Mercy Cain The Liberator 5
The halls of the Seer Council of Ulthwé were silent save for the low hum of wraithbone resonating with the psychic tension of the gathered farseers. They sat in a perfect circle, their forms shrouded in flowing robes, their intricate spiritstones pulsing faintly with light. At the center stood Eldrad Ulthran, his ancient presence radiating authority and a clarity that cut through the rising panic like a blade.
A vision of Commorragh, wreathed in Warp fire and Chaos corruption, flickered within the room's central scrying orb. The jagged spires of the Dark City burned, and the graceful, twisted forms of the Drukhari were dragged into the immaterium, their lives consumed by daemonic hordes.
"Commorragh has been... breached," a farseer whispered, her voice trembling.
"Breached?" spat another, his tone laced with outrage. "It has been desecrated! Our kin slaughtered, our sanctuaries violated, and for what? The petty games of the Mon-keigh and their Dark Gods!"
Eldrad raised a hand, and the council fell silent. His voice, calm and measured, carried the weight of millennia. "This is no mere game," he said. "The forces unleashed within Commorragh threaten more than the lives of the Drukhari. The Warp's corruption now festers within the Webway itself. It grows like a cancer, spreading through paths long thought inviolate. This... affront jeopardizes all of us."
One of the younger seers, her spiritstone glowing dimly, leaned forward. "But how, Farseer? How could the Mon-keigh achieve this? What mortal power could break the wards of the Webway and summon Chaos itself into the Dark City?"
The orb shifted, revealing an image of a young girl with golden hair and piercing eyes. Though diminutive by Mon-keigh standards, she radiated an unsettling aura, a blend of innocence and malevolence.
"The Mon-keigh call her Mercy," Eldrad said. "She is no ordinary child. Her blood is tainted, a union of Drukhari cruelty and Mon-keigh ambition. She walks the path of the Dark Prince, her actions guided by Slaanesh's unseen hand."
A murmur spread through the council, some farseers openly seething at the mention of She Who Thirsts.
"She is an abomination," one farseer hissed. "A mockery of our kind! And now, through her folly, the Dark City burns, and the Webway lies vulnerable."
Eldrad's gaze swept across the council, silencing the outbursts with a single glance. "Do not let your emotions blind you," he warned. "The Drukhari brought this upon themselves. Their endless indulgence, their defiance of the Great Enemy, has finally led them to ruin. But do not mistake this as justice. This is but the first act in a greater tragedy, one that threatens to engulf the galaxy."
o-o-o-o-o
To the Craftworld Eldar, the Drukhari had always been a bitter reminder of what they had escaped and what they might still become. While the paths of the Craftworlds sought to shield them from She Who Thirsts, the Drukhari thrived in their defiance, walking the razor's edge of survival through cruelty and pain.
But now, for the first time in millennia, the Drukhari had faltered.
The destruction of Commorragh sent ripples through the Eldar psyche, a shockwave that reverberated across the infinity circuits of the Craftworlds. It was not sympathy for their dark kin that drove their anger but a deep-seated arrogance. The Eldar, even fractured as they were, saw themselves as the rightful masters of the galaxy, above the crude Mon-keigh and their meddling. That one of those primitives—a child, no less—had caused such devastation was an affront to their superiority.
"All this death," one farseer said bitterly, "for the amusement of Slaanesh. The Mon-keigh girl offered our kin's souls like cattle to the slaughter, and She Who Thirsts has feasted well."
"She is a fool," another added. "A pawn of the Dark Prince, unworthy of the blood that taints her veins. She dared to spill our people's blood and causes destruction like no other Mon-keigh before her."
"That destruction comes at a price," Eldrad interrupted. "The Chaos Gods do not act without purpose. The spread of their corruption into the Webway is not a coincidence. This Mercy has opened a door that cannot easily be shut."
o-o-o-o-o
In the solitude of his chambers, Eldrad meditated, his mind drifting through the threads of fate. He saw countless futures unraveling from Mercy's actions. In one, the Webway became a battlefield, a bridge for daemons to spill into reality unchecked. In another, the Drukhari rebuilt, more twisted and hateful than before, striking at the Craftworlds in desperation. And in yet another, the Chaos Gods turned their attention to the Mon-keigh Protectorate, using it as a staging ground for further incursions.
Yet, through all these visions, one constant remained: Mercy herself. Her presence radiated across the skeins of fate, a keystone around which countless destinies twisted and bent.
"She is dangerous," Eldrad murmured to himself. "A catalyst. A weapon. She may not yet understand her role, but the Dark Prince guides her, and through her, the galaxy trembles."
He opened his eyes, his expression grim. The Craftworlds could not ignore this threat, but neither could they confront it directly. Mercy was shielded by Chaos, her Protectorate bolstered by technology and fervor. To strike at her would risk drawing the full ire of the Ruinous Powers—a conflict the Eldar could ill afford.
Still, something had to be done.
When Eldrad returned to the council, he spoke with authority. "Mercy is no mere child. She is a harbinger of Chaos, a chosen pawn of the Dark Prince. Her actions have unleashed a threat that cannot be ignored. We must act—but not through war."
"What, then?" one farseer demanded. "Shall we let her spread her corruption unchecked?"
"We shall observe," Eldrad said firmly. "And we shall prepare. Mercy is bound to Slaanesh, but she is still mortal. Mortals are flawed, and flaws can be exploited. When she stumbles, we will ensure she falls."
The council murmured its assent, though the farseers' anger simmered beneath their calm exteriors.
Eldrad gazed into the flickering scrying orb, Mercy's image still etched within it. The Drukhari had been punished for their arrogance, but the consequences of their downfall would ripple across the galaxy. The Webway, the Craftworlds, even the Mon-keigh Imperium—all were at risk now.
"She believes herself a savior," Eldrad whispered, more to himself than to the council. "But she is a herald of doom. And when the galaxy burns, it will be her name that echoes in the flames."