Whispers from the Craftworld

The Craftworld Lirbelach, a marvel of eldar ingenuity, floated silently through the void, its wraithbone spires gleaming faintly in the starlight. From a distance, it appeared as a bastion of serenity, but within its hallowed halls, intrigue and ambition simmered beneath the surface.

Within the grand chamber, nearly a hundred eldar convened, their presence a testament to the craftworld's enduring legacy. The hall was a masterpiece of artistry: walls of pearlescent ivory, veined with gold and alabaster, cradled furnishings of muted beige that whispered of forgotten luxuries. Statues stood sentinel in alcoves—the sorrowful visage of Isha, tears frozen in time, Vaul, bound yet unbowed and Asuryan, resplendent in his glory. The air was thick with the fragrance of rare timbers, the subtle perfumes of exquisite viands and vintages arrayed upon slender tables, and a haunting melody that seemed to echo from the very soul of the craftworld. It was a scene of indulgence, a stark contrast to the disciplined austerity that governed life aboard Lirbelach. Among the assembled, conversations drifted like tendrils of smoke, weaving through the air with languid grace.

— Indeed. And so, that haughty fool found herself beneath the heel of a necron fleet, — the speaker, a sleek and youthful eldar, sneered. Runes upon his garb marked him as one who had trodden the paths of the Striking Scorpion and the Dire Avenger. — I wager she died ignorant, blind to the treachery of her cherished farseer. But the true victory? Biel-Tan's meddling in our affairs has ceased.

A ripple of mirth greeted his words. His peers mirrored him: young, honed for war, cunning, and merciless—the elite of Lirbelach's progeny.

— Aye, it unfolded flawlessly. And to whom do we owe this triumph? — He paused, lifting his chalice high. — To the cunning of Breagan, kin and comrades!

— To Breagan! — The hall's voice rose as one, a chorus of fierce pride.

— Enaredin, what of Nimariphar? My merchants grow restless, their patience fraying.

— Ill tidings, I fear, — Enaredin's lip curled in distaste. — Nothing proceeds as hoped.

— How so? — The first speaker's brow furrowed. — All was set in motion. Have the dark kin lost their appetite?

— The dark kin are not the issue. Unknown mon-keigh have surfaced there, and the priests and seers have flocked to their banner—hailed as saviors, no less. Our own seers sense naught but void when they turn their gaze upon them. We sought to sway the council through the war-leader, but he faltered. The interlopers inked a pact and now erect grand works, fortifications among them. And now, the backwater fools have summoned us to clandestinely bolster their cause. I depart with my cadre in a few days to assess the lay of the land. I'll also… correct their seers' visions to align with our needs. Send the corsairs to Roblad. Should matters sour, I have agents in reserve.

— See it done swiftly, brother.

— Fear not, it shall be so. Hah, and these yokels remain blissfully ignorant of what festers beneath their cherished woods.

A refined chuckle greeted his jest.

In the crystalline gardens, two venerable eldar clad in the austere robes of the Path of Service reclined upon a bench, their eyes tracing the departing figures of the young. One elder traced a subtle gesture before his gaze, as though shifting a piece upon an unseen board.

— The simplest to command are those who believe themselves the masters of strings.

The other inclined his head, a silent accord passing between them.

Nimariphar, Indra.

Disillusionment settles like dust upon my circuits. I had anticipated elegance from the eldar, yet their council devolved into a farce akin to squabbling bureaucrats. Heh, I nearly stumbled when I unveiled that footage to Kalmael. His betrayal and sacrifice caught me off guard—a bitter revelation. He grates upon me, and I wager the sentiment is shared. Still, his intellect is keen; perhaps cooperation is not beyond reach.

Two days more, swift by any measure, were consumed in haggling and refining the accord. At last, every clause was sealed, and I set to work. By the tale I spun, only Vorlons and Shadows wielded mastery over the psi-plastic. Thus, I deployed a score of Kosh simulacra, while my other marionettes tended to machinery and feigned oversight.

No sooner did the first spires rise than the locals swarmed—hunters from nearby, envoys from the capital, all drawn to witness and scrutinize. Builders, seers, lore-keepers, and a cadre of insufferable warrior-youths, their arrogance a plague upon the worksite. One whelp, bolder than the rest, trespassed upon the nascent foundation. His audacity wore thin my patience. Through a Kosh proxy, I fixed him with a glare and unleashed a brief arc of energy. Then, with a telekinetic cuff, I hurled the quivering fool from the premises. In stark contrast stood a cluster of young eldar beside the seers—poised, clad in beige with lilac accents, their observation meticulous yet unobtrusive. They even curbed the warriors' excesses with barbs of wit. I approached them as G'Kar, my puppet adorned with a newly fashioned "translator." Greetings exchanged, I engaged them. They were aspirants to the rank of war-seer, following the craftworld's ancient ways. Blast, I'd hoped they were the conscripts bound for my crew. I jested as much, they laughed, replying, "Fate weaves as it will." For a span, we stood in companionable silence, eyes upon the rising city.

— I note your labors outpace the pact's timeline, — one remarked.

— Caution is my creed. Psi-plastic holds caprice in its nature, — I replied through G'Kar. — Thus, I decreed all efforts redoubled.

— Prudent, indeed. Tell me, G'Kar, is it solely the Vorlons who command this substance?

— Hmm? No, the Shadows wield it too, and in scant measure, the Minbari priesthood.

— Shadows? Why then do they not lend their hand to this endeavor?

— Suffice to say, their presence would be… unwelcome. Even those devoid of psychic gifts find their proximity harrowing. For seers and the like… — I trailed off, letting implication linger.

— Are they akin to pariahs?

— Pardon?

— Pariahs, — he spat, disgust curling his lip. — Soulless ones, untouchables, soul-slayers, blanks—those who smother the warp's breath in their shadow. Death in their wake is eternal.

— Ugh. No, nothing so dire. Our savants posit that the Shadows' psi-aura is "angled" such that it breeds unease, terror, even agony in those nearby.

Fortune favored me, another tale swallowed whole. My companion, who named himself Elieph, voiced a wish to tour my vessel. I consented, but only upon the pact's further fulfillment—lest the council grow skittish. We parted, each content with the other's measure.

Two days hence, in the sixth settlement, as I surveyed the groundwork, I unearthed a snare. Buried within the earth lay a device primed to unravel the psi-plastic's integrity once the edifices stood tall. A blow to reputation, a seed of doubt—inevitable. I pondered briefly, then recalibrated the mechanism to unleash a harmless display of light. Upon the city's dedication, it sprang to life. I feigned a moment's alarm, then proclaimed it a tribute to our labor's end. Let the saboteurs puzzle over their failure.

Drones took wing above completed and nascent cities alike, their vigil unblinking. Soon, they snared their quarry: warriors, as expected. Yet their trail led to darker truths. They were not lone actors, artifacts and rune-traps flowed through the webway gates. Thus, craftworld meddling was afoot. Surely, the hawks would not league with their dark kin's blades. By Occam's razor, Lirbelach pulled the strings. This cast light upon prior oddities—the unguarded portals, for one. Granted, orks had culled the martial ranks, leaving green recruits, but why had the craftworld withheld counsel or mentors? The ork incursion itself reeked of artifice, though perhaps paranoia clouded my judgment. Nonetheless, I had clearly upended their designs. Hence, spies would lurk nearby. Who had newly graced my sight? Elieph and his ilk, of course. He scarcely bothered to conceal himself—how had I missed it? "Elieph" translates to "mask" in their tongue. By the gods, they deem me a simpleton.

Enough verse, to action. What course to chart? Ah, a scheme takes shape:

First, a safeguard—since the hawks shun direct dealings with their benefactors, I'll substitute their relics with my own creations, laced with malice. Let the dullards of this world clash with their supposed allies.

Second, vigilance unending! My watch must tighten tenfold; complacency has dulled my edge.

Third, I must verify that my suspicions are not mere fevered delusions.

Fourth, should truth align with my fears, I'll manipulate these pawns until they discern their betrayal and its architect. All the while, I'll don the mask of the unwitting fool, gauging my true foe's mettle.

The die is cast. Let the game commence, heh-heh-heh.

The galaxy's hunger grows, its jaws ever poised to snap shut upon the unwary.