Strangers from Beyond the Veil

А fragile world teeters on the brink of ruin, its fate entwined with shadows from beyond the stars. In the silence of the void, ancient kin stir, their gaze fixed upon a fading light. Now, destiny reveals itself—cloaked in enigma, bearing either salvation or doom.

The maiden world of Nimariphar. Briesann, the free huntress.

Briesann paced restlessly along the edge of the landing platform, her movements betraying a hidden tension. She loathed obeying the council's decrees, and the role of Speaker-for-the-Prince weighed heavily on her free-spirited soul. But this day was unlike any other. The seers had foretold the arrival of strangers who would become both symbol and instrument of their world's rebirth. The last century had drowned Nimariphar in misfortune. It began with two tyranid assaults, repelled with little blood spilled, thanks to kin from the craftworld Lirbelach. Those victories, won too easily against a fearsome foe, bred a false sense of invincibility. Pride was answered with stone and metal crashing from the heavens, bringing an ork Waaagh! The council, blinded by arrogance, persuaded the prince to refuse aid. The price was shattered homes, scorched forests, and countless eldar lives, their souls merging with the world's spirit in a final act of despair. Overgrown fungi trampled Nimariphar's pride into the dust, along with two-thirds of its sons and daughters. By some miracle, the dying warriors took the green plague with them into oblivion, but triumph dissolved into grief and confusion. Yet the woes did not end there: scenting ash and suffering, dark kin arrived. Their greedy hands began exacting a bloody tithe. It was too late to call for help—the star-kin could not guard them forever. Having lost so many, the people of Nimariphar could no longer cage the spider in its web; they became prey. Mockingly, the dark ones even announced when they would return for the next harvest. For fifteen long years, Nimariphar's folk had been forced to hide on their own soil.

Shaking off her grim thoughts, the huntress lifted her gaze to the sky, where a dot appeared—the approaching shuttle. The ship was unmistakably eldar in design, indigo with delicate pale-lilac patterns etched upon its hull. Who were they—Free Wanderers or envoys from a craftworld? And why not through the webway?

Briesann had been chosen as envoy for her ease with outsiders. Independent and curious, she never found understanding among her kin, nor did she make friends in their midst. Instead, she delighted in conversing with those from beyond—guests from craftworlds, human traders who occasionally strayed here, even a kroot once. Mysteries lying past their cold world's borders beckoned her; Nimariphar felt like a cage. But in these dark times, even one like her could serve the greater good.

Four figures emerged from the ship's hold. Flanking the group were two hulking armored beings, tau-like in stature—likely guards. Ahead strode a tall stranger in a black doublet overlaid with a burgundy jerkin. Dark trousers tucked into high beige boots, his ensemble completed by rough, wide gloves and pyramidal spikes sewn onto his sleeves. His mottled scalp and piercing red eyes gave him the air of a predator barely tamed by civilization. A step behind and to his left walked the last of the arrivals—a woman in a sky-blue gown adorned with gold ribbons, her head held high, every movement graceful, regal. If he was their leader, she was surely his shadow, his counselor. As Briesann finished studying her, the woman stepped forward.

The huntress flinched, barely resisting the urge to rub her eyes. The stranger's posture, the position of her hands and head, conveyed a message that no non-eldar should know, let alone perform with such mastery. It was a silent greeting:

— I greet you as an equal and speak for my leader. I seek dialogue and mutual gain.

Automatically, Briesann replied with honed gestures:

— I, Speaker-for-the-Prince, accept you as equals. Follow me.

Anticipation gripped her—these strangers were far too unusual.

As they walked unhurriedly to Briesann's home, the guest introduced herself and her companions.

— This is G'Kar, our leader and captain. I am Delenn, envoy and advisor. And these—she gestured to the flanking figures—are Kosh, watchers and teachers.

— Which one is Kosh?—the huntress blurted, not the wisest question, but the strangeness of the moment excused her.

— Both. They are both Kosh Naranek. Their race, the Vorlons, do not bear names as we understand them—it is a title some take when they walk among younger races.

A whirlwind of questions spun in Briesann's mind, causing her to stumble. Younger races! That implied a multitude of peoples and the Vorlons' renown. Yet the eldar had never heard of them, which meant…

— You are not from our galaxy?

— Correct,—Delenn smiled, a mentor pleased with her pupil. Perhaps not even from this universe. Years ago, our ship was carried far from the shores we sought.

They walked in silence for a time. The stunned huntress struggled to calm her racing thoughts. Approaching her home—a two-story cottage painted in soft green, blending seamlessly with the surrounding garden—Briesann realized she had not introduced herself. Burning with shame, she led the guests to the veranda and hurried to set the table, fumbling and nearly dropping things in her haste.

She did not know how the strangers would react to eldar fare. In her people's nomadic culture, offering food and drink carried deep meaning, as did the manner of its acceptance or refusal. Trust and the level of negotiation hinged upon it. Yet Delenn showed no concern, casually serving her leader dishes and drinks. It seemed reckless—no testing, no questions about the food. Then it dawned on Briesann: she had been thoroughly outplayed, from start to finish. And she noticed another detail—the strangers were blank to her empathy, utterly unreadable. She needed aid. Muttering apologies and asking the guests to wait, Briesann darted toward the seers' sanctum.