- Location
- barking
oh magnus, come pick up your sons I would say sorry but well I think we did them a mercy
Echoes of Eternity: A Warhammer 40k Necron Lord Quest
- Thread starter boredblues
- Start date
-
- Tags
- warhammer warhammer 40k war necron
- Location
- Brazil
Also remembering that, even though we are common Necrons (who are already in the upper echelon of potential high-level threats with Tyranids to the entire galaxy), our dynasty leader is the warp expert and made a point of mocking Chaos in general because she was there long before they existed, can understand how it works inside, and is not impressed.
That's why I want us to absorb more armies and destroy that damned mini Realm of Chaos as soon as possible, the gods will be very interested in destroying us, and I foresee that thing will be a huge thorn in our side in the future.
Lucky for us, they don't know where we are or any other information they didn't receive through clairvoyance.
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- Location
- Someplace Somewhere
Yeah Xorathis pretty much spit In the face of Chaos they will be gunning for her head.
Statring to feel confused by the Red Eye... They are Buttchers ilk and yet they work with Thousand sons.
Art they like Chaos undevided? Will we see them dealing with Roting buggers next sub-system?
What ya think?
Art they like Chaos undevided? Will we see them dealing with Roting buggers next sub-system?
What ya think?
- Location
- barking
remember chaos are hypocrites
but more seriously they have teamed up together before (khorne and tzeentech forces teamed up to fight nurgle during the plague war)
abbadon is not the only person who can get seperate chaos god followers to work together
No need to be Khorne to be homicidal madmen when it comes to Chaos. Need only a whiff of it and you're off the rails.
- Location
- barking
looks at slannesh worshippers
Altymhor dynasty Apparently tried having human servants. Unsuprisingly they failed. Because necrons.
Fun bit of trivia
Fun bit of trivia
Turn 4 Results Part 2
New
Enemies, close by
Korissah Intrigue Roll: 70+9: 79. Success!
Korissah Intrigue Roll: 70+9: 79. Success!
The crafts had nothing to share with the cumbersome, blocky Uhn'Saekh designs, or even the graceful Aeldari vessels, all soft curves and elegant lines.
Necrodermis, polished, eerie silver-black, formed crescent shapes littered with Necron glyph and veined with glowing energy conduits. Not even the soft hum of anti-grav could be heard as the squadron passed through the cloud cover. Surfaces of living metal rippling and shimmering, they moved with unearthly agility, uncaring of even what little space Dark Eldar pilots allowed to physical laws.
No, the Night Scythes were no clunky, chugging aircraft, or even sleek, dagger-like arrows piercing through the void of space. They were specters of death, a dark reminder of Necron mastery over the material realm.
As they approached the planet's surface, energy nodes hidden beneath crescent-shaped hulls powered up. Projectors started to vibrate. Gauss glowed as transdimensional beacons were locked in and triangulations streamed through interstitial spaces.
The Night Scythes never touched the ground. Instead, they smoothly broke their descent, regathered like a flock of one mind and rose again. They would keep to low orbit, ready to dip down again to offer support with their heavy Gauss weaponry or extract.
Their cargo was already on the ground and moving.
Korissah kneeled, her sensors building a tridimensional image of her surroundings. The last residue of interstitial transport flared across her necrodermis, ghostly flames licking her skin. An errant process reared from her data streams like a fish from a river, returning the nonsensical fear that it would stain her. A debugging protocol devoured it mercilessly, and she was focused again.
The planet codenamed X0R3 was no pretty sight. Riddled with geothermal activity, it was a burned-out ball of fire and ash, its soup-like atmosphere so filled with gases and acid that the only thing to be seen were lakes of bubbling rock, rivers of molten lava and ash-choked expanses.
A Dead World for all the Uhn'Saekh were concerned, maybe one just skirting the limit if they could be bothered with more assessments. Korissah knew better.
Her Tukal hunters were lit in green in her sensors, their shapes and positions clear through the heavy murk. Data-streams curled around them like ceremonial ribbons, updating her about their status in perfect detail.
[The Tomb lays unresponsive, Honored One], said Kemah through their squad channel. One of her many, many cousins, he was, like all the Tukal, a victim of Khepren's wrath for perceived slights, real or imagined. Ripped from a role as an Apprentek, he was instead turned to the Deathmark when the Bio-Transference came.
Korissah aknowledged. Like the scans said, the Tombworld was sealed shut, not responding to Dynasty's long-range communications and authorization codes. She wouldn't be surprised even if she could. X0R3, once known as Zhol'Thekai, the Burning Forge, was her late father's apple of the eye. He wouldn't entrust its awakening protocols to just anyone.
[Move in.]
The Tukal acknowledgment was a list of brief data strings.
They didn't move together. Rather, the one hundred Deathmarks held a scattered formation, their blurred shapes disappearing and reappearing as they stepped in and out of their Dimensional Oubliettes.
Each Deathmark held a miniaturized dimensional projector in his chest. Activating it, the Oubliette it contained was enlarged to cover a space of roughly five hundred meters square. This was the Deathmark's "hunting ground", the holy grounds of Aza'gorod, the judgment hall for betrayers and unworthy, the crepuscular realm of prey and predator.
With the pocket dimension in place, the Deathmark could use his transdimensional drive to step into it and then step out almost instantaneously in any place covered by the Oubliette. Heavy processors specialized for interstitial transport and hyper-geometry as well as layered space-time mapping allowed him to triangulate his position through the transport, as to avoid rematerializing inside concrete matter.
It was specialized equipment, not cheap and not easy to implement. Deathmark required specialized light frames to endure the constant jumps and their dimensional drive was one of the few pieces of Necron machinery to require outside maintenance.
Still, it was worth the cost. There were few places a Deathmark couldn't enter, few targets outside the reach of his synaptic rifle, and that was the most concrete reason for the ban upon their use during most of the Necrontyr history. They were super-weapons, as dangerous as a space-time disruptor, to be used with attentive care lest the dynasties destroy each other in an orgy of assassinations.
But that time was long past.
Right now, the Oubliettes were turned to high-speed movement. The Deathmark only had to power his engine, set an Oubliette and teleport to its outmost layers. He would then depower the engine, power it again and do the whole process anew.
By Necron standards, it was a laborious process, seconds instead of microseconds but it got the job done and it was infinitely faster than the plodding advance of Warriors and Immortals.
There was something to be proud of in being part of a rank that was elite even among a race that claimed mastery over the universe, and had the means to back it. Even before the great transfer, the Deathmarks were lethal blades, bred and trained from infancy by the greatest Death Cults of the empire. In a culture as obsessed with the end of life as the Necrontyr had been, assassins were holy workers, to be revered, feared, and reviled. Even a Necron could find some comfort in the idea that, even after the loss of souls and bodies, they were still asked to ply their trade, and do so unrestrained.
But it was all lost on Korissah.
Her whole existence, if it could be called that, was one of constant ignominy and offense. Her self-awareness lost amidst data missions and requirements, she didn't question her new fealty. Mictlan and its shadowy mistress had replaced the Phaeron in her fealty engrams and so she acted as it was always so. She didn't realize the mockery of her father in giving her a beautiful frame without the mind to appreciate it.
Khepren was renowned for his heavy-handed approach to rebellion, and the bio-transference had only exacerbated the attitude. He had his traitorous daughter's compound stripped of all mirrors and her Tukal servants and companions in shame defaced and twisted. They now shambled around, their bodies shadowy approximations of Necrons even as they kept all the agility and precision of the Deathmark. All to make sure that his wayward daughter, so taken by beauty, would be able to see only ugliness for all eternity.
A petty cruelty if there was one, and one lost on its intended target. Apart from shreds and echoes of thought, Korissah lacked the mind to comprehend beauty let alone be dismayed by its absence.
[The Tomb's seals are intact, Hand of Justice.]
Jiskah, one of her Hounds, kneeled amidst a pool of acidic sludge. The mud lapped at her necrodermis as she held a hand against the ground, stains the color of bruised meat disappearing as fast as they were etched.
[Energy readings measure higher than normal sleeping patterns. Some Tomb Sections are already awake.]
Korissah registered the information. Energy spikes meant activity, but if they didn't measure from orbit it meant that they negligible. The whole Tombworld awakening wouldn't have gone unobserved.
[Find an entrance, Children of Ragged Shadows. Downloading map now.]
[By your will, Luminous One.]
They moved, not quite realizing the mockery in the titles that had been pre-programmed in their engrams and that they used as naturally as their rifles.
----------------
Korissah remembered the Tombworld before it was sealed, the many, cunningly hidden boltholes and the massive, shrouded entrances. She directed her cohort to the first, and it wasn't long before the Deathmarks huddled in a cave riddled traversed by magmatic flows, their crooked shapes barely visible among spurts of gas.
The Deathlady jabbed her rifle's butt against a wall. It smashed through volcanic rock, revealing a panel of shimmering necrodermis. She put a hand against it, interfacing with the ancient mechanisms beyond. Instantly, she was faced by a colossal presence. The Master Program, awake and well. It appeared to her digital senses as a mountainous spider armed with hundreds of limbs.
[The Path is closed.] The ancient Program's voice was a frigid stream of data and denials. [The Flame shall burn only for the Depths. Return where you've come from. Leave the soulless to their Sleep or incur the wrath of the immortals.]
Korissah wasn't impressed. [Cease your threats and look upon me, Ancient One. Remember your loyalty. The mark of the Steadfast is mine to bear. Open the way to the daughter.]
Dozens of tendrils probed at her authentication codes and then at her signature. Korissah let them, ignoring the reports from her sensors that insisted on her being swallowed by frigid waters.
[Aknowledged. The Way opens to the Daughter.]
As the presence retreated, the wall rippled. Stone shivered and crumbled away into ash, revealing a door unfolding like the petals of a flower.
Not pausing to take the moment in, Korissah plunged into the darkness beyond, her Deathmarks in tow.
Apart from the patrols of Canoptek busy with regular maintenance, the tomb was silent. Gloom broken only by the glow of dormant energy nodes ruled over that place, the only one to do so in over sixty million years.
Korissah ignored it, busy registering the level of repair and sending the data back to the homeworld, where the Mistress listened. The first scans were promising: the Tombworld showed to have come out from the Great Sleep mostly intact. The only thing out of place was those distant energy spikes.
As the Deathmarks jumped their way deeper, the Master Program was a disembodied staple, watching through the eyes of Scarabs and sensors.
[Status,] Korissah commanded.
[Aknowledged. Reports collated. Downloading to provided transdimensional coordinates now.]
[What are these irregular readings? Explain.]
The Master Program replied, but it did so half a moment later than optimal. A noteworthy event, one Korissah registered dutifully.
[The Tomb's nobility has awoken ahead of schedule. Facilities have been available for their needs since.]
Korissah would have paused at that if she could. If they awoke, why didn't they contact her father? And why was the Tombworld still dormant? She asked as much.
[Memory-banks corrupted. Unknown.]
[Since when they are awake?]
[Memory-banks corrupted. Unknown.]
The word was a bane for a mechanical creature like her, sub-routines activating in response. She sent a mind-impulse to her soldiers, ordering them to prepare for an eventual battle. The Deathmarks reacted seamlessly, scattering their formation and powering their rifles without breaking stride amidst jumps.
[Which sections have been activated?] Korissah started running scans over the Master Program. It allowed her, but only for the least important data-banks. Her authorizations weren't high enough for her to access the backlogs or the labyrinthine mainframe.
[Designation: Forge of Ten Million Hammers. Designation: Anvil of the Night. Designation: Throat of Nyathra'zatha.]
Korissah increased her combat readiness by two ranks. The reason why her late father held that world in such esteem were its colossal forges and shipyards, upon which most of the dynasty's seafaring capabilities depended. The nobility of Zhol'Thekai were forge masters renowned even during the heights of the old empire, the products of their wisdom squabbled over by Phaerons and bringer of much fame to the Ahanakara.
That the forge implants were active spoke of strange tidings. Nothing maybe, but madness was the Necrons' comrade.
[Is Overlord Azap awake?] She remembered the chief forgemaster. A big, burly specimen whose skills materialized in his own, heavily costumed Necron frame. More of a construct than a normal Phaeron frame, and even higher quality.
[Error. Result inconclusive.]
[Lord Akhmet?] A
[Error. Result inconclusive.]
[Lady Kepat?]
[Error. Result inconclusive.]
[Cryptek Suthtias?]
[Error. Result inconclusive.]
[Lord Tujkal?]
[Error. Result inconclusive.]
Korissah's debugging processes squashed a flurry of errors. [You reported that the nobility is awake,] she pointed out. [How does that equate to the nobility's positions reporting inconclusive reports? Where are they?]
Another pause. Korissah's attention was dragged to it. [Here.] For the first time, a glimmer of emotion crept into the Program's impassive voice. A… longing. [They are here.]
It fell silent, and Korissah didn't press for more. Instead, she ran scans over the Tomb's inner defenses and crypt status, something that the security protocols allowed. She found that, apart from a few unforeseen awakenings, they were dormant. The defensive pylons especially were on stand-by, not reporting any recognized intruder.
[Quick,] she ordered, and obeyed her own demand, increasing the gyration rates of her engine.
Like all Necron Tombworld, Zhol'Thekai was massive, a maze of corridors, crypts and stasis chambers snaking its way through continental plates. That it hadn't been created ex novo for the Great Sleep but was once the lived-in forge-compound of the ruling nobility only added to its immensity. Rows of laboratories, workshops, building and assembly sites filed in the gloom, unlooked by all but the Canoptek charged with keeping them in pristine condition for a time when their services would be required once again.
Maps alight in their processors, the Tukal moved quickly, short-jumping their way deeper and deeper. As they went, the places of work grew grander and more elaborate, some of them even showing remnants of half-finished weapons and other, less identifiable products.
Still, what prompted Korissah to stop the advance was something was less noticeable.
Despite her optics making it out quickly, the object having nothing to do with Necron architecture, it took her processors a few seconds to understand what it was.
Her memory-banks returned matches for ancient Necrontyr's sashes, used before the Transference to adorn doors and windows as a sign of celebrations for new births and new deaths. It was painted over in a similar way too, childish smears dripped on its leather-like surface like so many tears.
Like those ancient rites, it flopped down from a great archway, beyond which her map told her that the Anvil of Night, one of the greatest artifacts and the main reason for the planet's fame, rested.
The decoration wasn't alone. More "sashes" slumped from walls and columns, held up by crude necrodermis nails. They gave to the hall, an antechamber for waiting supplicants her data supplied, a decadent feeling, as if a beggar lord tried to cheer up his throneroom with little budget and little fantasy. The tear-like designs repeated obsessively, alongside more signs that Korissah had to zoom her optics on to recognize.
Clawmarks.
[Take positions], she murmured, hoisting her rifle.
The antechamber ended in a dizzying drop, across which vaulted a soaring bridge of gravity-locked plates, each engraved in loving details with the nobility's works. It was ruined now, splattered with brown-black dried flakes.
Blood, her sensors provided. And those "sashes"… they were pieces of skin.
Then the scrabbling came.
The first Flayed One to emerge from the crevasse's lip was hit by a bolt to the skull. The blow sent him pitching back where he came, and he disappeared abruptly with a shriek, but more were already scrambling over.
Soon, hundreds of the monstrosities were spilling from the depths, their tortured shrieks filling the stale air. Each was a debased, hunched Necron, the still bloody flayed remains of whatever organic he had ripped apart during his travels draped across his frame.
Maddened by the curse of an extinguished God, they came as a wave of corrupted metal and flesh, their fingers stretched into wicked claws, their deathmasks flaring with desperate need. It was a horrifying sight, a heaving mass of talons and frenzy that would have mortals run in terror.
Not the Deathmarks.
Wretched as they were, they were killers, bred and fed with the holiness of the mark. Bio-transference ripped from them any grasp horror could find, making them into shadows of death.
[Set the grounds,] Korissah murmured. The ancient rituals emerged from the depths of her withered memories as she never lost them. [Bring the night. Praise be to Aza'gorod.]
[Bring the Night. Praise be to Aza'gorod.]
The Deathmarks fought methodically, a bulwark of cold metal against the madness. They took shot after shot, each turning a Flayed One into a wreck of fizzling scrap and flailing limbs with a hole in the skull. And each kill was punctuated by the same ritual phrase, chanted in strings of data as a funerary line etched on a tombstone.
[Praise to Aza'gorod. Praise to the Nightbringer. Praise to Death.]
The Flayed One tried to get to grips with the assassins, but the Deathmarks kept their distance. They stepped back into geometric portals, only to reappear above the ground, perched on thin shelves or clinging to walls. They never stopped shooting, never stopped reaping for a Master whose face they couldn't remember, each shoot as deadly as death's hand.
Korissah saw a Deathmark too slow to escape a knot of Flayed Ones. The assassin disappeared beneath flailing limbs. One last shot shredded one of his assailants before the Deathlady's sensors flared with the teleport feedback.
Korissah shot a skin-wrapped horror even as she spun and brained another with her rifle's butt. Lifting a leg, she stopped the charge of another with her foot. The Flayed One shrieked, flailing madly for her before she put an end to his racket with a point-blank shot. Using its falling carcass, she somersaulted, her rifle coming alive in her hands with three precise shots that pierced as many skulls.
Two Flayed Ones lunged for her, grotesquely large fingers extended. She ducked beneath the swip of one and parried the other with her rifle. The claws ground shrilly against the heavy weapon as she reached for her thigh.
Necrodermis shimmed and rippled, and a short handle emerged. She grabbed and extracted her Hyperphase Sword. The short blade, a cruel thing lined with energy conduits, left an emerald trail as it whipped through her assailants. The Flayed Ones tried to parry, but the ancient blade phased through their raised gauntlets, cleanly bisecting their necks one after the other.
Korissah kept her momentum as they fell, cutting down a monstrosity. Taking the opening, another lunged for her neck. As his talons sank into her shoulders, the Deathlady shuddered, her engrams overloaded with a flood of corrupted data.
She saw a field of stars, each of them blossoming like a red flower of ruin. Something enormous shrieked, and his voice cut the firmament in half. Madness came rushing in. The jibbering of a million million voices that was one, spoke with words of horror and fury that no mortal mind could fathom.
Crafted in darkness. Cursed to hunger. Overflowing with malice.
She saw planets melt and the heavens run with the blood of Gods, until all of Creation was a smudged canvas of running colors. Falling falling falling into the abyss from which there was no escape.
Soon, I'll be complete.
[Override. Backup engramming data. Reroute all power to antivirus processes. Now.]
Her processors whirred like an Uhn'Saekh battle tank struggling against the sea. Her sensors filled with the smell of burned silicate and non-existent burning meat. Her consciousness buckled like a caught horse, pushing back the infection threatening to take over her systems. Enough for her to regain control of her limbs and cut down the Flayed One with a decisive strike.
Instantly, the flood of corruption abated. It didn't leave traces to debug and erase. It just evaporated like a bad dream.
[Hound of Justice. Status.]
Korissah performed a rapid scan. Only when her systems gave back the full clear, she reconnected to her subordinates' shared channel.
[All clear. Proceed with extermination.]
There was a flurry of succinct acknowledgments. None of the Tubal was concerned with her well-being, they and she were beyond such mortal emotions. But a Flayed infestation had to be confirmed and even if that didn't happen, the fall of the field leader had to be acknowledged for command to be rerouted.
Korissah turned, dragging her blade through a Flayed One's body. The monster fell in two crackling halves. She imagined anger and revulsion echoing from the depths of her diminished mind.
After that, the battle finished quickly. The Flayed Ones came coming, hundreds of them, but the Deathmark mopped them up with methodical skill. By the end, the hall was littered with twisted skin tissue and sparkling carcasses. There would be no return for these lost souls, but at least they were free from their curse now.
Filing the matter away without a wasted bit, Korissah led her Tukal into the Forge proper. The Master Program didn't answer her summons, but it didn't matter. It would be brought to heel soon. What mattered was that the main facilities hadn't been contaminated.
What she found was different from anything she expected.
The Forge of Night was a marvel. A gargantuan space had been dug into the planet's crust, a colossal cylinder whose walls were fractal mazes of silver circuits, the floor was a dizzyingly far glow of the planet's heart and the ceiling a shimmering portal of liquid Necrodermir, a window upon other places and dimensions.
Colossal energy conveyors in the shape of concentric lenses and more arcane tools waited to focus the monumental amount of cosmic energies needed to craft objects that even the Necrontyr would call masterpieces. They surrounded a massive platform of ornated necrodermis, energy circuits and nodes studding it in complex arabesques that turned it from a technological sanctum into an altar built by Gods of starlight and metal.
At its center, a single block of dark matter stood. Almost simple in its lack of adornment, the Anvil of the Night was an artifact gifted by the C'tan to the Necrontyr, one of many tools to bear their cursed mark. Legends said that with it, no marvel couldn't be forged, no chains that couldn't be made. And yet, the blacksmith that laid his hammer over it would be shackled to it forevermore, to build and craft and forge for all of eternity.
And there was a forgemaster there.
The Necron was gigantic, easily twice the height of an Annihilation Barge. His frame was a misshapen mass, dozens of limbs and bodies mashed and melted together until they were a single, squirming thing.
As she watched, the giant lifted a colossal hammer. He brought it down, and tendrils of energy flared in a crack, the air throbbing with power.
Two lines of Flayed Ones led to the Anvil, their carcasses battered into scraps. A long, whip-like limb made of arms fused together reached from the giant to the closest one. It dragged it before him, and he brought down the hammer again, lightning crackling out in a surge of power.
A primitive way to forge and craft, and yet Korissah knew that at their greatest, all technology appeared as magic. And there was no greater knowledge of the physical world than that bestowed by the C'tan poisoned gifts.
She advanced, her Deathmark in tow.
They had reached halfway to the Anvil when the giant reacted.
His hammer stalled, and he turned. Korissah saw a single optic crackling with power atop a rotund, helmet-like head that seemed to have received its shape by repeated blows. A presence made of unknown data, enclosed like an iron wall brushed against her interfaces like a stormfront, before retreating.
The whip snapped. The air pulsed, then shattered, revealing a mirror-like passage through dimensions.
"Away with you," the giant rumbled. His voice was like tectonic plates grinding together. Korissah's sensors picked it across an impossibly wide array of frequencies. "You'll spoil my focus."
The giant didn't add more, returning to his work.
Korissah didn't move. "State your identification." At her unspoken command, the Deathmarks flared out, rifles pointed.
The giant didn't turn. A mass of interlocking rings gyrated with a slow rhythm around the Anvil, each sporting strange implements. He reached to the closest, pulling what looked like a stinger topped with a phase crystal from its position and pointing it toward the Anvil. Viridian lightning erupted from it, striking whatever he was working on.
"You're not the first," he rumbled, and there was a hint of tired annoyance in his voice. "And you won't be the last. I am the Craftsman. I am the Forger. I am the Fire That Smelts and the Light That Refine. I am the Forgemaster. The Crucible-Bearer. The Wondermaker. I am what I do. I am the sparks of the hammer striking the anvil. I don't have a name and I don't care about having one." He paused. "And you've been tampered with, all of you. Not much loss in your case, but it won't be always like this." He brought his hammer down, and sparks flew. "You did it? I know you're watching."
Korissah felt it as a hand reaching from inside her. The Mistress' presence caressed her consciousness, gently prodding for control. She lent it without a thought.
Her optics flared, and a projection appeared before her: a single Scarab, twitching with a composed kind of excitement.
"You found my work with a glance," the Mistress commented. The Scarab leaned forward, curious. "Who are you? No, that's not right. Rather, what are you? Is all of you in there? All of the forgemasters? How did it happen?"
The giant didn't turn, a lack of respect Korissah found intolerable. Still, the Mistress didn't seem to mind, so she didn't move.
"The Forge is all that matters, all that ever mattered," he rumbled. He lifted whatever he was working on, and Korissah had a glimpse of sharpness. "What was done is only what was needed for its sake."
The Scarab skittered on its legs, silent for a moment. "How long have you been here?"
"Long enough." The giant flicked his hand. A black sword disappeared beyond the platform's lip. The whip reached for another corpse, and the hammer returned to fall. "You tamper, Xorathis. You touch and manipulate and modify. Like you always did." There was a hint of reproach in his words.
The way the Scarab turned its head was almost coquettish. "Good habits that don't die. Isn't it marvelous?"
The giant's head rotated on his axis. He looked at the Scarab for a long moment. "You're a monster," he said. "You've always been."
"Yes," the Mistress' tone lost all mirth. "But I am the monster this galaxy needs. It won't be by pretty honor that our people will be saved. No, it'll take a God, and all that entails. And then…" The Scarab glanced her way, a note of softness entering her voice. "I'll give back everything I took, differently from Szarekh."
The giant didn't reply. He watched, and then his head swiveled back. The hammer came down.
"Maybe you're right," he mumbled. "I don't care. I found my peace long ago. I need nothing else. I crave nothing else." He raised his work, watching it with a discerning eye. "Take what you want from the Tomb. The Forge is mine. I have means to keep it so."
The Scarab's optic turned her way. For a moment, Korissah thought the Mistress would order her and the Tukal to attack. She didn't.
"You will need materials."
The hammer crashed down. "And you, my works. There's a bargain, I guess."
Korissah's processors worked. Something seemed to have passed between the two great beings, an unspoken agreement she wasn't privy to.
When the Mistress spoke to her next, she sounded pleased. "Chin up, girl. We made a new friend."
ACTION RESULTS
The Tombworld of Zhol'Thekai falls under your sway! Tombworld Awakening starts! Awakening will end in 5 Turns! (+2 Turns from Flayed One Minor Infestation).
No new Troops: Awoke troops hit by Flayer Virus.
No new Hero: All the nobility is now part of the Forgemaster.
You met the Forgemaster!
This incredibly ancient abomination cares only about perfecting his craft. Supply him with materials and he'll take your requests. You only need to ask him in a general way what the item is supposed to do its characteristics and the level of quality. He'll ask for something back if you ask for lots of his time.
1 Turn of work: The Forgemaster will produce a master-crafted (for Necrons) item (Weapons, Armors, War-Items). Inspiration will be enough payment.
2-9 Turns of work: The Forgemaster will produce an item of great power (Weapons, Armor, War-Items, Artifacts with applications even outside of battle).
10-99 Turns of work: The Forgemaster will produce something incredible. (Weapons, Armor, War-Items, Artifacts with applications even outside of battle).
100+ Turns of work: The Forgemaster will produce his final masterpiece. (Almost anything is possible, even a god-shattering weapon. Upon completion, the planet will shatter from the energy unleashed).
As a gift for your new partnership, the Forgemaster gifted you with a special Unit of Canoptek:
- Canoptek Awakener: Appearing as a segmented caterpillar, this advanced Canoptek comes in swarm of nano-forms specialized in jump-starting the activation of dormant Tombworld. By releasing them into one such sleeping complex, the time needed for its full activation will be halved.
AC - And we're getting somewhere. New planet is on its way and a new method of awakening. Necron awakens slowly at first but once they pick up speed it goes by exponentially faster, so expect more tombworld awakening the more tombworlds you awaken. Also, I was going with the assumption that you guys could just rewire dormant Necrons to your cause as along as you caught them sleeping. Then I thought that it wasn't fun, and changed it. Now, you can still require loyalties (Xorathis' special tech), but the process dumbs down the Hero, turning him into a loyal but weak drone weighed down by bad traits. The Relief Matrices can restore him back to full functionality and closer to his mortal form, but it also gives him back his freedom of choice, and Necrons can be unreliable, even those with a Matrix. So it's your choice:band of loyal, weak drones or competent, independent commanders? Each will probably have a finger on system-scale weapons of mass destruction so choose wisely. Btw Korissah came with her Deathmark squad. I forgot to add it when you guys got her. I am adding it now.
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- Pronouns
- He/Him
It's rather nice seeing such talented work on a Necron-centric quest. Not many of those.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Are any of the nobility left or is it just the Forgemaster?
- Location
- barking
well looks like theirs more flayers
also my my my Canoptek Awakener: how many turns does our world have
also my my my Canoptek Awakener: how many turns does our world have
- Location
- Warsaw
We will be fully activated next turn.
- Location
- Moscow, Russia
"The [ ] of lilies." - when activated, this artifact produces the field of flowers around the bearer. Strange, white lilies will appear as out of the moonlight, and any being gazing upon them would be filled with strange sense of soul crushing longing and melancholy.
- Location
- yorkshire
Well the nobles becoming flayed ones made this a easier transfer of power
Flayed onse got the troops, Nobles ended up making Forge master.
Cool update. Nice to see our DeathLady kick ass, glad we have some anit virus means, would not belive all of our troops to be immune all the time.
Tombworld sound usefull, Got Shipyard and all that. Aweakening more planets is bloody important for performance capabilities. Still have to exmite orks from our core system thou.
Good progress thou.
She'll get her relief eventually.
- Location
- barking
forge master is gonna be dragged to social events he doesn't want to attend isn't he
- Location
- This miserable sphere of dirt and water
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Worse, the social events might be coming to him.
- Location
- barking
oh god you are right that is worse
. . . alright , 2(?) actions and 1-9 turns to upgrade a normal unit into soloing a greater daemon
Have him build a Necron Gundam.
- Location
- barking
we show up the imperium by building a proper meccha not those lazy knights/titans they have and beat the tau to it
How many actions to design a prototype and handing the blueprint for forge master to play around with for X turns?