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Beratac scraped his mind against the veil, one that any psionic worth their salt would know intimately, yet are all equally helpless to express into words. Record fragments of the Elder's nigh-mystical exercises and forays into other...places through nothing but pure mind were drawn up, those that spoke of a concept nearly identical to Plato's Ideal. He tugged at the ghostly notion of words and language, tenuous in a realm as subjective as this one, but pulled on the adjacent strands, verifying validity is a practice that is long mastered, yet the sensation itself can never be. Reality was, for but a moment, given it's own will, and spoke of approval before the harsh reality of physics clamped down on the semi-casual attempt and shut out the session. He turned to Anderson, then to the other ambassadors, and knocked at their minds, gaining attention. *This transmission is an honest one. There is no deception, and the speaker is who he says he is.* Beratac announced in that all too regal way characteristic of the bloodlines that made up the Ethereal honor guard, in the short era of ADVENT, and when they bother to show their true forms. The implications set in, each realizing that fate itself has crossed the streams.
