Shadows of Uneasy Bonds

The air grows thick with suspicion, a pact forged in the crucible of necessity trembling beneath the weight of doubt. Allies from the void beyond offer promises of deliverance—or treachery veiled in silk. The warp stirs, its insatiable gaze fixed upon the fragile dance of fates.

Ten minutes had passed when the huntress returned, her face flushed with a storm of embarrassment. She fussed about, striving to uphold the pretense of courteous exchange, though her efforts faltered. Curiosity warred with shame and a flicker of dread within her—a beguiling, awkward tempest. She's strangely compelling, I thought, observing her struggle. For nigh on an hour, we traded hollow words: Briesann spun tales of eldar existence, while I wove half-truths of Minbari and Narn traditions, conjuring fables from the ether. All the while, we awaited the next soul to cross the threshold.

— How did you master our tongue so swiftly? — Briesann ventured, her tension easing, perhaps sensing her superior's nearing presence.

— A gift for languages runs in my blood, and your eldar speech echoes Adronato, the tongue of my caste.

— And what caste claims you?

— I am a priestess.

A soft rap at the door heralded the end of our idle chatter. Exquisite timing. Either the huntress had been drilled to guide the discourse with precision—unlikely—or the seer had come. Not my preferred guest, yet tolerable. Their prophecy left them little room to balk, and if pressed, I held leverage. They were cornered.

A towering eldar strode in, his arrogance a palpable shroud. His stature was magnified by an ornate crest of hair and a staff held aloft, never gracing the floor. Robes of deep green, matched by rune-etched armor, bore a lattice of azure sigils. A diadem, emblem of the seers, crowned him, adorned with burgundy gems that gleamed upon his forearms, chest, and brow. His face, dry and worn, bore the scars of exhaustion.

— Priestess of which gods? — he demanded, spurning formalities.

— None. We venerate the cosmos and the titans of our kin. We hold faith in the soul and its eternal gyre through life's great wheel.

— And your allies?

— The Narns bow to their ancient prophets, G'Kwan and G'Lan. The Vorlons and Shadows, too oft named gods, have no faith to call their own.

— Gods? — Surprise laced with scorn crept into his tone.

— Most races of our galaxy deemed them so—and many still do.

— The mon'keigh's folly knows no depths.

Silence descended, heavy and brooding. The seer weighed my words as I mimed a hushed counsel with my unseen crew. Briesann, stunned by this heresy, stared wide-eyed, grappling to order her thoughts. I feel her turmoil, I mused. She had pleaded for aid, warning that these strangers pierced her mind too keenly, knew too much. And now this—brash, overbearing, and utterly inept at steering discourse. He grates on me too.

— Don't take it to heart, — Briesann ventured, seeking to mend the rift. — Kalmael is always too…

— No need to excuse another's misstep, Briesann, — I cut in, my voice tinged with faint condescension. — I'd sooner treat with you if Kalmael flounders so at mere words.

She exhaled in relief, blind to the barbs I'd buried in her seer's pride: charges of ineptitude, cowardice, disregard for his rank, and a shadowed threat to hike the cost. My phantom fangs ache with delight. Kalmael's grimace betrayed his grasp of every slight—and more besides. For a heartbeat, he pressed his lips thin, then softened his mask and sank beside Briesann.

— Forgive my sharpness. Faith is a wound yet raw in me.

— So be it, — I inclined my head. — Enough preamble. To the crux.

— Your cities lie in ruin, your foes strike unseen, and your defenses are naught.

— We offer to raise settlements and outposts along the megadon trails, a signal web spanning your world. All shaped in your aesthetic, forged of psi-plastic.

I set a tablet before them. — Here lie plans and timelines.

Beside it, a translucent violet pyramid. — And this, the material itself.

Both eldar gaped, their shock a tableau begging the caption "What?!" Kalmael rose, paced to the window, and drew runes from his sleeve, meditating upon them for half a minute's span.

— Before you came, — he intoned, — I beheld our cities reborn from ash, though the vision's heart lay shrouded.

— I anticipated guards, relics, or blades. Your offer intrigues… yet it won't halt the slaughter. What worth are empty halls if we're carved apart? — His gaze bore into me.

— Kalmael, has it never dawned on you that assaults can be thwarted? Three webway gates pierce your world, — he flinched at that — three!

— And how do you guard them? Half-hearted patrols of six hunters, lax and uncaring. No bastions, no heavy arms, no true vox-link!

— A monofilament web about a portal—airborne foes undone. A trap-moat with a drawbridge—assailants falter. Bunkers with kill-zones—the dark kin drown in gore!

I seized the tablet, summoned a defense schematic, and thrust it into his grasp.

— See? Mobile reserves too. Attacks cease.

— You've foreseen all, — he murmured, awe dimming.

— Of course. Grand pacts demand it. Risks and rewards—we plotted this for a month.

— Good. Your price?

— It's there. Data, rare ores, tech, goods, crew, lore—all in credits, minimums, rates. Choose your trade. But one term is ironclad.

— Runes or devices to shield from warp-spawn and their strikes.

— What drives such dire need?

— Savage fury. Infernal prying. Vile craving. Three daemon assaults nearly shattered us—in realspace, no less. We endured… — He smirked, a chuckle escaping. — What amuses you?

— No one assailed you.

— What? — A jolt coursed through me.

— Your warp runs tame, yes? — I nodded. — You misconstrue the Empyrean, — Kalmael's pomp swelled, dripping disdain.

— A realm of passion and souls—mirror to the living, crypt for the fallen. Desires and terrors birthed the Ruinous Powers, — his voice wove a dark hymn — yet gods seldom heed the materium.

— Great acts ripple a soul's tether to the warp. Its tides surge back, amplifying what festers within. What follows, you wreak upon yourselves.

— So we craved madness beyond reason? Crafted tools we cannot fathom? Built snares to unmake us?

— Yes.

Stunned silence gripped me. A fleeting lapse, but he caught it, his grin widening.

— Yet still, — I snapped, — we need wards against these "non-attacks." They scar mind and machine alike.

— That can be arranged, — curse that smirk. The negotiation teetered.

— What deed drew the Empyrean's eye? No secret?

— None, — a chance to strike back. — We scoured worlds of hostile minds.

I drew a second tablet, summoned footage—omitting the envoy blunder—and bade them watch.

— Behold.

Kalmael froze, jaw slack. Briesann, silent as a specter till now, peered past his shoulder. Stunned anew.

— Where? — he rasped after long minutes.

I reclaimed the tablet, lit a galactic chart, marked the "cockroach" star, and returned it.

— May we keep this?

— No objection.

We forged details, set a next council. As I turned to depart, I faced the huntress.

— Briesann, would you join us aloft? See the ship, meet the crew, your future station?

Utter, priceless shock bloomed across her fair visage.

The pact holds. Yet the warp's mocking chorus lingers still.