied. The panda yawned and stretched, then shuffled into the room he used to share with his son. Akane stepped into the bathroom, but had no need to do anything. Instead, she just stared into the mirror. On one level, she saw herself as she thought of herself. Plain, ordinary, with short black hair, and a boyish figure, the uncute tomboy Ranma always accused her of being. However, just for a second, she caught a glimpse of the girl Kuno constantly raved about - the raven haired tigress, with flashing eyes. 'Why couldn't Ranma see that?' she wondered. "Bukwee?" came the squeal at her feet. She looked down, and saw her little pet pig. "P-chan? Oh, baby, come here." She bent over, and picked him up. Cuddling him to her cheek, she started to do something she hadn't done in weeks. She started to cry.