Havlon stood at the end of a large table made of the same Wraithbone that shackled his hands and feet. He was being tried for the murder of his father. He alone knew the truth that his younger brother, Drendal, had framed him to gain their fathers seat on the council. Havlon had tried many times to speak of the corruption that was befalling the Saim-Hann craftworld only to be tried for treason along with the murder.
The senior council member stood, “Havlon, you have disgraced the Saim-Hann craftworld and the Fel-Von Clan along with all its members. You are here by sentenced to exile.” He was then escorted out of the room and into a landing area. There he saw a ship and a man with a syringe. As the needle penetrated his arm he watched the liquid drain from the vile and his eyes became heavy. Then he drifted into a deep sleep.
When Havlon awoke he observed a planet in the view port upon closer inspection the planet was not one he recognized. He attempted to acquire some sort of information from the main computer that might help him decipher his location. The only thing he could seem to find was a list of coordinates which did him no good without a map. When the computer would give him no more information he pulled on the yoke of the ship; it jerked back into position and he noticed the autopilot light on the view screen. “Guess this is home then,” he muttered.
The ships view port then burst into yellow and orange light as it entered the planets atmosphere. The ship sped toward the surface below and with a thunderous crash collided with the ground. Havlon unfastened his safety restraint and made his way to the main storage compartments to look for food, clothing, and anything else that might be of use. Upon opening the doors he was surprised at the amount of available gear, especially after being exiled. There was a robe, a backpack full of rations, a shuriken pistol with 4 magazines, and a Wraithbone staff. Lastly he withdrew a light armor vest with a brilliant green gem on the left breast. While the council was quick to punish, they would never wish that an elder soul be cast alone into the warp upon his death. This Soul Stone would be the only tie to his former Craftworld.
When he was properly outfitted, Havlon made his way to the launch door at the back of the ship. Foreign air filled the bay and light gleamed inside, his eyes squinted to adjust. When he could see properly he viewed the alien planet for the first time. There were massive trees and dense foliage all around and the sound of birds and other foreign animals filled his ears. A breeze blew by him and he could smell flowers and other vegetation. There was something else in that breeze too; faint, but it was there. Smoke, he thought, he smelled smoke and that meant there had to be people somewhere on the planet. “I’ll find them so that I may figure out where I am,” he decided.
He traveled for an hour through the forest following the acrid smell that now grew stronger in his nostrils. Then he heard voices. Wait, not voices something else. In one moment his excitement to reach civilization was shattered by the grunts and groans of Orks. Suddenly, the warp flashed an image in his mind and he reacted. Spinning to his left he swung his staff and the hit landed squarely in the temple of a pouncing Ork. Quickly drawing his pistol he took aim and panned the forest. Nothing, but if his experience proved true there would be more, many more. Not to mention they must have seen him crash. The ship, he realized, he had to get back to the ship. If the Orks got there first they would surely start dismantling it. Then his only way off this planet would surely be turned into one of their twisted contraptions.

Havlon ran back toward the ship with speed that would have made the Tyranids envious. As he approached the area of his ship he saw two…three…four Orks that had already started inspecting his ship. “Four of them are no match for me,” Havlon concluded, “sure they are strong, but just as dumb. I can defeat them, but I will have to be precise in every move.”
He took aim with his pistol and squeezed the trigger. Shuriken sliced toward his target, and then a howl of pain and astonished grunts rang out. The other three looked down at their fallen mate, then at the direction of Havlon. With a loud roar they charged, screaming and waving their axes in a frenzy of anger. Havlon smiled to himself, he would gladly meet them half way.
Slugs flew by Havlon as he charged into them. Luckily, from experience he knew that Orks can not hit the broad side of a Falcon. When Havlon was within four paces of the oncoming Orks he thrust his staff into the ground and launched himself into the air. The orks frantically swung their axes at him but to no prevail. Havlon landed on the other side and knelt to one knee absorbing the impact. Then he unleashed a hail of shuriken at another Ork and it fell lifeless to the ground. The other two wasted no time in charging him again, and Havlon once again reacted with the swiftness of wind.
He leapt into one of the Orks; placing the end of his staff into the center of its chest which thrust it to the ground, all the while piling shuriken into its body on the way down. Havlon jumped off the corpse and dodged a hefty swing of the last orks axe. He got to his feet and was taking aim when the Ork swung again, knocking the pistol from his hand. He readied his staff and prepared for the next attack. It came quick and furiously.
Blow after blow struck the Wraithbone staff in a blur of attacks and parries. The Ork grasped his axe with both hands and took a mighty swing at Havlon. He dodged the blow with great finesse and as the Ork turned to counter attack he sealed his fate in one instant. The Ork stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes locked with the Farseers; Havlon concentrated and felt the warp all around him. The orks head shook and his body quivered as his miniscule brain throbbed. In a moment the Ork’s eyes rolled back in his head and his body fell to the ground. The outcome was of no surprise to Havlon, few ever survive a mind war against a Farseer.

The victory was short lived however, as he heard rustling and snapping of branches in the forest. Then out of the woods came more orks, fifty at first glance. He heard more coming out the woods behind him. Then they converged on him and with the fearlessness of a thousand Farseers before him Havlon met them head on…

Havlon found he was standing in a large open area surrounded by Daggersnakes. All along the horizon there was a black cloud rolling towards him. The Daggersnakes began to hiss, and with each uniform hiss the clouds dissipated getting lighter and lighter until there was only white light all around.

…Havlon awoke tied to a post. The orks gathered around him were grunting and howling in a ritualistic manor. Havlon was beaten so badly that consciousness came and went…

…The Daggersnakes were crawling toward him, he had no where to go...

…He awoke again and thought that he heard shots being fired, grunts and groans, and the clashing of steel. Then all faded to darkness and he was unconscious again…

…The Daggersnakes slithered up his legs engulfing his body. Havlon screamed and the serpents fell to the ground surrounding him once again. Havlon looked at himself and found he was dressed in traditional Saim-Hann Farseer robes. In his right hand he held a golden staff, in the other a shuriken pistol. His blood red armor adorned in green gems. In shock he looked once again to horizon…

Havlon gasped and drew a deep breath into his lungs, his brain searching for a connection to his senses. He rose up and found himself lying in a bed. He noticed that all of his wounds had been tended to and upon further inspection found all of his belongings beside the bed. He got up, put on his robe and backpack, grabbed his staff and pistol and headed out the flap of the tent he was in.
He stopped in amazement thinking his eyes deceived him. There were Eldar waiting outside the tent and as one body knelt to the ground. They were Aspect warriors mainly Striking Scorpions, while others donned the blazing orange armor of the Fire Dragons. Behind them he saw groups of Dire Avengers and Rangers, and all of them knelt in the shadow of a lone Falcon. “Odd,” he whispered to himself. This was too organized to be any normal exile group. They must have fled before the fall, or got lost in the warp and ended up here. One of the Scorpions rose, his green armor and golden claw glimmering in the sun as he walked to stand in front of him. The warrior removed his helmet and knelt to one knee.

“Farseer, long have we waited for your guidance,” he exclaimed.
“Excuse me?” Havlon said.
“Were you not sent to guide us back to the craftworld?” the Scorpion replied, looking worried.
“No, I was exiled here. I am here by chance meeting. How did you all happen here?”
“We were abandoned here by our leaders and fellow craftworld members when the battle against the Orks went terribly wrong,” he stated. “So it now appears that we are in fact exiles as well. Without the power of a Farseer we fear the forces of chaos will soon come to harvest our souls. Farseer we bequeath you to join us in our strife.”

“This is my dream,” he thought. “These Eldar have saved me and now we are lost together.” Havlon looked at the faces of the warriors. They looked at him as a pupil would a teacher waiting for guidance. They needed his protection, and to resurrect the honor they once had as members of a craftworld. At that moment he thought it no coincidence that he had been exiled here. He motioned for the warriors to rise and looked them all over again. Havlon raised his staff high in the air and said with the firmness of veteran leader…

“We have all been put here for a reason then. The sands of time have spilled in our favor and brought us all together. If I am to be your leader then let us all forget out past. Let us all give up what we once knew, and forge a path of our own!”