Underbelly, because I want to see if we can draw inspiration from the incinerators to improve pyromancy
A school for the cursed: A Psyker Quest. Warhammer 40k quest.
- Thread starter Mayto
- Start date
- Mature Sci-Fi
Keep because I want to uncover more information about our Inquisitorial enemies.
- Location
- Spain
Underbelly because for WH40k humanity the "Older Is Better" axiom almost always applies, so I guess we will find the coolest stuff that way...
And besides that, I find the idea of a pack of feral scribes fighting a turf war for centuries quite interesting...
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[X] Working down from the Sapphire Keep.
Dark Abstraction
Infrequent Participant
- Location
- United States
I find the prospect of interacting with the degenerated societies of the depths to be more enticing; there will be some degree of dungeon delving either way, but starting from the top seems like it leads to proportionally more of that kind of content, while social engagement seems more assured when starting from the bottom with the barbarian scribe and incinerator tribes.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
1. The Ancient Secrets is where The Good Shit ^TM usually is (and/or the dark and terrible shit that should stay in the dark)
2. TRIBAL CLAN WAR WITH OFFICE SUPPLIES!!!!
[X] Working up from the Underbelly
And this is why I am voting the opposite option. We are already being watched by a paranoid inquisitor, we don't need to wake up a Balrog while we're at it.
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Vote closed
New
Turn 3: Journey to the old Library. Part 2
New
- Location
- Netherlands
[] Working up from the Underbelly.
The Scriptorum has its own gate into The Gut. This area of the Sapphire Keep was dilapidated when the keep was established, having been built into a structure whose use has been forgotten.
It is a bustling area full of former Astra Telepathica servants that have gone feral and advanced into the Iron Age. The tunnels are lit by human tallow candles, and jury-rigged lumens running on generators fed by fuel siphoned from -somewhere- owned by -someone- that hasn't complained.
You will need to pass through the ongoing Scribe-Incinerator War. There are many booby traps, old explosives, and the possibility of friendly fire. And not all the Incinerator Tribes are friendly to their Telepathica masters. You might have to fight.
Expect:
A tribal warzone in an Imperial Hive.
An early opportunity to find out what's wrong with the Scribes.
A look at the deep past of the Sapphire Keep. (Start of original construction)
You glide into the dimness of the maintenance corridors, your boots softly brushing against the old rockcrete floors. The build is inexpensive yet dependable, typical of Imperial construction. The sodium lights flicker on and off sporadically.
After an hour of walking, you arrive at the start of the elevator loading and unloading docks. The size of the installation is larger than the relatively self-sufficient Scriptorum would ever need, which makes you think that this was not intended to be used just for an elevator shaft and networks of hydraulic tubing. Perhaps it was an expansion dug into the rock, which was never completed?
A fortified gateway stands guard, manned by members of the Serf-Clan themselves. Your psychic senses pulse with the presence of countless soulfires nestled behind those imposing walls, even before you cross into their domain.
The entire area will be largely self-contained, equipped with living quarters and basic facilities for the Serf-Clan - an ecosystem within an ecosystem, allowing them to exist without ever needing to leave this part of the Scholam. They will only need periodic deliveries of additional protein, carbs, and vitamins to compensate for the existing recycling infrastructure.
A man wearing flak armour and holding an electro-staff is standing at the entrance to the dormitories. He gives you a curious look as you pass. "Lord?" He inclines his head, voice equal parts reverence and sheer confusion. "What brings you here?"
"I require passage to the Scriptorum. Allow me to pass." You say, trying to sound formal and official, but avoiding adding any cruelty or malice to your voice.
The door begins sliding open upon well-greased tracks, giving you a look at the facilities beyond.
As you scan your surroundings, you take note of their physical condition - these aren't starved souls scraping by on minimal rations. There's a certain robustness about them despite their circumstances. They're not thriving by any means but they're surviving better than most in their position might be expected to.
Servitor carriages loaded with materials for transfer down the access corridors are being loaded up by gangs of labourers, managed by overseers. There is a great network of hydraulic tubes, cables, and piping that lead down through into the floor, with an elevator in the distance, set into a wall.
The serf-clan that attends to this lifeline to the Scriptorum senses your presence before they see you. They're a uniform group, all menial-class except for a handful of adepts, clad in simple grey robes. The menials are marked with tattoos, while the adepts go unmarked. You vaguely recognize one of the adepts from when the new arrivals were brought inside.
That makes sense. It is how the Imperium operates. The menials are kept in place, ensuring they do the tasks needed of them, while adepts are moved around to organize all labour. Both groups seeking to rise up their own hierarchy or even ascend beyond it.
Their eyes flicker with recognition and something akin to reverence—their routine disturbed by an unexpected visitor marked with the Psi-Discharger's glow.
"We have a schedule to keep!" one of the men yells, a large man with the typical bearing of an overseer. He is flanked by several other serfs in flak armour, all holding electro-staves or prods. His voice, one of stern authority, tinged with hints of curiosity as he glances over at you. "We have a schedule to keep. Load the capsules properly, damn you!"
The overseer appears to be exercising his authority over the menials, finding some joy in berating a young man. You approach the nearest adept. "Is there a problem?" You motion for the Overseer.
She blinks at being directly addressed, her thoughts a jumble of confusion and terror. She needs a moment to think about what to say, which unnerves her as you do not shout at her for doing so. "Loading the hydraulics canisters down to Scriptorum wasn't going according to schedule." She shakes her head, shrugging off responsibility. "Still on time. Just not in the top ten percentile of shifts."
That explains it. The Overseer must be hungry for a promotion, and is taking out their frustration on the lesser members of the clan that he oversees.
The overseer strikes the man he is speaking to with a flick of an electro-prod, sending the man falling to the ground. "If you don't do your labours properly, you answer to me!" He jabs the man again. "I don't care if your son has a bellyache. If you don't do your job, you fail the clan."
"Please!" The man curls up, hands around his head to protect himself from the kicking.
You can't help but feel the gnawing at the back of your mind, the psychic energy eager to burst forth. You clamp it down, feeling your Psi-Discharger twitch slightly. It is a symbol of your status, yes, but also a leash—one you've learned to wear with a begrudging sort of pride.
Iconoclast disguised as Dogmatic
Walking up to the man, you tap him on the shoulder.
He turns to face you, pale lightless face twisted in anger, before giving way to surprise.
A wave of telekine force slams into the man, immobilizing him.
"You are behind schedule, and intend to wound one of your labourers as a solution?" You say, voice telepathically raised. You send the man stumbling back, but he manages not to collapse. "You are meant to ensure your subordinates can fulfill their labours, not render them unable." You shake your head in disapproval.
"You will stop acting like a stupid brute, or I will make you into the servitor you act like."
Leaving the Overseer gawking and stunned at your intervention, you walk past and head for the elevator.
That felt really good to do. "Back to it," you command sharply, your authority unquestionable even here. "I'll naff around with no one's duty. I'll take the next elevator down" Nobody is sure what to do with a Psyker that seems to want to head down to the Scriptorum, but they quickly get back to work. They nevertheless sneak glances at you.
The elevator door trundles open slowly, and you are met by a stuffy dust-filled interior. The atmospherics system slowly powers to life with a ponderous mechanical noise.
The elevator down into the Scriptorum is small, just enough for four people or one obese noble, and has evidently not been used for a long time.
When the elevator finally shudders to a halt after a ride that takes far too long. The doors open, revealing some very surprised scribes in Administratum robes decorated with beads and other trinkets made of bone, all of them holding stacks of velum, clipboards, and staplers they are taking out of a larger hydraulic capsule.
The walls are painted with something you do not recognize, but appear to be some type of pigment. The old Sodium lumens in the ceiling have been replaced by skulls holding candles and pots containing bio-luminescent fungus. The locals look like feral worlders made to wear scribe robes.
Tables upon tables laden with documents, scrolls, and codices sprawl out before you, each lit by candlelight. Scribes, bent over their work like acolytes in prayer, don't notice your entrance at first. The sound of scribbling, the 'thwup' of hydraulic tubes spitting out canisters, and the occasional cough or loud breath is the only noise you register. Those scribes working behind cogitators, do so behind massive installations. Huge brass and stone housings, each many times the size of a person, with simple black and green screens.
Then, suddenly, every eye is upon you. Occam Parsimon, the unexpected visitor. You can feel their wariness, the electric charge of fear mingling with curiosity. They hesitate, before the scratching of quills resumes—an oddly comforting sound amidst the otherwise oppressive silence.
An overseer standing on the elevated walkway overseeing the many sunken scribe stations approaches you. The man's clothes are decorated by coloured pieces of metal, cloth strips, and improvised purity seals. His staff appears to be a metal one, topped with human bone.
"Lord Psyker," He bows respectfully, his voice a slow drawl of practiced authority. "your presence here is as unprecedented as it is welcome. What can we do for you?"
You raise your voice to sound authoritative, without sounding vicious or cruel. "I seek passage through into the old keep beyond. I am on a pilgrimage to the Old Scholam."
The reaction of the room, a resumption of the absolute silence except for the loud 'Ka-Clunk' of a cogitator and the 'Fwoop' of a hydraulic tube, the only noises. The scribe's jaw drops, but he collects himself and begins leading you with him.
"Your presence comes as a surprise, my lord. The Patriarchs are not available at this time."
"Where are they?"
"They are rallying the militia against the tribal attacks, my lord. I am afraid you will need to pass through the combat zone to reach the passage.."
A sliding door is pulled open slowly to allow for passage. Beyond it you can see that the Scriptorum has definitely started going feral. There is esoteric art of the Emperor and the Nine Primarchs drawn upon the walls, and skulls containing tallow candles are all over the place. What might have been a warehouse or storage bay has been turned into a large feudal village. You hear the honest-to-the-emperor sound of metal being forged, and the crackling of fires.
You hear a whip crack, and turn around to find that the sliding doors have been modified to be hand-cranked by two large brawny men that have replaced the door mechanism. They carry burn wounds and are kept under guard by two men holding large… crossbows?
You are definitely going to talk with the Lord Prefect about sending some technomats down here.
"How many bays like this exist?" You ask, noting that there seems to be a bustling feudal community built around the Scriptorum. You smell cooking fires, and see what are definitely mushroom and fungus farms.
"Around seven more Scriptorum villages, my lord. And the Hydroponics Tribe. You arrived at the Halls of Outgoing Knowledge. We will pass the Vault of Incoming Knowledge on the way to the elders."
After ten minutes of being gawked at by half feral scribes, you note they are becoming increasingly militarized the closer you get to the bay. They wear armour made of hammered metal plates and thickly compacted blocks of velum, bound by threads woven from human hair. Some are equipped with spears made of sharpened metal, bone knives, while others carry old bayonet-fitted rifles without magazines. They carry shields made from blocks of velum stuck to metal plates.
Their clothes all appear to be made from leather and pelts, and to your shock and horror, you realize it is a mixture of dog-sized ratskin, human hide, and patches of old cloth and synthetic fibres and cables. Where no rope is used, they instead use staples and wear flaps of patches bound together by metal threads.
The scribe escorting you coughs awkwardly. "You are not here to speak to us about the… ahem. The outbreaks of madness?"
"Madness?" You ask, intrigued now. "Psychic awakening?"
"No, My Lord. Just madness. Three of our Clan have been driven to madness when their sacred tasks ended. They believe themselves lost, their purpose gone. The elders would have struck the rune of warning already, were it not for the war making it impossible to gather the villages to decide. "
You don't even start on the fact that pressing the alarm button apparently needs some kind of clan gathering to decide upon. Nevertheless, you stop in place. "Their tasks ended? Elaborate on that."
"They stopped receiving messages to transcribe." He asks hopefully. "Would you like to see their work stations? It is on the path leading there."
Your views on the importance of the Astra-Telepathica mean you can't -not- investigate such a thing. Astropathic messages do not just stop, the fact that a scribe desk has stopped receiving messages, means that something has gone wrong. You put the journey into The Gut aside for a moment. You need to check it out.
"Take me there. I will examine the findings, you will bring word to the Patriarchs of my arrival."
Only the oldest of the scribes of the Scriptorum are working at the part that you head into. Through a gateway decorated with bone, roughly cut gemstones, and decorated with even more skulls, you approach the desks of the senior scribes. You immediately head for the desk assigned to the first person that went mad.
There is no psychic spoor or any form of esoteric effect to any of the desks, or the parchments which still lie on the desks. You can see bloodstains on the decking, where the scribes committed grievous harm upon themselves or others.
A crowd of elderly scribes is observing you from a distant huddle, eager to see what form of discovery you might make. "My Lord, we have not moved anything since this happened. By standard protocols, we returned their last assigned parchment to the desk."
You step over the line of salt and bone dust drawn around the first desk and examine the parchment.
It is a standard Astropathic status report from a distant relay station that does not even have a name, merely a numerical code.
"Do you have an Astro-Telepathic map?" You ask hesitantly. "I need to know the locations each of these codes corresponds with."
The lack of a reply makes it clear that the scribes have no idea what you are referring to.
You sigh and pick up the parchment and head for the next desk. Another regular Astropathic status report. This is repeated at the third desk. Putting them all side by side, you try and glean a hint at whatever might be going on.
The simplest explanation for the Scribes going mad, is that their usual strictly ordered existence was interrupted. But that does not explain why the messages stopped coming. You test the mechanisms and and examine the cogitators, but they are all functioning as normal.
Attempting to telepathically reach for the Lord Prefect or Astrid has no success due to the sturdy psi-inert rock that the Sapphire Keep was constructed inside.
Discovering what is wrong is very hard. (-30)
Your intelligence is 45 - 30 = 15
Rolled 7 on researching the lost archives.
One degree of success
You close your eyes and focus deeply, awakening your Psykana Conditioning. You enter your memory palace, and begin searching for information relevant to this task. Something you can use to explai-
A surge of insight.
Ten years ago. You stood in an astropathic sanctum. You saw an image on a wall that corresponded with Astropathic relay stations. A map.
Numbers. Codes.
You focus harder, reaching for the shelves and looking behind them for the memory.
The order of Astropathic Relays being founded and their relevance in the numbering of the stations. The letters used to designate… Segmentum, Sector, Sub-Sector. Distance from Terra. But you don't remember which represent those things.
The memories are vague and ephemeral, but you are able to bring them forward by pulling upon tangential memories related to feelings during your telepathic training. And you manage to remember vaguely enough, that you are able to mentally place the three relays somewhere in the Ultima Segmentum, in somewhat close proximity. Although not quite where.
Comparing them, you start to feel a hint of genuine concern. Turning to the scribes, you ask. "This was the order they went mad in. The last message they each received was a routine log reporting there to be nothing at fault. Interruptions in communication are rarely without some measure of warning. If they went offline for maintenance, they would have transmitted that and the automated systems would have given these Scribes different tasks. If they were suddenly and violently cut off, then the sudden disconnect of the psychic links between astropathic relays would have been recorded.
But what if the disconnect was very gradual? A slow dimming of the signal until it faded away. Such phenomena have occurred before. Three astropathic relays shutting down slowly, in, if you're correct, short order.
But in the Ultima Segmentum?
Obscurus has the Occularus Terribus and the terrors that spill forth, Segmentum Solar is secure, Segmentums Tempestus has many Xenos empires, Pacificus has the new Imperial Warmaster and the upcoming Sabbat Worlds Crusade. The Ultima Segmentum is a backwater except for Ultramar.
Something is happening in the Ultima Segmentum.
You decide to attempt Divination, reaching for strands of potential, words and acts of great meaning. It will provide the missing information. Your finger traces along the parchment.
The document does not reveal its importance easily. (-30)
Target Difficulty (Psy-rating * 10) + Difficulty = 20
Occam rolled 45
Two degrees of failure. You build up 2 Warp Charges for a minor success.
Your Psi-Dischargers stand on end. All the liquid water in the room freezes, and the monitors of all the cogitators fog over. You slowly drag your finger over the parchment, feeling for the strands of prophecy and fate connected to each word, trying to find the one with the greatest meaning.
The universe ripples around you, and you feel blood spurting from your temple plug. You feel insects crawling on your skin and cough violently, spewing out bugs made of shadow that evaporate in the air. Gravity turns sideways for a moment, and the scribes all fall sideways for two meters until they leave the bubble of twisted gravity and slide normally across the ground.
There is something crawling in your skull and it is trying to-
NO.
You assert your mind and force yourself back under control.
Gravity in the room re-asserts itself, causing a rain of ink quills. You are briefly thankful that the pots were attached to the desks. Only for you to notice that the inks have all caught fire. Blood flows freely down your nose and you are dizzy for a moment.
Blinking the pain away, and trying to focus, your eyes fall upon the word that your finger is stuck on.
Planet: Tyran.
You have never even heard of that world.
The scribes get to their feet, staring at you with undisguised terror. You take out a handkerchief and clean your face, calling upon biomantic energy to mend the bleeding. "I will bring word of this to the Lord Prefect. Get me parchment so I can write it down. If I don't return from my pilgrimage, you have my permission to use the elevator and bring it to the Sapphire Keep personally."
There is a loud explosion and a cloud of smoke outside. Battle cries. Screaming. You sense soulfires going out.
Picking up your staff you rush out of The Vault of Incoming Knowledge. You know the sound of Plastic Explosives when you hear it. And those are not supposed to even be down here.
A phalanx of Scribe-clanners are rushing to form up at the door that leads out into The Gut. A door that does not lead to the Incinerator Tribes.
The door collapses off its hinges, revealing a horde of screaming barbarians clad in metal armour, holding swords and shields. Their armour is surprisingly well made, if obviously hammered from metal plates. They are led by a tall man that raises some kind of laspistol that fires a much stronger bolt than you expected, blowing holes into the scribe phalanx.
Crossbow bolts and thrown spears rain down from murder holes built into the many homes built along the length of the converted storage bay, even as alarm bells begin to chime. The knights slam into the spear wall, bashing spears aside and getting into the thick of the melee.
In the confusion, as the rest of the Incinerator tribe troops enter behind their Knights. Men in camouflage patterned ratskin cloaks carrying metal pipes with one hand and a match with the other. Smoke explodes from their makeshift weapons, causing confusions. As they do, younger unclothed tribals break through the line, they grab weapons, bags of supplies, or anything else they can get their hands on and sprint out away from the melee.
A lead ball strikes you in the shoulder, failing to penetrate your robes, but still pushing you back. You catch a glimpse of a horrified face as the gunner realizes his shot went wide and struck a Lord instead.
Your eyes start to glow and you feel your Psi-Briddle heating up.
A serf has, by accident or intent, shot a blackpowder gun at you.
[] Destroy the attackers:
You were struck. The attackers have forfeited their lives. Obliterate the attackers with a single psychic attack.
You grow used to taking the lives of those that dishonour or disrespect you. That is shown in your bearing and choice of words.
1 Dogmatic renown.
[] Drive them back.
You see no reason to resort to lethal force. You try to put an end to this senseless conflict by using telekinetic walls to push the attackers out through the door.
Your inclination to show mercy is clear in how you respond to others
1 Iconoclast renown.
Beware the mask you wear, lest it become you. But do not let your armour falter. Ifyour dogmatism exceeds your iconoclasm too much, you'll find yourself naturally making dogmatic decisions instead. If your iconoclasm exceeds your dogmatism by too much, you will no longer be a concealed iconoclast.
2 hour Moratorium
The Scriptorum has its own gate into The Gut. This area of the Sapphire Keep was dilapidated when the keep was established, having been built into a structure whose use has been forgotten.
It is a bustling area full of former Astra Telepathica servants that have gone feral and advanced into the Iron Age. The tunnels are lit by human tallow candles, and jury-rigged lumens running on generators fed by fuel siphoned from -somewhere- owned by -someone- that hasn't complained.
You will need to pass through the ongoing Scribe-Incinerator War. There are many booby traps, old explosives, and the possibility of friendly fire. And not all the Incinerator Tribes are friendly to their Telepathica masters. You might have to fight.
Expect:
A tribal warzone in an Imperial Hive.
An early opportunity to find out what's wrong with the Scribes.
A look at the deep past of the Sapphire Keep. (Start of original construction)
You glide into the dimness of the maintenance corridors, your boots softly brushing against the old rockcrete floors. The build is inexpensive yet dependable, typical of Imperial construction. The sodium lights flicker on and off sporadically.
After an hour of walking, you arrive at the start of the elevator loading and unloading docks. The size of the installation is larger than the relatively self-sufficient Scriptorum would ever need, which makes you think that this was not intended to be used just for an elevator shaft and networks of hydraulic tubing. Perhaps it was an expansion dug into the rock, which was never completed?
A fortified gateway stands guard, manned by members of the Serf-Clan themselves. Your psychic senses pulse with the presence of countless soulfires nestled behind those imposing walls, even before you cross into their domain.
The entire area will be largely self-contained, equipped with living quarters and basic facilities for the Serf-Clan - an ecosystem within an ecosystem, allowing them to exist without ever needing to leave this part of the Scholam. They will only need periodic deliveries of additional protein, carbs, and vitamins to compensate for the existing recycling infrastructure.
A man wearing flak armour and holding an electro-staff is standing at the entrance to the dormitories. He gives you a curious look as you pass. "Lord?" He inclines his head, voice equal parts reverence and sheer confusion. "What brings you here?"
"I require passage to the Scriptorum. Allow me to pass." You say, trying to sound formal and official, but avoiding adding any cruelty or malice to your voice.
The door begins sliding open upon well-greased tracks, giving you a look at the facilities beyond.
As you scan your surroundings, you take note of their physical condition - these aren't starved souls scraping by on minimal rations. There's a certain robustness about them despite their circumstances. They're not thriving by any means but they're surviving better than most in their position might be expected to.
Servitor carriages loaded with materials for transfer down the access corridors are being loaded up by gangs of labourers, managed by overseers. There is a great network of hydraulic tubes, cables, and piping that lead down through into the floor, with an elevator in the distance, set into a wall.
The serf-clan that attends to this lifeline to the Scriptorum senses your presence before they see you. They're a uniform group, all menial-class except for a handful of adepts, clad in simple grey robes. The menials are marked with tattoos, while the adepts go unmarked. You vaguely recognize one of the adepts from when the new arrivals were brought inside.
That makes sense. It is how the Imperium operates. The menials are kept in place, ensuring they do the tasks needed of them, while adepts are moved around to organize all labour. Both groups seeking to rise up their own hierarchy or even ascend beyond it.
Their eyes flicker with recognition and something akin to reverence—their routine disturbed by an unexpected visitor marked with the Psi-Discharger's glow.
"We have a schedule to keep!" one of the men yells, a large man with the typical bearing of an overseer. He is flanked by several other serfs in flak armour, all holding electro-staves or prods. His voice, one of stern authority, tinged with hints of curiosity as he glances over at you. "We have a schedule to keep. Load the capsules properly, damn you!"
The overseer appears to be exercising his authority over the menials, finding some joy in berating a young man. You approach the nearest adept. "Is there a problem?" You motion for the Overseer.
She blinks at being directly addressed, her thoughts a jumble of confusion and terror. She needs a moment to think about what to say, which unnerves her as you do not shout at her for doing so. "Loading the hydraulics canisters down to Scriptorum wasn't going according to schedule." She shakes her head, shrugging off responsibility. "Still on time. Just not in the top ten percentile of shifts."
That explains it. The Overseer must be hungry for a promotion, and is taking out their frustration on the lesser members of the clan that he oversees.
The overseer strikes the man he is speaking to with a flick of an electro-prod, sending the man falling to the ground. "If you don't do your labours properly, you answer to me!" He jabs the man again. "I don't care if your son has a bellyache. If you don't do your job, you fail the clan."
"Please!" The man curls up, hands around his head to protect himself from the kicking.
You can't help but feel the gnawing at the back of your mind, the psychic energy eager to burst forth. You clamp it down, feeling your Psi-Discharger twitch slightly. It is a symbol of your status, yes, but also a leash—one you've learned to wear with a begrudging sort of pride.
Iconoclast disguised as Dogmatic
Walking up to the man, you tap him on the shoulder.
He turns to face you, pale lightless face twisted in anger, before giving way to surprise.
A wave of telekine force slams into the man, immobilizing him.
"You are behind schedule, and intend to wound one of your labourers as a solution?" You say, voice telepathically raised. You send the man stumbling back, but he manages not to collapse. "You are meant to ensure your subordinates can fulfill their labours, not render them unable." You shake your head in disapproval.
"You will stop acting like a stupid brute, or I will make you into the servitor you act like."
Leaving the Overseer gawking and stunned at your intervention, you walk past and head for the elevator.
That felt really good to do. "Back to it," you command sharply, your authority unquestionable even here. "I'll naff around with no one's duty. I'll take the next elevator down" Nobody is sure what to do with a Psyker that seems to want to head down to the Scriptorum, but they quickly get back to work. They nevertheless sneak glances at you.
The elevator door trundles open slowly, and you are met by a stuffy dust-filled interior. The atmospherics system slowly powers to life with a ponderous mechanical noise.
The elevator down into the Scriptorum is small, just enough for four people or one obese noble, and has evidently not been used for a long time.
When the elevator finally shudders to a halt after a ride that takes far too long. The doors open, revealing some very surprised scribes in Administratum robes decorated with beads and other trinkets made of bone, all of them holding stacks of velum, clipboards, and staplers they are taking out of a larger hydraulic capsule.
The walls are painted with something you do not recognize, but appear to be some type of pigment. The old Sodium lumens in the ceiling have been replaced by skulls holding candles and pots containing bio-luminescent fungus. The locals look like feral worlders made to wear scribe robes.
Tables upon tables laden with documents, scrolls, and codices sprawl out before you, each lit by candlelight. Scribes, bent over their work like acolytes in prayer, don't notice your entrance at first. The sound of scribbling, the 'thwup' of hydraulic tubes spitting out canisters, and the occasional cough or loud breath is the only noise you register. Those scribes working behind cogitators, do so behind massive installations. Huge brass and stone housings, each many times the size of a person, with simple black and green screens.
Then, suddenly, every eye is upon you. Occam Parsimon, the unexpected visitor. You can feel their wariness, the electric charge of fear mingling with curiosity. They hesitate, before the scratching of quills resumes—an oddly comforting sound amidst the otherwise oppressive silence.
An overseer standing on the elevated walkway overseeing the many sunken scribe stations approaches you. The man's clothes are decorated by coloured pieces of metal, cloth strips, and improvised purity seals. His staff appears to be a metal one, topped with human bone.
"Lord Psyker," He bows respectfully, his voice a slow drawl of practiced authority. "your presence here is as unprecedented as it is welcome. What can we do for you?"
You raise your voice to sound authoritative, without sounding vicious or cruel. "I seek passage through into the old keep beyond. I am on a pilgrimage to the Old Scholam."
The reaction of the room, a resumption of the absolute silence except for the loud 'Ka-Clunk' of a cogitator and the 'Fwoop' of a hydraulic tube, the only noises. The scribe's jaw drops, but he collects himself and begins leading you with him.
"Your presence comes as a surprise, my lord. The Patriarchs are not available at this time."
"Where are they?"
"They are rallying the militia against the tribal attacks, my lord. I am afraid you will need to pass through the combat zone to reach the passage.."
A sliding door is pulled open slowly to allow for passage. Beyond it you can see that the Scriptorum has definitely started going feral. There is esoteric art of the Emperor and the Nine Primarchs drawn upon the walls, and skulls containing tallow candles are all over the place. What might have been a warehouse or storage bay has been turned into a large feudal village. You hear the honest-to-the-emperor sound of metal being forged, and the crackling of fires.
You hear a whip crack, and turn around to find that the sliding doors have been modified to be hand-cranked by two large brawny men that have replaced the door mechanism. They carry burn wounds and are kept under guard by two men holding large… crossbows?
You are definitely going to talk with the Lord Prefect about sending some technomats down here.
"How many bays like this exist?" You ask, noting that there seems to be a bustling feudal community built around the Scriptorum. You smell cooking fires, and see what are definitely mushroom and fungus farms.
"Around seven more Scriptorum villages, my lord. And the Hydroponics Tribe. You arrived at the Halls of Outgoing Knowledge. We will pass the Vault of Incoming Knowledge on the way to the elders."
After ten minutes of being gawked at by half feral scribes, you note they are becoming increasingly militarized the closer you get to the bay. They wear armour made of hammered metal plates and thickly compacted blocks of velum, bound by threads woven from human hair. Some are equipped with spears made of sharpened metal, bone knives, while others carry old bayonet-fitted rifles without magazines. They carry shields made from blocks of velum stuck to metal plates.
Their clothes all appear to be made from leather and pelts, and to your shock and horror, you realize it is a mixture of dog-sized ratskin, human hide, and patches of old cloth and synthetic fibres and cables. Where no rope is used, they instead use staples and wear flaps of patches bound together by metal threads.
The scribe escorting you coughs awkwardly. "You are not here to speak to us about the… ahem. The outbreaks of madness?"
"Madness?" You ask, intrigued now. "Psychic awakening?"
"No, My Lord. Just madness. Three of our Clan have been driven to madness when their sacred tasks ended. They believe themselves lost, their purpose gone. The elders would have struck the rune of warning already, were it not for the war making it impossible to gather the villages to decide. "
You don't even start on the fact that pressing the alarm button apparently needs some kind of clan gathering to decide upon. Nevertheless, you stop in place. "Their tasks ended? Elaborate on that."
"They stopped receiving messages to transcribe." He asks hopefully. "Would you like to see their work stations? It is on the path leading there."
Your views on the importance of the Astra-Telepathica mean you can't -not- investigate such a thing. Astropathic messages do not just stop, the fact that a scribe desk has stopped receiving messages, means that something has gone wrong. You put the journey into The Gut aside for a moment. You need to check it out.
"Take me there. I will examine the findings, you will bring word to the Patriarchs of my arrival."
Only the oldest of the scribes of the Scriptorum are working at the part that you head into. Through a gateway decorated with bone, roughly cut gemstones, and decorated with even more skulls, you approach the desks of the senior scribes. You immediately head for the desk assigned to the first person that went mad.
There is no psychic spoor or any form of esoteric effect to any of the desks, or the parchments which still lie on the desks. You can see bloodstains on the decking, where the scribes committed grievous harm upon themselves or others.
A crowd of elderly scribes is observing you from a distant huddle, eager to see what form of discovery you might make. "My Lord, we have not moved anything since this happened. By standard protocols, we returned their last assigned parchment to the desk."
You step over the line of salt and bone dust drawn around the first desk and examine the parchment.
It is a standard Astropathic status report from a distant relay station that does not even have a name, merely a numerical code.
"Do you have an Astro-Telepathic map?" You ask hesitantly. "I need to know the locations each of these codes corresponds with."
The lack of a reply makes it clear that the scribes have no idea what you are referring to.
You sigh and pick up the parchment and head for the next desk. Another regular Astropathic status report. This is repeated at the third desk. Putting them all side by side, you try and glean a hint at whatever might be going on.
The simplest explanation for the Scribes going mad, is that their usual strictly ordered existence was interrupted. But that does not explain why the messages stopped coming. You test the mechanisms and and examine the cogitators, but they are all functioning as normal.
Attempting to telepathically reach for the Lord Prefect or Astrid has no success due to the sturdy psi-inert rock that the Sapphire Keep was constructed inside.
Discovering what is wrong is very hard. (-30)
Your intelligence is 45 - 30 = 15
Rolled 7 on researching the lost archives.
One degree of success
You close your eyes and focus deeply, awakening your Psykana Conditioning. You enter your memory palace, and begin searching for information relevant to this task. Something you can use to explai-
A surge of insight.
Ten years ago. You stood in an astropathic sanctum. You saw an image on a wall that corresponded with Astropathic relay stations. A map.
Numbers. Codes.
You focus harder, reaching for the shelves and looking behind them for the memory.
The order of Astropathic Relays being founded and their relevance in the numbering of the stations. The letters used to designate… Segmentum, Sector, Sub-Sector. Distance from Terra. But you don't remember which represent those things.
The memories are vague and ephemeral, but you are able to bring them forward by pulling upon tangential memories related to feelings during your telepathic training. And you manage to remember vaguely enough, that you are able to mentally place the three relays somewhere in the Ultima Segmentum, in somewhat close proximity. Although not quite where.
Comparing them, you start to feel a hint of genuine concern. Turning to the scribes, you ask. "This was the order they went mad in. The last message they each received was a routine log reporting there to be nothing at fault. Interruptions in communication are rarely without some measure of warning. If they went offline for maintenance, they would have transmitted that and the automated systems would have given these Scribes different tasks. If they were suddenly and violently cut off, then the sudden disconnect of the psychic links between astropathic relays would have been recorded.
But what if the disconnect was very gradual? A slow dimming of the signal until it faded away. Such phenomena have occurred before. Three astropathic relays shutting down slowly, in, if you're correct, short order.
But in the Ultima Segmentum?
Obscurus has the Occularus Terribus and the terrors that spill forth, Segmentum Solar is secure, Segmentums Tempestus has many Xenos empires, Pacificus has the new Imperial Warmaster and the upcoming Sabbat Worlds Crusade. The Ultima Segmentum is a backwater except for Ultramar.
Something is happening in the Ultima Segmentum.
You decide to attempt Divination, reaching for strands of potential, words and acts of great meaning. It will provide the missing information. Your finger traces along the parchment.
The document does not reveal its importance easily. (-30)
Target Difficulty (Psy-rating * 10) + Difficulty = 20
Occam rolled 45
Two degrees of failure. You build up 2 Warp Charges for a minor success.
Your Psi-Dischargers stand on end. All the liquid water in the room freezes, and the monitors of all the cogitators fog over. You slowly drag your finger over the parchment, feeling for the strands of prophecy and fate connected to each word, trying to find the one with the greatest meaning.
The universe ripples around you, and you feel blood spurting from your temple plug. You feel insects crawling on your skin and cough violently, spewing out bugs made of shadow that evaporate in the air. Gravity turns sideways for a moment, and the scribes all fall sideways for two meters until they leave the bubble of twisted gravity and slide normally across the ground.
There is something crawling in your skull and it is trying to-
NO.
You assert your mind and force yourself back under control.
Gravity in the room re-asserts itself, causing a rain of ink quills. You are briefly thankful that the pots were attached to the desks. Only for you to notice that the inks have all caught fire. Blood flows freely down your nose and you are dizzy for a moment.
Blinking the pain away, and trying to focus, your eyes fall upon the word that your finger is stuck on.
Planet: Tyran.
You have never even heard of that world.
The scribes get to their feet, staring at you with undisguised terror. You take out a handkerchief and clean your face, calling upon biomantic energy to mend the bleeding. "I will bring word of this to the Lord Prefect. Get me parchment so I can write it down. If I don't return from my pilgrimage, you have my permission to use the elevator and bring it to the Sapphire Keep personally."
There is a loud explosion and a cloud of smoke outside. Battle cries. Screaming. You sense soulfires going out.
Picking up your staff you rush out of The Vault of Incoming Knowledge. You know the sound of Plastic Explosives when you hear it. And those are not supposed to even be down here.
A phalanx of Scribe-clanners are rushing to form up at the door that leads out into The Gut. A door that does not lead to the Incinerator Tribes.
The door collapses off its hinges, revealing a horde of screaming barbarians clad in metal armour, holding swords and shields. Their armour is surprisingly well made, if obviously hammered from metal plates. They are led by a tall man that raises some kind of laspistol that fires a much stronger bolt than you expected, blowing holes into the scribe phalanx.
Crossbow bolts and thrown spears rain down from murder holes built into the many homes built along the length of the converted storage bay, even as alarm bells begin to chime. The knights slam into the spear wall, bashing spears aside and getting into the thick of the melee.
In the confusion, as the rest of the Incinerator tribe troops enter behind their Knights. Men in camouflage patterned ratskin cloaks carrying metal pipes with one hand and a match with the other. Smoke explodes from their makeshift weapons, causing confusions. As they do, younger unclothed tribals break through the line, they grab weapons, bags of supplies, or anything else they can get their hands on and sprint out away from the melee.
A lead ball strikes you in the shoulder, failing to penetrate your robes, but still pushing you back. You catch a glimpse of a horrified face as the gunner realizes his shot went wide and struck a Lord instead.
Your eyes start to glow and you feel your Psi-Briddle heating up.
A serf has, by accident or intent, shot a blackpowder gun at you.
[] Destroy the attackers:
You were struck. The attackers have forfeited their lives. Obliterate the attackers with a single psychic attack.
You grow used to taking the lives of those that dishonour or disrespect you. That is shown in your bearing and choice of words.
1 Dogmatic renown.
[] Drive them back.
You see no reason to resort to lethal force. You try to put an end to this senseless conflict by using telekinetic walls to push the attackers out through the door.
Your inclination to show mercy is clear in how you respond to others
1 Iconoclast renown.
Beware the mask you wear, lest it become you. But do not let your armour falter. Ifyour dogmatism exceeds your iconoclasm too much, you'll find yourself naturally making dogmatic decisions instead. If your iconoclasm exceeds your dogmatism by too much, you will no longer be a concealed iconoclast.
2 hour Moratorium
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[] Drive them back.
Reasonably speaking no one important can see what we are doing here, this is pretty much the ideal place to let our iconoclast flag fly.
Reasonably speaking no one important can see what we are doing here, this is pretty much the ideal place to let our iconoclast flag fly.
Oooohhh, FUCK YEAH! We caught the Tyranids early!
[] Drive them back
Unfucking this mess is going to require some major diplomatic chops after this. Some mercy here can grease those wheels.
And on second read-through, somebody's arming the feral tribes to stage a coup in the Scriptorium. We need information.
[] Drive them back
Unfucking this mess is going to require some major diplomatic chops after this. Some mercy here can grease those wheels.
And on second read-through, somebody's arming the feral tribes to stage a coup in the Scriptorium. We need information.
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- Location
- Netherlands
Beware the mask you wear, lest it become you.
Acting dogmatic here, will help to reinforce your persona and strengthen your 'mask'. Meaning you can get away with stuff outside, without losing the 'murderously serious high-ranking Imperial glare'
- Pronouns
- Zack
[] Drive them back.
Where is the score for our current dogmatic-iconoclast measure kept?
- Location
- Netherlands
Latest full turn post.
This feels like Big E interruption.
Would Lord Prefect sound the Alarms^tm ,that something is wrong? (Well we know that the Great Devourer is here at last.)
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- Location
- in between
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAÀAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-
Tyranids. It just had to be Tyranids.
This is gonna suck.
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Yup, that was my exact reaction as well.
This could be a bit of a issue.
This can have so many ripples.
- Location
- Poland
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Those were some good rolls we had.
Thankful for them. This... is a problem we should be glad to get forewarning of.
Wonder what combination of talents and skills would allow to recognize jean stealers? Telepathy + Divination? Damn, we are not getting that. Oh well, murdering Carnifexes with our mind alone will have to suffice.
Also, pursuing pyromancy just became a greater priority. We add fire to that black hole and we can set a nice little sun on the battlefield. Perfect for disposing of rogue biomass.
Also, I am for the dogmatic option.
I'd rather spend Iconoclasm on systemic changes.
It's 40k. Willingness to kill is something useful here to keep as reputation.
Thankful for them. This... is a problem we should be glad to get forewarning of.
Wonder what combination of talents and skills would allow to recognize jean stealers? Telepathy + Divination? Damn, we are not getting that. Oh well, murdering Carnifexes with our mind alone will have to suffice.
Also, pursuing pyromancy just became a greater priority. We add fire to that black hole and we can set a nice little sun on the battlefield. Perfect for disposing of rogue biomass.
Also, I am for the dogmatic option.
I'd rather spend Iconoclasm on systemic changes.
It's 40k. Willingness to kill is something useful here to keep as reputation.