Echoes of the Webway

Nimareephar, the Webway Portal. An Outsider's Gaze.

In the heart of a sweltering tropical jungle, where twisted vines choked the life from ancient trees, a towering edifice rose like a blasphemous cathedral. Its exotic dome, a glistening obsidian shroud, capped a vast glade, its polished surfaces catching the sickly gleam of twin moons. Their light slithered across the structure's facets, as if recoiling from the darkness that clung to this place—a darkness so absolute it seemed time itself had withered and died, leaving only the eternal dominion of night. From within, a pulse of unnatural, shimmering light flared, bathing the dome's inner columns in an alien glow that clashed with the shadowed world beyond. Through the parted veil of the ancient Webway, two elongated sarcophagi emerged, sleek and foreboding, descending with silent grace onto obsidian pedestals that erupted from the mirror-smooth floor. The radiance lingered, a dying gasp of eldritch power, before fading into the suffocating stillness.

From the eastern edge of the glade, shadows stirred—ragged, flickering tendrils that peeled away from the forest's embrace and surged toward the portal. They flowed and twisted, coalescing into a lone figure clad in a jagged, pointed helm, its silhouette a blade against the gloom. With preternatural speed, the stranger crossed the open ground, vanishing in a blink only to materialize beside the sarcophagi. Long, deft fingers danced over a console, their movements a ritual of precision, and the first sarcophagus yielded with a hiss, its lids parting to reveal its secrets. Neat rows of gray plasteel cells glowed faintly, cradling artifacts that pulsed with a sinister, moonlit sheen—relics of a lost age, whispering of power and ruin. Moments later, the second sarcophagus succumbed to the intruder's skill. From a satchel, he drew a device, its orange screen flaring to life as it scanned the cells. Satisfied, he began plucking the artifacts, stowing them with care—one, two, ten—until his fingers froze, hovering over the next.

The Eldar flinched, a startled raptor sensing the hunter's gaze, and in an instant, he was gone. A lance of blinding light speared the spot where he'd stood—a sniper's shot, precise and merciless. From the forest's edge, fifteen crimson-clad warriors erupted, their forms a storm of elegance and death. Swords sheathed across their backs, pistols clutched in outstretched hands, they moved with a predator's grace, bodies tilted forward in lethal intent. Though the warriors of the lost Craftworlds lacked the raw martial fury of their kin, this squad bore the mark of killers honed by necessity—capable of challenging even an Exarch or an Incubus in the shadowed halls of war. From behind a column near the pedestals, a cluster of ribbed polyhedrons arced through the air. Time thickened, slowing to a crawl: violet shurikens spat from the runners' pistols in searing bursts, crystalline grenades drifted lazily, their cores igniting with amethyst flame, and sniper threads crept from the treeline, sluggish but inevitable. The stranger kicked off the column, his sprint a blur of defiance. One by one, the crystals shattered into cascades of fiery sparks under enemy fire, but a few reached their mark. Three bloomed into crackling electric blossoms, ensnaring the first sarcophagus in a web of lightning. Those that struck the second crumbled into black ash, their power gutted by precise shots.

The squad, heedless of the sarcophagi, pursued their quarry with relentless fury, vaulting obstacles like raptors in flight and unleashing a hail of razor-thin discs into the twilight. The fugitive fled without a backward glance, flickering in and out of existence—teleporting in short bursts to evade the storm. A sniper's beam found him, piercing his side and sending him spinning through the air; a shuriken slashed his satchel, spilling artifacts into the dirt. Yet he pressed on, leaping high into the forest's embrace, his back riddled with monomolecular blades. The moment he vanished into the shadows, vengeance answered. A swarm of slender missiles erupted from the trees, a shrieking chorus of death that tore the leading trio of pursuers into gory ribbons. A second volley hammered the survivors, striking their backs as realization dawned too late—they were no longer hunters, but prey. Only seven reached the dome's shelter, and only their commander stood unbloodied. From their refuge, they glared helplessly as a sleek, needle-like craft rose above the canopy and streaked into the void, its silhouette a taunt against the night sky.

The Embassy of Lirbelach. Two Hours Hence.

In a chamber drowned in shadow, lit only by the faint flicker of rune-carved lanterns, two Eldar faced one another. Councilor Riforion stood rigid, while the one called Elief paced with the restless fury of a caged beast, his voice a venomous hiss.

— Fool!

A slap cracked across Riforion's face, catching him off guard. He wiped the blood from his lips, rage simmering in his violet eyes, only for Elief's next words to quench it with shame—a rare and bitter taste for a warrior of his caliber. A savage, truly.

— They tracked you, Elief snarled, each word a lash. They learned who you are, what you do, where and when you claim your tools. They scouted, struck, stole, and shattered priceless relics—and you led them straight here! Do you not see your folly? Why not simply hang a blazing beacon above this house? I can see it now, carved in letters of fire— "Envoys of Lirbelach and Hawks of Nimareephar. Folly for the Taking." You've endangered every thread of our design!

Elief tore a runic bracelet from his wrist, twisting it in his hands as he stalked the room once more. With a muttered curse, he sank into a chair, dragging a dataslate closer. The footage of the incursion played again—blurred images of the saboteur, the grenades, the missile swarm, the fleeing craft. His eyes narrowed, dissecting every frame.

— Recon cadre. Spider, Reaper, Spear. Likely, he muttered, voice clipped and cold, speaking more to himself than his companion. Not fully armed for the strike. Barely held the line tactically. Autonomous. A rogue faction. Non-standard weaponry—EMP charges, Typhoon-class ordnance. Aspect variants unknown to these stars. Outsiders. Wanderers, perhaps? A Farseer guiding them? Possible. Either they hunt the same prize, or they've sniffed out our gambits and scorn them. Either way, we strike first.

He rose, pacing again, swearing under his breath before halting abruptly.

— Here's your task, he said, fingers working the bracelet's links as he steadied himself. The moment you leave, summon an emergency council. The mon-keigh must attend. Sing of your heroic stand against terror—show them the vilest weapons, paint the foe in shades of nightmare. They must tremble. Then grovel before the humans, confess your missteps, laud their aid. Propose guarding their kin, their cities, their worksites. Push for reinforced portal defenses—trap the vermin here. On the artifacts, claim expert counsel; a hint will sate the council and veil our ties. No, damn it, I'll speak it myself. I'm joining the council—hiding's futile now. You'll play the mon-keigh's flawless shield. Send your warriors to clear our traps—openly, with scanners, making a spectacle of "discovery." Tomorrow, tout it as your foresight. After that, no matter what our foes claim, none will heed them.

Indra. Soon After the Council.

I felt soiled, my soul stained by three hours of feigned nobility and hollow mercy. They'd outmaneuvered me with exquisite precision. I'd built a grand stage, laid every piece with care, executed a gambit worthy of legend—only for my rival to shatter it in thirty minutes of thought and a single, devastating move. Checkmate.

Now I endured their tales—how the Hawks of Nimareephar, at the cost of their lives, shielded all from ruin. I hadn't meant to kill at first—only to wound, to chastise. But when I unraveled the fate those charming Eldar planned for their kin—blood-crystals blooming in veins among the gentler options—my restraint crumbled. No matter. A direct counterstrike was beyond me now. Yet all was not lost. The construction stood secure. Should the Hawks stir trouble, we'd blame "terrorists" and mourn the builders' frail defenses. My reputation held firm; with the council's backing, payment and logistics were assured. I could finish swiftly, depart with profit. Still, it gnawed at me. I loathe defeat.

Days later, I walked with the Farseer chief, clad in the guise of Delenn.

— Tell me, Dintauil, what is that psi-construct wreathing your head?

— Construct?

— Yes, a haze of drifting runes. One of the Vorlons marked it and sought its purpose.

— That, hm, he gestured vaguely, a ward against dark visions. Think nothing of it. Delenn, I see you've hastened your labor. Why?

— The climate here grows too perilous for us.

— Truly? It seems otherwise—saboteurs repelled, guards posted, the council allied. What fuels your unease?

I paused, as if weighing my words.

— History, Councilor. My world once mirrored this. Fifty years past, at the Great War's dawn, our warrior caste deemed themselves fit to rule in chaos. Through proxies—rogues and filth—they staged assaults on home and colonies, then heroically repelled them, bleeding for their triumphs. With those victories, they seized the council. Restoring order was a bitter toil. Does it sound familiar?

— You suspect the Hawks staged this treachery?

— I assume nothing, I replied with a mournful smile, only recount old tales. Yet the air here, and your—I mimicked his gesture—nightmare ward, urge haste. This may be our final meeting, Dintauil. Farewell.

I'd planted a subtle seed against my foe. It may lie dormant for years, but I'll return to see if it blooms.

At the next council, they altered my terms—mining rights revoked, open veins sealed. In their place: technologies, more Eldar crew, and metal payments from Lirbelach. Another move by my adversary, yet it suited me. Time to concede defeat and withdraw. This world has exhausted me.