Two Shadows Meet in the Umbra
A saucer scarred with storms and a bird-ship gleaming new — an encounter that should only happen in battle.
[The Umbra. Vast, silent, endless. Two Faetech titans drift into proximity — a meeting that should not be, cannot be, except under the most clandestine of designs.]
The first vessel hangs like a memory of fear, an immense disc of tarnished alloy and green-glass panels, its surface pitted by the scars of ages. Occasionally, yellow arcs of lightning crackle across its hull, dancing over seams in the plating, as though it were stitched together with stormlight. Lights wink, not in pattern but in pulse, as if the ship were breathing in some rhythm older than machinery. A saucer, yes — but one older, stranger, far larger than any mortal stories ever dared to imagine. It drifts like a monolith pretending to be a myth.
The second craft glides into view — sleek, angular, and proud. Shaped like a bird in flight, wings folded yet poised for strike, its black-and-white livery gleams as though new-forged, unmarred by time or war. Where the saucer feels like an ancient survivor, this one radiates intention: pristine, sharpened, an emissary birthed for the now. Reflections ripple faintly across its hull, swallowing what little light the Umbra dares provide.
Between them, the void feels strained — as if reality itself knows these vessels should only meet in combat, not in parley.
[Crackle of audio, sudden and sharp, a voice carried into nothing:]
“THIS IS ECHO ACTUAL. HAILING GEMINI ACTUAL. DO YOU COPY?”
The words hang, hollow in the infinite dark. No reply. The silence stretches longer than it should — longer than is comfortable.
The saucer hums, arcs of yellow fire crawling across its underbelly. The bird-ship adjusts, subtle, a shiver of wing-struts. And still, no answer.
Then—
“WE DO.”
[Somewhere deep within the bird-shaped craft, a screen sputters to life. At first only static, then darkness—deeper, heavier than the Umbra outside. A blackness that swallows black. And from that abyss, a figure takes shape.]
Lord Echo.
Not the whisperer of tricks nor the jester of chaos, but the War Rabbit — towering, broad-shouldered, rabbit-headed, his presence filling the feed as though he could step bodily through it. White fur, black smoke coiling where light should cling, the jagged glint of weapon-runes burned into his skin. His eyes glow with a knowing fury, the kind that never belonged to any court.
His ears tilt forward. His breath clouds. And when he speaks, it comes with a hiss that cuts through every ward, every shield, every inch of Faetech silence:
“Gemini.”
[A pause. He leans in closer, the black behind him swallowing even the edges of the screen.]
“We need to talk.”
[TRANSMISSION CUT]