Echoes of Eternity: A Warhammer 40k Necron Lord Quest (Redux)

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As things start to settle down, your thoughts move to a matter that has been harrying your back-processors for a while now: you really need a laboratory. Necron technology is good, but not so good that you don't need a controlled environment where to trigger phenomena and record results.

But where to put it?

Necrons are long done with the "mundane" sciences: gravity, DNA, molecular manipulation, fire and water and everything in-between; the Crypteks have long considered them mastered and conquered. Today, the savants turn their attention to the cutting-edge: radiation – Not C'tan, never C'tan -, dimensions, time and space. Now, you may disagree on certain ideas, but your new laboratory better be positioned for you to work at your best with at least one of those disciplines. Being left behind would be lame, after all.

So, simply put? A laboratory deep in the tombs helps with dimensional studies, one close to the surface agrees with research in radiation and everything related.

(DIMENSION OR RADIATION?: 1d2, 1, Dimension it is.)

Also, being bombed from orbit. You aren't a fan of that, so after some back and forth, you decide on the latter. A lair in the deep, lit by unholy fires' glow, where the crone works her curses, ready to unleash them on a fearful, unsuspecting universe. You like that. You're making that. You only need to work on your cackle.

What about time? Time is everywhere. Mostly. You need certain special places to work best with that most finnicky of elements, and this planet doesn't make the list.

(GETTING HELP: Intrigue Roll, 36+6=42. Catching that unaware boi.)

"Are you following? Mh?" You ask, finishing to explain your reasoning.

Chalchun, still trying to recover from you calling for him among all the Crypteks, looks thoroughly lost.

"Y-yes, Matriarch," he stammers, not following. "B-but I am but a lesser Cryptek. H-how am I…"

"Help? Why, thank you for volunteering. You may begin by scouting the depths of the tombs for interesting places for me to settle in. Also, talk with your friends, mh? We Crypteks are curious, mischievous critters. I wouldn't be surprised they found one and kept it to themselves."

Chalchun raises two limbs to say something. Then the situation finally registers and he chuckles nervously.

Behind you, Khepra gives him a pitying look.

(FINDING A NEST: Learning, 98+10=108. Well, that's something.)

It takes more effort than you thought. The complex is vast, incredibly so, and the few thousands of self-aware Necron nobles can't cover it all. Plenty of nooks and crannies go unseen by all apart from the Canoptek and the odd solitude-loving Cryptek in search for his own den.

This Tombworld is not yours yet. With the loss of the central archives, you have no schematics to follow, and you trust only your sensors with this anyway, so you send swarms of Scarabs into the depths and, together with Chalchun, get to mingling.

Xolotl Crypteks are aloof by definition, as aristocratic as one can be. Sure, they're all smiles and eagerness to please, but four generations separating you from this batch is enough to have them put up barriers of courtesy and suspect, and since there can't be two Phaerakh, they don't want to show themselves too eager to please with you, just in case. It doesn't help that, being technomancers themselves, they can appreciate at what unholy depths you fell as you worked to make Bio-Transference into a reality.

But the same also means that they can see what boon your intervention has been for their souls, and while very few of them of them consider Bio-Transference an perfect apotheosis and not a faulty one, they are still scientists at heart, as eager to learn your secrets as any good Cryptek, and, well, you have the ear of the Phaerakh, voices say.

It makes for a complex relationship to put it mildly, and so it takes you more than a light effort to have them warm up to you, but warm up they do. With some mediation from Chalchun, you chuckle politely, tell stories of the Dynasty's times when your were queen and during your stay at the Silent Court, comment on scientific problems, slip small insights and tease about more and pat your little helper, insinuating that you're treating him right, and if a lesser Cryptek gets rewarded, who say anyone of them couldn't receive the same?

That's when the fake politeness starts to melt, and you receive some truly interesting tidbits. As expected, they have been making their own scouting runs and keeping the results for themselves. You piece what they slip to you with the Canoptek's sweeps, and follow the trail to the lower levels of the complex, where a Cryptek so old that he may as well be a living fossil points you, after the promise to leave him alone in his hole and tell the rest of the Dynasty he's dead, toward a shielded passage.

The passage is cramped and rough, forcing you to lean, climb and, once, even jump a chasm. The planet's movements, you guess. And yet, your sensors – those that work under the heavy jamming laying over the place - don't sense any instability. Whatever force broke the path must have long gone dormant.

The passage leads deeper and deeper and as you follow it, the walls of lithonecris meld with the planet's bedrock. Suddenly, it ends, and you steps into a large, cavernous space.

You'd think that turning into a machine should have killed your sense of wonder.

The cavern's ceiling soars far above you. Waves of sheen chase each other across metallic vaults and arches, made like the inside of a diamond, like a godly hand started to shape them, only to leave them unfinished. Entrances and windows of another age show only rock and soil, wherever they led to lost to the planet's movements. And yet, not entirely. Hints of statues and worked shapes poke from the metal. The cyclopean statue of a Necrontyr looks down at you, half-subsumed into the mix of lithonecris and stone.

The floor gives way halfway toward it. Looking down, you are taken aback by the dizzying drop. A colossal tube tunnel through the planet's crust, the glow of its lifeblood burning in the distance. You smell sulphur, hear sizzling rock. The tube's walls are lined with entrances, some big, some small, many crushed and closed. Once, a spiral road granted access to them, but only a few pieces are left.

The scale of the place takes your breath away. An offshoot of the Necrontyr must have lived here, a whole population making their home close to the planet's fires.

As for the most recent inhabitants, the mystery is quickly resolved: a geothermal station hangs at the base of the tube, clinging to the wall like a bloated spider. These stations were prized. If the Gauss energy production gave way, they were to act as back-up generators. As unlikely as that was, it would have meant death or worse for the dynasty, so at least a few stations were always kept on hand and protected to paranoid degrees; doubly so if their owner was a scheming noble who needed that bit of energy more than their competition.

Patting yourself on the back, you send a private message to your daughter. No, no need for her to make a space in her laboratory. Grandma has found her nest, thank you very much.

YOU GAIN:
Shielded Den
- Favor to Dimensional Studies
- Heavy Jamming
- Lost Ruins
- Geothermal Station (Unknown status)

---------------

It's not them coming to you this time. Following half-remembered instincts, you step into the dark, and you're transported to a place of throbbing shadows and unblinking eyes like so many marsh light.

They move, the mischievous little termites. They scrabble and crawl and gasp in the dark that is inside and the dark that is outside.

As you walk their halls and pass their abodes, they swarm around you, here to unpick and remind you. Their desperate claws and parched throats tell a story that you forgot but can't ever forget. And you listen, for what else can it be done when the voice speaks to the soul?

Oh, it's such a wonder to have a mouth, they sing. Such a delight to know hunger eternal and have sharp teeth and robust claws to slake it. What is immortality, pure and true, but concession to appetite? And what is the life of the Necrons if not the preparation of the table?

Why return to the battle of wills and lies? Stay. The universe is meat and we are its gorging children. Oh, sweet intoxication. Oh, freedom of the mind and the soul. Happiness is to be found in the crunching of bones and the sucking of marrow.

Look at our extended hand. Peer in our eyes. There's no falsehood to be found here. Come, come.

THE DARK'S LIE: Req 60, Learning, 28+10=38. All these sweetmeats.
FLAYER CONTAMINATION: Automatic Success from Traits

You fall for it. It's a lie, you know it, and yet you believe it. The image their song weave is too attractive in its visceral crimson, too piercing in its mad savagery.

You lose yourself in it for what feels like an eternity, gorging yourself in misery and entrails, and when you return to your senses, you're in your chambers, swollen and scarred and marked.

You're not alone, and with the heart that beats wildly in your chest, uncaring that it doesn't exist anymore, you stare into the glowing eyes in the gloom and struggle to remember who you are.

"It's me," the monster growls, and its voice is as sharp as hate and deep as hunger.

GETTING A GRIP: Automatic Success from Trait Combination. It's not a monster, it's a victim.
WHO HAS SLIPPED THROUGH?: 1d100, 44. Flayed Stalker and his cohort.

Except that it's not. You look better, and as fear's veil slides off, you see the sad, sad gleam in his eyes, the channels toxic tears dug in his cheeks.

"It's me," the Flayed One gurgles, and for all his swollen body, bloody cloak and fearsome claws, wretchedness is the only thing he has.

"Mother," he hisses, slumping in surrender. He scrabbles at your cloak, reverence and despair intermingling. "Will you? Will you be our Mother? But nobody ever resisted. None ever walked this path. If you want to be Mother, you will be alone. Alone, in the dark. And the dark is so hungry, so hateful and old and strong." His head is low, his shoulders bent, his soul broken. All he can do is to hold the farthest edge of your cloak. "No hope for us. No hope at all. Will you save us? Will you fight for us? I see only dark. I am all out of strength. Yet, I swear myself. For you resisted. For you shine brightly, and for so long I saw only the shadow and heard the howl. For so. Very. Long."

You put your hand on his head, and is like you're holding his doleful gratitude, his mourning and pained heart. For you to keep and nurture, or squeeze and destroy.

And you…

[] Swear.
By the ancient oaths and your burning soul, you swear you shall disperse this darkness and free those it enslaved. Your light shines bright and the Flayed Ones recognize you as their Mother, flocking at your side. But this is a chain.
All Flayed Ones recognize you as their Mother, and will always answer your call, travelling through the Ghostwind to do your bidding as long as the Flayer's hand doesn't hover over them. You must take an action meant to free them at least every 2 turns or suffer a Mark.

[] Promise.
A softer bind, a gentle promise. You promise that you'll wade through dark and blood to unslack their chains from a dead God's grip. For that, you are honored.
All Flayed Ones look up to you and call you Mother with tentative hope. Call and they may answer and do your bidding for a time.

[] Engage without committing.
You offer no promise and no oath, but you will try. To the damned, that is so much already.
Flayed Ones look fleetingly at you, considering you kindred. They won't answer your call from afar, but they may listen if you find and approach them.

[] Reject.
Such horrible destiny, such devouring darkness. Away with you! The damned slink back into the darkness, unsurprised and without rancour. You're soon forgotten.
Flayed Ones look at you and see only another body. You lose the First Mark and the Contaminated by Flayer Virus trait. You're safe from the darkness forever, but you won't save anybody.

You gain the First Mark.
The Flayer has His claws in you, and in His hateful despair, He accepts you as His Daughter and Meat. Fight Him at your peril.
The First Mark shows you as marked by the Virus. You will have to hide it or suffer the scorn and disgust of fellow Necrons. If you gain ten Marks, the Flayer's ghost will possess you.
HERO GAINED: Me, the Flayed Stalker.
UNIT GAINED: 2 Units of Flayed Ones.

---------------

As the Herald lets out the proclamations, the atmosphere shifts. Grumpy and grim Lords get a little less grim and grumpy and become almost sociable. Scheming Crypteks get off their latest obsession and stop trying to hide a dagger behind every word. Lychguard stop rehearsing martial maneuvers to pick up conversations. Even the steps of Immortals and Warriors get a peep that wasn't there before.

You see, as with all good things, setting up a celebration must follow the proper order.

First of all, Nekaph, your daughter's Herald, announces that the Pherakh, in Her enlightened wisdom, is pondering about the possibility of a ceremony to celebrate the Great Sleep's success. A House setting an invitation for nobles of the same rank will do so with plenty of time in advance, so that the invited be able to reply at leisure, so showing that they participate not out of any social obligation but because they want and can. It's a manifestation of independency and it goes a long way to soothe immortal egos.

Not here. All nobles, of all ranks, are required to keep a spot open in their family schedule, and to show it by lingering about their family crypt doing nothing and being seen while doing it. And since time is cheap for immortals, the nobles better be using their house Canoptek to polish and maintain their inner engrams, a long and tedious process that ensures they CAN'T use the time to scheme and think. Just in case the ruler decides to drop the ceremony with no warning

That never happens, but points need to be made, mh?

Next, the Herald lets all know that Her Luminance has decided on hosting a celebration and sets a few ball-park possibilities on the time and place. This allows the nobles to start setting aside whatever it is they're doing at the time – here and now? The Sekmat finishing drinking from their enemies' skulls and the Akmat putting the finishing touches to their first remodeling – and make ready. This is when the ambitious put out their suggestions for a place and a time, and the greedy offer their private domains to host the celebrations. All for the Herald to reject or accept, depending on whom the ruler decides to show favor or disfavor to.

Only when all that is done, the Herald announces time, place and the form the ceremony will take, and that's when the Phaeron usually throws a bone to the nobles, going with one among the celebrations traditional to the Dynasty. With a caveat: the time is set down to the millisecond, and woe to the noble that is not there when the clock ticks the moment. Noble houses fell from favor because of lazybones too slow to move, or, well, not crafty enough to avoid the obstacles set by rivals.

Only when all these steps are taken, the real preparations for the ceremony start, with favoured servants and ministers, and for the most important parties, the ruler herself, charged with setting up everything for the best. And then, well, the ceremony.

Is it too much? Who knows. Why, back in the day, the Xolotl attracted some criticism from the Triarchs for their lack of pomp in certain formal occasions.

Personally, you don't mind it. It's fun! And, well, because during all the meetings and councils and hearings, that spark in the air lingers, that ever so lightness in every Necron step you see and Necron eye you cross. That, you think, is worth the hassle.

COURT REACTION: 1d20=11. The strongest question and challenge.

Raethis doesn't seem to share the feeling.

"It's so stressing!" She moans, throwing her hands up.

You are in what you guess were the local ruler's private chambers. To outsiders, the somber, circuit-laden walls would appear the same as any part of the Tomb, but not to you. Your alternate sensors report the minute An'Lekh, - the hieroglyph-based, invisible language that Necrons use to engrave stories and encode images – covering every inch of the place in waves of art and glory.

You read a history of conquests there, but whoever wrought it and against whom has been scrubbed out with a thoroughness edging into obsession. Why, you wonder, and that's just another mystery for the pile.

Whatever their role was, the chambers are now the Phaerakh's personal study room, and at the moment about to explode with piles of perforated sheets taller than you.

"He sent them all!" She despairs. "And just before the ceremony's start!"

Lounging on the chair she very kindly offered you, you try your best not to smile. "I told you not to indulge him. Old bugs like Althymr are too eccentric for their own good."

The Phaerakh, radiant in her freshly polished frame, stops and looks at you with a mix of fretting anxiety and helplessness.

"Mother, please. Lord Althymr is a respected member of the Uk'thanke house, the oldest and wisest of the lineage. When he declared he wanted to show the full extent of his gratitude for my sheperding the Dynasty with success through the Great Sleep, it would have been improper not to accept without conditions."

You mentally roll your eyes. "And having 5729 data-recorders that were old when I was a kid to go through is better, I am guessing."

Raethis chuckles nervously, but then the fight goes out of her. "It'll take hours to go through them all," she murmurs, defeated. "And the ceremony is about to start…"

And by how eager Althymr was, he'll want to discuss whatever crap he loaded those old sheets with, and if the Phaerakh show herself less than knowleadgeable about it, he may get offended. If he doesn't, his family, and then since his family is the most important in his extended house, someone in the house may, and that may compound, a decade or a century into the future, into a political opponent, and so on and so on; or maybe Raethis may impound on the discourtesy of having such a "gift" sent her way at such a time, but yet again, does that mean the Phaerakh frame isn't up to snuff? Or maybe she's insinuating the old noble had malicious intent? That he was forgetful? And if it's the latter, all nobles may expect to have their gifts disregarded? To be treated with discourtesy if their engrams start to give way toward generosity?

You shiver a little. Oh, the old games. How you missed them.

But your daughter didn't. She needs reassurance.

COMFORTING YOUR DAUGHTER: Req 60, Diplomacy, 23+7-10(Very Young Phaerakh)=20. The insecurity is too ingrained.
RAETHIS ACQUIRES TRAIT: Eternal Daughter.
RAETHIS ACQUIRES TRAIT: Uncertain Ruler.

Your words fall on deaf ears, and you're reminded once again how young Raethis was when she took the throne and underwent Bio-Transference: eighteen turns of the Old Star. Little more than a child as ruling goes, and now her body and mind couldn't undergo the passage to true adulthood, an organic Necronty would have. You hope that time and experience may blunt her emotional frailty if not her lack of experience, but honestly, you're going blind here. Bio-Transference is a path filled with unknowns.

"It should be you," she whispers, not daring to look at you. "Retake the throne, grandma. If I remain, it'll be the end. I'll lead them all to disaster. I can't…"

And that's the rub. It's not the sheets and it's not the stupid ceremony. It's the weight of the throne, and a girl who lost her parents and has been thrust beneath it far too soon.

But anything different is a dream. The Dynasty wouldn't accept you now. It must be her, and you both know it.

She trembles, and all you can do is enfold her in your arms and hold her tight. It's a paltry relief: machine bodies don't share touch and warmth well. Still, you do it.

"Oh, I'll take care of the stupid sheets, don't you worry."

---------------

The ceremony goes as well as can be asked. The Sekmat beat their chests and swagger, swearing up and down how they can't wait for the next fight, while the Akmat crow and croon at how successful the Great Sleep, bar very minor hiccups, was.

The hall your daughter reserved for the occasion was used just for such, with plenty of An'Lekh describing scenes of merry and coming together. Over enemies reduced into a creative state of splattering, but that's just par for the course.

DAUGHTER AND MOTHER TAG-TEAM PREPARATION: Req 60, Governance, 66+8+5=79. Can't beat this team when it comes to making ceremonies.
GOODIES FOUND: 1d100, 67: Tea.

You have to hand it over to Raethis: she knows how to organize a party. The long table she had her servants build clearly bear Ykhtar royal glyphs, and that's just the kind of nasty to tickle the most jaded old Crypteks' fancies.

She also managed to scrounge from somewhere goodies just right for the occasion: various kinds of reactive tea brimming with nanomachines and meant to provoke all types of interesting reactions if ingested by a Necron: joy and remembrance, tranquillity and clarity of thought. It's good stuff, and it falls perfectly with the occasion.

As for you, you only suggested to drop the usual remodeling, pulled up your sleeve and got – alongside your handmaidens – to remould the An'Lekh with tales of the recent victory against the Master Program's hordes, which delight the Sekmat, the succesful awakening of the Dynasty, which has the Akmat shudder with pleasure, and glyphs and telling of old times, which has both divert their attention from the usual intrigue and discuss and ask questions about it.

But intrigue they did, because you can take the Skolopendra from the desert, but you can't take the desert out of the Skolopendra.

There's a buzz in the air, a restlessness and a desire for change. Lords and Cryptek take the measure of each other, and old orders need reaffirming or shaking.

Before the Sleep, the Akmat justified their dominance through lineage and their technological and diplomatic prowess, which secured vital alliances and logistics to the Dynasty. Also, they made sure to keep the Sekmat in check by always reminding them that warriors can be replaced, while nobles and technomancers cannot. It's an order that worked for thousands of year, but now here you are, with nobody to weave diplomacy with and with little in the way of infrastructure.

And so, people talk and question. Shouldn't the Sekmat enjoy a better regard now? Or even a dominant position at last? Or maybe it would be prudent to keep them on a tighter leash, just in case?

Your recommendation to your daughter is clear, and it's shown for all to see in the places order at the table…

[] Sekmat close by: The generals and admirals are given post of honor close to the Phaerakh. It's an unprecedented gesture of appreciation and it likely foretells further changes.
You gain 2 Instability
The Dynasty gains +1 Martial
Xolotl Sentinel Lords gain the Energized trait, becoming more effective in battle and command

[] Akmat close by: The technomancers and architects are reserved their usual seats of honor. It's a firm statement from the ruler that the order of old shall be enforced.
You gain 2 Instability
The Dynasty gains +1 Intrigue
Xolotl Dynasty gains the Builder of Fortifications trait, becoming more effective in fortifying and defending

[] Akmat and Sekmat as equals: The twin courts are offered places of equal honor. It's a declaration that the ruler is above such petty squabbles and all subjects are expected to set aside their personal ambition in the face of much-needed unity.
You gain 1 Instability
Xolotl War-Legion gains Crypteks as an added Lord Unit

It's a war, you decide, one made with words and gestures and seats at a table rather than Gauss and military formation.

DOES SHE DOES WELL?: Req 70, Governance, 80+8+5=93. Yes, she does.
WERE YOU FAST ENOUGH?: Req 60, Learning, 73+10=83. Too fast 4 u.

And it's one that your daughter tries her best in.

Raethis sits at the place of honor, on a separate table on a dais. Tefetra isn't present: this is to show that the Phaerakh's power is strong and doesn't need to be propped by her Phaeron at every chance.

Raethis sits straight, poised and graceful. Lord Althymr kneels at her feet, and you wouldn't guess the old bug is drilling her with an enthusiastic conversation about his suggestions, or that she needs your private suggestions to keep up.

You're proud of her, but pride isn't all. In all this mess, you're the fly in the ointment. You require a place to stay.

[] Beside the Phaerakh: You'll take a very public, very visible position beside your daughter. It'll have the nobles talk about the possibility of you taking back the throne some time in the future. It'll allow you a greater chance to speak and control things, but expect to be grilled by the whole hall about your role in the Bio-Transference and your unspeakable ambition.

[] Discreet, in the back: You'll take a seat of honor, but no more and no less than a favoured servant. It'll cement your image as an advisor and keep you out of the spotlight. Mostly. People will still court your words, both for ills and good.

[] Shadowy: You're given a place in the Utkha, the corner reserved for the guests the Phaerakh doesn't desire to see addressed or mentioned. You'll watch but won't be watched, call for refreshment but not be addressed. You'll keep the nobles guessing about your position and help your daughter by remaining a wildcard in her deck.

AC - And with the troublemakers out of the way, here we dive into Necron politics. Finally, I say. I've been struggling no-stop trying to work out a mechanic that would show how fractious the Necrons are. Shoutout to Mayto and his Return of the Skarrenavi for giving me the blast-suggestion to find a possible solution (go read his Quest, he's excellent).

Here we have Instability, which measures how divided the Dynasty is. Instability is offset by Unity, and can't ever exceed it, or your Dynasty will fracture. But don't worry. There are methods to lower Instability and raise Unity, and I don't count on making it a punishing mechanic anyway.

Next, we'll take a look at what passes for economy in a post-scarcity society of immortals that needs for nothing, and can't have what they need. As always, discussion and comments are very welcome. See you soon.