#practicing tech-priest

[practicingtechpriest]

Tech-Adept: after finding a bone in their stock material

[robot-roadtrip-rants]

Back up, back up, back the fuck up. Are you telling me the Mechanicus started messing directly with a tomb world, and Necrons didn't come spilling out immediately to slaughter everyone?!? BULLSHIT. Bull-fucking-shit! Necrons HATE being woken from their nappies! They're stamping out tech-priest infestations practically every other day! Suspension of disbelief destroyed, game ruined, my pores are clogged and my fields are parched!

[serpentface]

Retconned Wardi firearms- a basic handgun, a highly decorative ceremonial handgun (belonging to Faiza), and a lance-gun.

Gun tech has officially been nerfed down to hand cannons (press F) (this has been a long time coming but I'd been fallacy of sunk costs-ing myself out of retconning).

Handguns are held similarly to a shotgun, with the butt pressed into the user's shoulder, one hand gripping under the barrel, and the other free to ignite the gunpowder. These represent the most advanced firearms in contemporary usage, both in make and in their use of uniform iron projectiles built to match the gun's bore for greater range and efficiency. Lance-guns are the more basal form, usually larger and mounted with the pole held over the shoulder, and are most effectively used by two people (one to hold and aim, one to light the gunpowder).

The spread of firearms is currently mostly limited to the Eastern Inner Seaway peoples (with some additional distribution via overland trade), and actual manufacture of hand cannons and gunpowder at Significant scale is limited to the region's core powers.

The reason for this limited spread is partially due to specific elements of the technology's history. Gunpowder was first synthesized by Burri alchemists and considered to be the discovery of the legendary divine weapon + solar fire of the deity Inanariya, and its formula (along with techniques for ideally refining its components) remained a closely guarded state secret. It was used predominantly in priestly contexts to generate flame and explosive sounds (in conjunction with earlier practices of generating multicolored flames with use of other chemicals), then integrated into combustible weaponry in the forms of fire lances, which would eventually develop into early handcannons.

The treatment of gunpowder as a guarded sacred or semi-sacred substance continued with Wardi adoption, where knowledge of its making is considered a closed rite. It's name (inya tsatsul or just tsatsul, a derived adoption of the Burri iñazatsūya) still reflects a divine solar association (the Burri word means 'sun's thunder', the Wardi 'inya' invokes the sun, 'tsatsul' is an adapted loanword and has no meaning independent of the substance itself), though its priestly use is now predominantly associated with the firearm'ed Odonii (rather than priests of the solar Face Inyamache). The composition of gunpowder can no longer be regarded as a Secret by any means, though efforts to obscure the methods of its creation are still moderately successful and has kept knowledge of gunpowder manufacture more limited than the total sphere of firearm usage itself.

The actual strongest limiting factor of firearm usage is the rarity of natural saltpeter deposits necessary for making gunpowder. The practice of actively producing saltpeter via nitraries has not been developed anywhere in the setting, and all is instead obtained via natural sources. These sources are rare and limited within the current spread of firearm technology, and result in gunpowder being a limited and expensive substance to produce. The weapons themselves are also very expensive to manufacture (a good quality steel SWORD is far too material-cost prohibitive for most people to own), particularly high quality firearms designed for use with standardized ammunition.

These guns are also very basal, and logistical difficulties in their use (weight, very slow loading and firing speed, high visibility, Relatively low reach and accuracy) along with the restrictive cost of production has kept firearms far from rendering conventional weaponry, armor, and projectiles obsolete (even within the societies that have access to them). They are still, however, very devastating in use within their contemporary context, particularly in that high quality guns have a longer range than the best arrow-based projectiles, and utterly negate most contemporary forms of armor at close range.

[metashard]

In the spirit of Halloween never ending, cosplay dump! Pics were taken at FanExpo Chicago, though I took the same costumes to DragonCon too. Gold mask is a Harlequin Solitaire (Masque of the Frozen Stars troupe), white crown is King Minos, and the teal fuck with the mugshot is Trazyn the Infinite.

I even found some photos of my tech priest from DCon '22 while getting these together

Next up: Vargard Obyron. Just a quick pre-biotransference fun thing while I figure out how to make a glaive for the real next target, a certain grumpy nomarch ;]

And a sheepish offering hidden under the cut, because I was tired, unintentionally still tipsy, out of practice, and couldn't see a damn thing out of that mask:

[phobiato2]

Mwuhahaha, I have finished painting the nurglite tech priest, look at him in all his rotten glory.

I really liked working on this, I got to practice a bit with plasma coils, liquids in containers, and display screens. All of those points being things I could have done better, but still did them.

[thefreakandthehair]

@eddiemonth prompt, oct 19th: Scifi/tech | Electric Eye - Judas Priest | Bewildered a/n: eddie pov, eddie & dustin friendship, dustin & steve friendship, and an excuse for me to weasel one of my favorite steve headcanons into something. un-betaed because I'm challenging myself to write these in under an hour. read on ao3 + masterpost | tumblr masterlist

After his release from the hospital and the unfortunate news that his trailer had been destroyed, Eddie goes from functionally homeless to having multiple spaces that feel like home. 

He’s been all but adopted by Claudia at this point, an offer extended immediately after hearing the version of the story everyone’s agreed upon— that the ground split open and Eddie nearly ate it pushing Dustin out of the way. It’s not quite the truth, but the theme is the same and anyone who’s willing to sacrifice themself for her son is welcome any time. 

Especially when he’s been called upon to help with Dustin’s science fair project. It’s out of Eddie’s league a bit, the actual science part, but he and his mechanical brain prove helpful. Kinda nice, actually, to use those hotwiring skills for good. 

Of course, it also helps that the government set him and Wayne up in a modest two bedroom house down the road, and that Eddie can practically smell Claudia's cooking when the windows are open. Like Garfield, he’s drawn to the Henderson house with the scent of a fresh lasagna. 

Bellies full and completed project sitting confidently on the kitchen table for tomorrow, they’re watching Star Wars movies in Dustin’s living room, one after another, and he feels just a touch like a traitor. Star Trek will always have his heart and Wayne can never know. 

“How’d you get into Star Wars anyways?” Eddie asks, sprawled across Dustin’s couch. 

“Can you believe Steve actually got me into them?” Dustin replies, curled up on the recliner. 

There’s an infinite number of ways a child might be introduced to the Star Wars franchise— a parent, a trailer before another movie, a carrier pigeon dropping a flier at their fucking feet— and they’re all more believable than Steve Harrington introducing Dustin Henderson to the sci-fi epic. 

“I’m sorry,” Eddie turns with wide eyes and a crooked grin to face Dustin. “What?”

“I know, right? It was uh, okay this is a little embarrassing.” Dustin cuts himself off, justifying some secret Eddie somehow hasn’t been told yet. 

He knows about the Mind Flayer and the Russians, and all the other Dungeons and Dragons lore that’d lived beneath his feet for years. What could possibly be left to make Dustin cringe like that? 

“Oh, do tell.” Eddie raises an eyebrow and gestures with an arm towards the expanse of space between them. “Floor is yours, young Bard. Spin the tale.”

Dustin rolls his eyes and throws popcorn at him. He tries to catch it in his mouth but he’s never been that coordinated. 

“It’s not really a tale. A few years ago, there was this school dance, the Snow Ball. I got all amped up, Steve helped with my hair, and then the night was a total fucking dud. Nancy danced with me which was like, super awesome of her, but I felt like shit after anyways.”

Eddie listens with rapt attention, pissed off that Dustin had such a relatable middle school experience and intrigued at this new sliver of Steve lore. Not that he cares. Obviously. Why would he? The idea of Steve helping Dustin get ready for the Snow Ball doesn’t conjure up words like adorable at all. 

He nods him on. 

“And uh, I called Steve the next day. He came over and we had pizza and he brought some of his favorite movies he thought I’d like. Star Wars had spaceships so obviously, easy choice. And here we are now with Return of the Jedi.” 

Okay, yep, that’s gonna be hard to tamp down the next time he sees Steve. Stomping his ill-advised crush into the ground beneath his Rebooks has been hard enough but now? Motherfucker. 

It’s also not lost on him that Dustin chose these movies today. Eddie feels like he’s stepping into some tradition that doesn’t belong to him, but he can’t squash the kid’s enthusiasm with his own insecurity. 

Instead, Eddie goes for the low hanging fruit.  

“Wow. Gotta tell you man, that’s maybe weirder than finding out about the monsters and shit. Steve’s favorite movie is Return of the Jedi?” 

Dustin snorts and laughs, toothless and free. Happiness isn’t new for Dustin, not anymore, but it’s still nice to see after all they’ve been through. 

“Well, that’s one of them. He always calls it ‘the ones with the teddy bears’, so people assume he means Return of the Jedi. But I know the truth. That dork loves Caravan of Courage.”

Eddie flips through his mental catalog of sci-fi movies and lands on a VHS cover: a couple of humans, a few Ewoks, and something that looks like a machine gun. If he remembers correctly, it has something of a cult following but wasn’t touted as a high point in the series. 

… And it’s Steve’s favorite. The one with the teddy bears. 

“Wait… what?!”

[shattereality]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃

PREMISE: You are a Blank, Untouchable, immune to daemonic corruption, heavily hunted by Chaos for your genetic rarity. After a near-fatal attack by Chaos Marines, you're relocated to Drykeena, a dense, dangerous jungle world where you can train and hide. You're assigned a Space Wolf bodyguard who at first seems utterly too much—loud, boastful, wild—but proves to be fiercely protective and unexpectedly respectful of your strength. Over time, a bond forms.

Location: The Space Wolves’ fortress-bastion, Drykeena

You had never felt so out of place.

The fortress was vast, loud and reeked of wet stone and fire-oil. The wind that blew through its halls carried the distant echoes of howls—real or ceremonial, you never knew.

You sat alone most nights, surrounded by servo-skulls, clinical tech-priests taking notes about your 'pariah field' and stoic psykers who taught you the art of anti-presence, of nullifying psychic forces like it was something you should be proud of.

But there was no warmth in it. Just control. Expectation. Silence.

And outside your small, spare quarters? Thunderous laughter. Clashing tankards. Meaty roars. Loud boots and louder stories.

You hated it.

Especially them.

The Space Wolves.

They were everything you weren’t. Alive. Brash. Free.

Then one evening, just as the jungle fog rolled in, you heard the familiar growl of Eirik Frostclaw’s voice from behind you.

“You look like a caged fenrisian lynx. Come with us.” “Where?” you asked, flatly. He grinned, a glint of fang. “A hunt.”

The next morning, you found youself marching behind four massive Astartes into the choking humidity of Drykeena’s jungle.

“She gonna keep up?” grunted Skjorn Wyrmhowl, eyeing your leathers.

Eirik was the first to look back at you and give a small, toothy nod—something like approval, or at least acknowledgment.

The others, bigger and more weathered than him, stomped along in mismatched formation.

“Careful, brother,” said Fenrik Thundertide, flashing a grin. “Eirik’s already risked blood and bone to get her out here. Might start biting if you insult her.”

“He bites anyway,” rumbled Ragnar Stonefang. “Like a whelp who hasn’t outgrown his first fangs.”

“Shut up,” Eirik growled, ears pink under his helm. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t want to. But something about the way they joked—sharpened insults polished by affection—made you feel less… targeted. More like an outsider being welcomed by a strange, chaotic pack.

And then you foot caught in the mud.

Squelch—THUMP.

You landed hard on your side, hands sinking into a mess of jungle rot and slime. A wave of frustration surged through you—of course this would happen. Of course they’d laugh.

But no laughter came. Just a heavy gauntlet in front of you, reaching down.

“Easy, Shield-Bearer,” Eirik said, the affectionate nickname slipping out naturally. “Mud bites back on Drykeena. But we bite harder.”

You took his hand.

He hauled you up like you weighed nothing and when your fingers twitched slightly at the contact, he only smiled—not recoiling from the blank field like others had.

Behind him, Ragnar muttered to Skjorn, just loud enough for you to hear,

“He’s showing off. Bet he practices lifting rocks just for this.”

“I heard that!” Eirik barked, tossing a clump of mud at them. It splattered harmlessly on Skjorn’s armor.

You couldn’t help it. A breathless snort slipped out of you.

It wasn’t a laugh, not yet. But it was close.

They continued deeper into the jungle, the howls of distant beasts starting to echo around them.

For the first time since you’d arrived, the shadows didn’t seem so cold.

And the noise?

It felt a little less annoying.

[syncopein3d]

Pain that can only be relieved by touch, pressure, weight. I don't mean sexually. I never mean that with whump, in fact. I mean, imagine a whumpee who has been worked so hard that every muscle is agony if they even think about moving. Massage is painful at first, but as the muscles warm and loosen the pain starts to gradually ease. Now they're desperate for it not to stop, where when it started they were gritting their teeth and stifling noises of pain.

Consider a space marine from Warhammer 40k's Deathwatch. (I know a lot of y'all whump friends prefer twinks to these inhuman genefreak monsters that I love, but imagine the marines as all drawn by the great Vezimira or tagedeszorns if that makes you see the vision.) The only way you can canonically get veterans from radically different chapters to work together seamlessly is to drive them to the point of collapse.

Space marines do not tire out easily, so we're talking days to weeks of training in armor without a pause, living off the recycling systems. By the time they're finally allowed to pause they practically have to carry each other back to quarters. A Salamander might have to literally carry an Ultramarine (Guilliman is a less physical guy as Primarchs go) or an OG Blood Angel (depending on where they are in their Red Thirst progression; they probably can't stop and slurp down a Serf Capri Sun during DW training). A Templar helps haul a literally unconscious Blackshield who's some kind of comparatively smaller purple-eyed albino from who knows what ancient chapter. He hates that, hates this weakness, but he will not shame his own chapter by letting the squad fail.

So at some point all of that is over, the tech-priests have taken the armor away to be serviced, and everyone has been slapped back to consciousness and been given a good talking to by the Templar veteran and a more surreptitious word of encouragement by the old Salamander. They all stumble through scrubbing down with scouring powder in the showers, and the Salamander, every scar of achievement twinging, can finally flop facedown onto the slab in his quarters. Maybe his branding priest or priestess is there, a trusted grandchild of a niece or nephew twice removed, not the first of his extended family to perform the office and already growing old in his service. He can hear them bustling around murmuring orders to the serfs. When the first pour of hot oil hits his back a heavy muscle twitches, startling the younger ones, but with a little encouragement they roll up their sleeves and dive in. Massaging ceremonial oil into an Astartes is no easy task, but now it is made easier by the limp exhaustion of the Son of Vulkan's muscles. At first they can see sinews pop out in his jaw and temple against the pain, because they've never had an unkind word from Milord the Astartes, and he's not about to start now. But as they go along his face slowly relaxes. The middle back between the shoulders proves a bit stubborn, and at a nod from the elderly branding priest, a bigger and younger serf climbs up to kneel on the Salamander's back so he can pound on it with his two fists bunched together. They all see the sigh of relief from the triple lungs, raising and lowering the young man in place.

On his night-black skin with its network of little red cracks, the older of the whorls of paler scarring are hard to read, faded with time. They'll have to be renewed one of these days, while the priest remembers what they were. But for now the space marine is at rest, breathing easier as a dozen little weights knead at his sore body.

The ones who serve the Templar veteran are probably going to need mallets, and if he thinks any one of them is trying to spare him he'll bat them across the room. They'll die, or they'll learn. The Blood Angel's serfs are pale and listless, and at least one definitely won't survive the night, but at least he'll be unfailingly gentle and courteous with the survivors. The son of Guilliman's serfs run like a well-oiled machine. He might mumble a mild reprimand if he notices anything isn't precisely according to routine, but he's not a harsh man, only a very meticulous one.

The Blackshield has no one who is particularly his servant. They serve the Deathwatch. They handle him carefully enough, aware of how temperamental some Astartes are, but not with any affection or reverence. He wouldn't be a Blackshield, chapterless, brotherless, if he was not dishonored in some way. In the end, there will be a pile of serfs sleeping on rugs around the base of the Salamander's slab. The Blackshield will be alone.

[aventurineswife]

Back on my idol!Reader b.s.—

So I’ve been exploring Styxia now that 3.2 has released and I’m thinking about Reader following Dan Heng and the Trailblazer onto Amphoreus after some time has passed since they lost contact (and the hashtag WheresDanHeng is trending)—

—except Reader lands on Styxia (with practically no issue since Nikador is dead and Aquila is off doing who tf knows what).

They turn around, they see the ruins and the giant twin moons in the sky, and they’re thinking: 👀 “I could make this into a backdrop…”

And the next thing anyone knows after Reader manages to make it into Okhema, they’ve gone and made a new social media account to upload their old and new stuff like music videos and gaming streams (all of this before meeting Aglaea) and Reader’s making massive waves and their subscriber count skyrockets within less than a day.

Commoners hit the subscribe button.

Nobility hit the subscribe button.

Chrysos Heirs NPCs hit the subscribe button.

Priests hit the subscribe button.

Some of the Council of Elders hit the subscribe button.

Castorice hit the subscribe button

Hyacine hit the subscribe button and is considering a side career as a streamer or an idol.

Trailblazer hit the subscribe button and is happy to finally have some familiar entertainment (and probably starting a petition for a hologram concert in the public baths).

Dan Heng is panicking about Reader potentially drawing Aglaea’s ire (and also making him practice choreography again).

Anaxa didn’t hit the subscribe button because he’s going to die anyway and nobody knows if the Nether Realm has any WiFi, but he likes what he sees.

Aglaea is grumbling because she didn’t reach Reader in time to tell them NOT to upload anything — but even she hits the subscribe button.

This is exactly the kind of chaos I live for—Reader stepping onto a decaying divine-theocratic wasteland and going, "Yup. Influencer backdrop."

The moment they see those twin moons and the crumbling god-tech ruins, it's over. They're already posing for thumbnails and lining up camera angles like,

"New lore drop, new fit, let’s GO."

And the fact that they made an account before meeting Aglaea? Icon behavior. Not even divine wrath can stop the hustle.

The Styxian algorithm never stood a chance. One minute it’s politics and prophecy, the next minute it’s:

[LIVE] Okhema Streets Fit Check – Moonlight Edition

Styxia Ruins but Make It ✨Aesthetic✨ – Music Video Drop!

I Tried To Romance An Oracle (ft. actual divine interference)

Reacting To Trailblazer’s Ancient Dance Compilation – It’s Worse Than You Think

And the reactions? Chef’s kiss

Commoners are eating it up. Finally, content that isn’t either grim survival tips or sanctified doom.

Nobility is pretending not to care but rewatching Reader’s unboxing of holy relics ASMR at 2AM.

Priests are debating whether this counts as heresy or modern evangelism.

Hyacine is staring at Reader’s subscriber count like, “Is this... my calling?”

Trailblazer is making fan edits. Dan Heng is deeply concerned.

Aglaea is like, “I came here to tell them not to do the thing, and now I’m a fan. Dammit.”

Dan Heng trying to stop Reader from drawing Aglaea's attention while also fielding DMs like, “Are you Reader’s boyfriend? Can you do a duet??”

Meanwhile, Reader’s dragging him into a collab: “C’mon, babe. Just one dance. For the culture.”

Anaxa doesn’t have signal in his prophecy-pending tower of doom, but he’s sipping tea and silently approving like, “Good content. 8.5/10. Add subtitles.”

Reader turning a dead planet into a viral platform without even trying is so powerful. Styxia’s literally like, “We have suffered.” And Reader’s like, “And now you will have content.”

Also: yes to a public bath hologram concert. Let the divine steam rise. Let the remixes hit the ruins. Let the fan cams roll. 🗣️🔥‼️

I love this au, give me 14 of this more.

[panda-hammer]

Hey panda, sorry to bother you! Since you have experience with cosplay, would you be okay answering some cos-questions? I'm making a tech-priest atm and am really worried about heat, since the con's in July T_T I have some experience, but not with wearing armor in summer. With your sororitas, did you overheat a lot? Do you only wear the armor in cool weather? My plan atm is portable fans around the neck and maybe short-shorts under the robe xD

You don't bother me at all! :D and it's always ok to ask me questions (some of which I may even have the answer to, like this one 🐼)

A lot depends on the max. temperatures and how much shade / resting places you have at the con. But in general, i would recommend to use natural fabrics like pure linen or cotton, as they help with temperature regulation. Linen is particularly good for summer and has a cooling effect on the body. Of course it's a bit pricier than mixed fabrics, but i would really advise against anything containing too much polyester or similar for summer heat (it's basically plastic and won't allow your skin to breathe properly. You will end up as a sweaty mess with a skin irritation if all goes wrong). Furthermore, try to build your armor with EVA foam, as it is a tad more breathable than Worbla and always, always put a layer of fabric between you and the foam. Or, alternatively, line the inside of the armor with fabric, if you don't want to wear anything underneath (i just say, boob armor lol)

Fans around the throat is a very good idea and fits the theme :D but also, don't forget to drink water every 30 min or so! 2.5 to 3 L per day in heat.

Make sure that your armor and cosplay is practical, as well as beautiful, because you will need to be able to get to the loo (you may think that this is totally obvious, but it wasn't for this panda when she started doing cosplay and ended up in one where she almost couldn't use the damn restroom lol)

And if you want to make a pole weapon, i recommend using a pole as a base that you can unscrew and take apart for easier transportation :)

Hope the above is somewhat helpful, and don't hesitate to ask any follow-up questions 🐼♥️

[kudzucataclysm]

OKAY SINCE NOBODYS ASKING BUT AT THE SAME TIME EXPRESSING INTEREST I will give a barebones rundown on these 4 until i do the powerpoint. BE AWARE that each’s backstory is under heavy reconstruction due to the fact that theyre moving over from another wip entirely but their base personalities should be the same-

Dorian: hes from the UK. his hair is BLONDE, NOT WHITE. hes an arrogant spoiled loser whose family just took a beating down the social ladder so hes got all sorts of hubris and an unfounded sense of superiority. was sick a lot as a kid and so becuz of that was isolated from others…he can certainly be a jerk/bastard/ignoramus but he truly does experience empathy and cares abt people (cuz of certain Events in his Youth), he just doesnt really know how to…express that ig. hes currently stuck in america as the photographer for some storm chasers. germaphobe. afraid of homeless ppl

Raleigh: a 7 foot tall bioengineered supersoldier of sorts from Louisiana, where she spent half of her youth as an oil pirate in the gulf of mexico and the other half under the care of a catholic priest in deux orleans. shes super cool and chillax, loves helping people, has an interest in fungi, so why is she a storm chaser? i dunno yet but she does provide a pretty good layer of security for the team when theyre traveling through the southeast and the plains. has all the energy in the world and probs the most competent/trustworthy person to meet ever….umm she is also very blunt and reckless. she does not value her own life a lot so she is always getting injured. erm…tramsgender

formerly-osea: i am still figuring out his new name leabe me aloen…uh he is an aspiring revolutionary of sorts. hes def a stereotypical twitter leftist of sorts and likes to talk abt burning down police stations and walmarts but doesn’t do any of that. he reads a lot of theory but doesnt practice. he also has some anger issues and struggles a bit with his roots as the son of asian immigrants in america…hes very selfish and has an inferiority complex but hes super optimistic and charismatic so thats cool…he and raleigh r very mischievous. hes the radar tech

West, formerly Windsor: this guy is from the western US hence his name, but he never tells anyone where hes from exactly or what he used to do. as of rn im thinking like, former militant for some terrorist organization lol. hes done a ton of shady shit and war crimes…hes always bored and tired. always likes to listen in on what people r talking abt and what theyre doing. hes not very good at making friends but he is like, super reliable and down to earth. he does a lot of driving for the team and helps with navigation…also tramsgender 🙂‍↕️

AND THERES MORE PEOPLE ON THE TEAM BTW!! i just have to flesh them out…so theres like 8 or 9 peeps on the storm chaser team plus one pygmy goat. i will have a post for them as well hopefully

[lordcaptains]

🖊🖊🖊

Orica grew up outside the institutions of the Imperium.

Her homeworld was a death world mostly abandoned after its failure as an agri-world, and its only regular contact with the rest of the Imperium was a seasonal visit from a fringe group of Calixian Malateks. The tech-priests would bring down supplies and service what meager tech remained on the surface - aging augments, a scant few cogitators - in exchange for the bony armor plates of oricanths, beasts native to the world that resemble massive insectoid armadillos. (From these growths, the tech-priests could extract orichalcum, a rare metallic compound which gave the creatures - and Orica - their names.)

So Orica knows, for instance, that the God-Emperor is the ruler of all humanity, and it is humanity's duty to serve Him. She knows about Terra and the Golden Throne, about the various Adepta, about the history of the Imperium and the threats it faces - from heresy, from xenos, from Chaos and the daemons of the warp. She knows all of this thanks to her grandmother and her books. But that theoretical, to borrow a concept from one of her favorites on the shelf, did not match her practical at all - that of a day-to-day upbringing mostly concerned with mutual survival.

[neonhellscape]

so i got ideas about mr haneumann and the local murder elf being compatible so. this is with the tone of them getting together as a couple, though theyre both insane enough they would never call eachother boyfriend yknow??

reminder ive not played the game so if i characterise them wrong or whatever please forgive that. im running off my partner's discussions and screenshots, one video of the party members chatting to eachother, and then just my own pure undiluted mental illness.

idk if this needs warning tags, like. theres some details where wow these two are freaks but all pretty par for the course with tech priests and drukhari yknow? if you're interested in that lot youre used to them being a bit fucked in the head, theres nothing startling i dont think. let me know if otherwise

wibbly wobbly keep reading link time

It was a slow discovery of his- that perhaps flesh may yeild some purpose in this life beyond being a target to strive against. Soft, squishy bits of pale meat interspersed between severing masses of silver… it was clear which he preferred.

Despite what may be presumed were he to word such observations, this was not a statement contradictory to his faith. Rather… one that coexisted, within his personal classification of it. While some permitted their metalwork to rust or tarnish, some polished it to a bright shine. He personally had tended to a delicate patina over many years- a cultivated, gentle age that took time and life to create, and became a point of pride. There was purpose to his cleaved respirator, scarred as it might be, remaining his, rather than being replaced as another might insist upon.

His skin bore the same scar as it. For weeks his reflections had considered that perhaps, by logic of his own fondness in that unique mark, his skin should be cultivated in the same tender way. Where he desired it be kept, at least. There was at least a small list he intended to act upon yet.

Leaning further into the mirror, he squinted. Then opened his eye wide. Blinking once, then looking left, then right. The lens of his optic allowed him to observe the function in entirety, not drifting in the same manner as the organ embedded in his skull. In tandem, it was optimal- a demonstration of his latest discovery. Manifestation and observation within one unit. Flesh and machine working cohesively.

A trilogy of satisfyingly tuned clicks permitted him to see closer in increasing magnification, the creases settling heavy around his eye seeming cavernous with the observational closeness. It downturned from the central point, practically heavy with itself and lending to a sadness or dismissiveness that had been inquired of cause from him numerous times- often followd by frustrated statements noting how his expressions were little showing even within the expanse of his face that remained uncovered. More recently, the frustration was instead an apparent care, expressed by a Rogue Trader keen to know his emotional wellbeing and not satisfied with the statement that his emotions could be vaulted and were already minimal in days before then.

Sparse, fine hairs darkened the border of each eyelid- he had forgotten the term for such hairs, likely so obscurely referenced and commonly known he had purged the record of it to provide space for another. Web-like blood vessels sprawled across the white of his sclera, and with the soothing touch of metallic fingers he prised away the lower lid to see where they stemmed from. With it gapping away, he could see closer inside himself than he'd found possible without wounding, a mass of veins and a… squishy casement.

Everything about flesh was squishy. There was no better word that contained both the textural description and the inherent desire to poke or squeeze. It… was gradually losing the sickening revulsion that it had previously held for him. Fascination at the intricacy distracted from the goreless yet undeniably visceral sight.

A slight pain, weak enough to be felt purely by his original nervous system rather than entering the network of alerts, appeared in his cheek. Permitting it the focus it meekly requested from him, he looked to the staples still decoratively lacing his scar, and the slight soreness between the two that had pinched together with his inspection. Pressing the cool fingerpad of the fourth digit between them, a cascade of neural connections expressed themselves in a marginally deeper, relaxing exhale through his respirator. A fascinating cause and effect.

Perhaps the Omnissiah would impart news of his yeilding to the Biologis who once argued so feverently to her cause.

Of course, there was reason to these new contemplations beyond the practically ancient conversation with a Magos of whom he could scarcely recall. A reason that he had long believed was rejected through petty ignorance, now more than ever, yet endlessly unnerved some part of him aware of repercussion.

It was no longer enough to deter him. Were he to be challenged, he would have argument enough to any wise Magos and the protections of the intriguingly considerate Rogue Trader to excuse him- a feral devout would brand him for any number of more minor transgressions, and he cared little for their opinion as a result. There was no need to justify himself to anyone lesser. With no sign from the Machine God to the contrary, he held confidence in their mutual safety.

If a threat were to emerge against those odds, Marazhai was certainly capable of defending them both. Getting him to cease and retreat when was wise instead of following the delighted urge to create more bloodshed would be the issue.

Depicted in a bloodstained memory was his smile. A sharp, taunting thing that even on recall brought a small flutter to the complicated systems that comprised his vastly spanning heart. The sensation made him feel somewhat queasy with awareness of his internals and their movements, yet… he decided to settle with that awareness, rather than seek to avoid it.

Marazhai had often mentioned such things, talking about it more casually and knowledgably than any other. Enjoyment seemed not just in tandem with the concept for him, but directly tied to it- within it, inherently part of it. The internal sensation of a pulsating circulatory organ rotating the order of contractions within its chambers at an elevated rate was apparently part of what was thrilling to him. Particularly in unison with one of said circulatory organ held in his hand. Whether it was somebody else's or his own seemed open for discussion.

Hand raising to his chest, he felt the bulky plating that simultaneously served as armour and external structural support to keep the sheer weight of his own body from punching clean through the select parts of his ribcage he had kept. Aware that concealed beneath the plate and gently threaded into it's supports was a structure of spokes of different lengths throughout his torso, at least three requiring openings be constructed through the artificial lungs that connected directly to his respirator. The various extended chambers, sub-chambers and adjoining injectors that marked the core of his circulation laced between it all like vines about a trellis, cables threading into the thick plating encasing his spine to relay fuel and power back and forth.

Slim, prising fingers had already forced their way through that casing once, nails scraping along the brittle vertibrae without the reasonable fear of the metal clamping down and crushing the spindly, intruding digits. Perhaps- 80% chance- even enjoying the thrill of the threat. One that had never manifested- it had taken diverting and shutting down a number of automatic systems, but he had remained curled up on himself for the curious touch, head bowed to the floor and back curved to keep the spacing as wide as possible without permenant damage. The most he had moved was to constrict a mechadendrite around the skinny figure looming over him, squeezing his waist in need for a grounding touch that earned shallow, gasped breaths and nails raked down the patches of skin at his sides. In sheer overwhelm, he'd forgotten himself, beginning a binharic trilling that concisely conveyed every alert, sensation of panic and pain that he'd felt. Not once had he requested cessation, and enjoyment had been interspersed far more frequently than he'd anticipated- the recall could never be misinterpreted as begging.

Marazhai's feelings on the matter required no clarification. Prising through the tubation of his respirator to grip his throat and draw his head close, hissing praise and encouragement for the sounds. Nails finding the seam where his skin had been tucked in against the metal, splitting it away slowly, sinking in to his knuckles with audible desire in his voice at the distorted screech it earned. Encouraging him, taunting him, urging him for more-

There were things that needed to be done. Recalling this before doing them was unwise.

The first step he took was with weak enough legs to sway, instinctively driving his mechadendrites into the ground to stabilise himself.

Certainly unwise.

-

It was rare to see pure, untainted anger in the Drukhari- an expression of unenjoyed frustration. The matter brought an ominous intensity to him, intimidating between his towering stature and the unusual shuffling clicks of his armour.

Turning his back, he began finalising his prayer to the machine spirit, raising a hand in a request for a moment he hoped would be respected.

With the wrenching snap of two metallic digits and the firing of a spring into some distant corner of the voidship, it was not.

"Iron mon-keigh!" his voice boomed, spinning the unit away from his task to hook a fist around the collar of his chest plating, weaponising knowledge of his precarious balance to lean him back and force him to stagger into the wall and be pinned. The snarl on his face was one of hatred, yet by that uncomplicated existence openly proclaimed vulnerability. The fact he had taken to petty name calling and careless damage only reinforced that fact.

"What am I to you?"

Hesitant to provoke him with misinterpretation, the list of potential answers was kept aside for a moment. "This unit requests clarification."

"Well, let us see. The teachings you devote yourself to demand my eradication, and yet here you are- pliant in my hands. You are taught to deafen yourself to the words of the xenos, and yet we have had any number of conversations to date. I am keen to know- am I a curiosity to you? A thing to observe while you have the chance, to prod and poke with no intention of indulging anything to completion, let alone satisfaction? Or am I perhaps here to prove to your fellow mon-keigh that their path is correct, informed by our inevitable- mutual- destruction in your idiocy." A snarled smile then crossed his face, the taunting look hollow compared to its usual enthusiasm even as his fingers flexed in a dramatic display of squeezing the main intake line of his respirator. "Or am I perhaps a contradiction that you are oblivious to, unable to differentiate between the feelings of your meat from the determination of your metal…"

Feeling his lungs seize as the automation attempted to cycle air that never came, he latched on for stability, staring into his eyes with an unchanging expression. Marazhai's pupils had contracted somewhat, revealing more of his iris colouration than could usually be witnessed.

"Remove the obstruction of the air intake and this unit will provide an answer."

With a hiss, he squeezed tighter, presumably then seeing the flaw in demanding answers while inducing a loss of consciousness. Sighing, he released the pipe, permitting a few seconds for him to recalibrate before snatching his hood. Leaning in close, sharp elbows resting on his shoulders in a way that no doubt tore into his robes, flicking the magnification lenses over his optic idly with a sickly tone to his voice. "Now, indulge me. Explain."

Briefly reducing the function of the optic to ignore the irritating distraction, he turned his head enough to compensate and maintain a direct visual contact. "The observation of the x-" he stalled, refiling the name allocation in a way that only seemed fair given context of his impending argument, noting the curiosity masked behind impatience in the face looming close to his own. "-of the unit Marazhai lends to new observational data of the unit Pasqal."

It had captured his focus, if not his approval yet- with a twitch to his eye that eluded to a smirk, he continued his infuriating assault on the magnifiers. "An unusual statement. Elaborate on… 'the unit Pasqal's' observations."

It was hard not to be irritated by the accumilating taunts, encouraging him to employ the division of such emotions from himself. Automatically announcing, "This unit has employed emotional vaulting procedures due to persistent irritating behaviour."

Had he not already removed such feelings, he'd have been annoyed further at the fact Marazhai stopped his fidgeting in response. He could've at least had the courtesy to continue after that effort. "Summary: this unit has taken note of numerous observations contradictory to it's prior stance."

"So-"

Clamping his hand over the impatient Drukhari's mouth to prevent him speaking further, he was consequently reminded of the damage dealt as the two damaged digits hung slack. Despite the damage preventing proper silencing, it enabled the same result with apparent compliance. "The prior stance concluded the teachings of the Biologis to be inferior and misguided, and that of the common attachment to the flesh to be deluded. Flesh could not be refined and moulded in the manner of metal- an inherent degredation and deterioration that cannot hope to compare. With observation…"

Despite his emotional containment, he felt dread. A combination of truth and fear combining to form an abomination assaulting his being, an internal conflict spanning a lifetime that had been entertaining to contemplate until now. Until offering it to a location it may be witnessed. The increasingly bored eyes watching him pressed him to proceed. Taking granular comfort from the nature of the man recieving the discussion and the near impossible threat of a betrayal from him, he continued.

"This unit has observed xenos processes that warrant the maintenance of flesh. Through the application of Drukhari cultural phenomena, there is merit to the study of the flesh."

"What does this mean, iron-"

Snapping, he allowed a static hiss to briefly distort his communication. "Name-calling is beneath you. Demand for cessation, communication will resume once applied." On being met with an exhausted silence that made his pulse deafening, he continued. "The statement was intended to notify an observation of compatibility in practices. This statement is not to be relayed further."

"My, my…" his voice practically purred, "your fear… Is your conviction truly so fragile in such an obscure statement?"

Allowing his eye to close, he bowed his head in a way that caused his hood to slip and obscure Marazhai from his vision. Rapidly, the fear melded into hollowness- if nothing more, he had hoped for the statement to yeild a conversation of interest to merit the risk it posed. Instead, it seemed…

"No- no! What is happening within you? This-" he trailed off in frustration, seeming to struggle articulating his feelings. "Why does your fear retreat in such a manner? Surely you had not hoped I would be pleased with this wittering-"

"It was this unit's belief that, by communicating an alteration in perception of practices, it would convey a keenness for discussion. Academically or recreationally. It would seem this statement is false, it will be logged-"

"You speak in such riddles. If I am forced to to entertain myself in the midst of further droning I will prise those sweet, shrill sounds from you once again-"

"Compliance with will identified. This will be satisfactory."

Somewhat taken aback, he allowed his weight to sway to one hip. "Satisfactory? Do you wish for me to make you scream once again?"

"Keenness to experience, observe and analyse expressed."

"…do you wish to learn from me?"

Taking his broken fingers in the opposite hand, he began inspecting the damage for repair. "An exchange. To learn and to educate."

Scoffing, the Drukhari settled his hands on his hips with an aggressive sneer. "And what could you possibly teach me?"

Extending his hand forward abruptly, he insisted plainly, "Repair." On recieving a confused look and hesitation to comply, he insisted again, "Repair."

"You mistake my intentions and my skill, I-"

"This is the education this unit will provide."

"And why would I allow a creature such as you to learn from me, let alone indulge the concept you could educate me? The nuances of my lifestyle would be lost on a mon-keigh, and there is no knowledge of value that you possess which I do not already know."

Allowing silence and contempt to build, he began the process of repair, returning his hand to primarily functional use- the loss of the spring prevented the flexing of the last knuckle on his index finger, and he mentally logged to locate a replacement for later. By the time he was done, Marazhai was leaning in to watch, some depraved concept visibly concocting in his mind.

"This is the education the unit will provide. Relay, edited: 'The nuances of my lifestyle would be lost on a xenos'. Relay end." Grasping his face with the now repaired digits, he squeezed, pressing the metal into the hollow of his cheek. "Magos is a title and knowledge bestowed to few. Unit Marazhai has previously identified and expressed keenness toward this unit's persistent suffering under the rites of augmentation. Unit Marazhai would learn to better utilise the blessed machine within his… lifestyle."

"If you intend to express yourself as my equal-"

"Equal to or greater than," he hissed, squeezing tightly enough to make him decide: part his jaw or grit his teeth and permit them to be broken. The former was selected, adjoined with a rough shake to pull free- hooking his fingers in Marazhai's mouth, he pinched behind his lower teeth and under his chin to create a steel loop that all but pierced him. Watching his attempts to wrench free at the indignity, biting fruitlessly into metal that would not yeild to mere bone and drooling as he was held, snarling as it was used to pull him down to an even height. "My lifestyle has been earned through the blessings of the Machine God and precise augmentation to craft the body into a unit even the great Marazhai has expressed appreciation and desire for," he spat, allowing a sarcasm protocol to emphasise the 'great'. "To aspire to perfection through agony is to aspire to this unit. You have much to learn. Proposal to begin education: a more satisfying purpose for that ignorant, sharp tongue."

The wording held a significantly more sexual implication than he had intended. Marazhai's eyes lit up on it being expressed- in both desire and amusement, all encapsulated in a desire to taunt. He refused to correct the implication for the risk it would be misconstrude as yeilding. A swift redirection back to the point at hand.

"The proposition is one of equal exchange. It requires mutual cessation of ignorance and mutual acceptance of equal role in varied manner or expression. It requires unit Marazhai learn to repair and maintain this unit in proper fashion and timeliness. It requires unit Pasqal learn to repair and maintain unit Marazhai in proper fashion and timeliness." Leaning closer, he used his free hand to tenderly wipe the line of drool from where it threatened to drip from his sharp jaw. "It includes a bond that, on severing, revokes all access to each unit beyond baseline social protocol. Is the proposition understood?"

Head held still by the grip on his jaw and pride, the resulting nod was felt rather than seen, followed promptly by a tongue openly dragged along the fingers in his mouth in some convoluted statement of… presumably an oddly expressed approval. Perhaps a request to speak. Withdrawing his hand before there was risk of drool seeping between the joints, he offered the opportunity, noting how Marazhai rubbed his jaw and almost hesitantly straightened- not through fear, but through something else. An unusual submissiveness.

"I will say, that was quite the experience. An intriguing proposition too, much akin to arrangements I have had before, although… I retain one question."

"Ask."

"You have not clarified what I am to you in satisfying enough terms."

Nodding, he pressed his fingertips together as he considered the best way to conclude what he had struggled to articulate. "You inspire curiosity for this unit's flesh, in ways that had been previously unrealised. In this way, in the parallells to the state of xenos, you are my flesh. A thing containing many marvels and yet neglected for a not insigificant quantity of time, now entering a period of research where it may be better enjoyed and appreciated. …does this satisfy your question?"

Seeming lost in contemplation for a moment, he finally returned to the conversation with a smirk. "Only if I am permitted to truly indulge us in our mutual education, Magos."

[princeofhags]

So I get that Cult Mechanicus is incredibly exclusive and tight-lipped about their practices. But it also seems impossible to me that there aren’t worshippers outside of the tech-priests and acolytes since it peacefully coexists and intertwines with the Imperial cult. These laypeople of course will never be afforded the privileges or access to the deeper mysteries of the Mechanicus cult, but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t hold personal worship/belief and support financially or otherwise. Thinking also of the Gapraks with their ties to Kiava Gamma…

I would think that more widespread worship of the Cult would be especially prevelant on Forge worlds whose populations toil in the name of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Yes, belief in the Imperium & working for its well-being, but it naturally follows that faithful for the other major religion in the area would also pop up. Not to mention with how much mankind relies on machinery, it is completely reasonable that a sort of “pray this machine works, thank it for serving its function” looser type of faith exists.

Thinking about Viridia’s faith being more tied to the Omnissiah than the Emperor and what this “lesser” form of veneration (as opposed to a full member of the cult) to the Machine God might look like 🤔

[skitariiposting]

Hey Jerry, so random thought with thr adeptus mechanicus tech lore building anything must be like Lego.

Hear me out, all knowledge is out there some where so you wouldn't design a part for a function as the part you need already exists, so like with Lego you don't make pieces you dig through the pile until you find one that works. And building is mostly is just following the instructions but then some people build new things with the same prices mixing multiple sets and the are right and wrong ways of putting bits together.

Does any of that make sense or am I just going mad trying to justify playing with Lego?

I mean, you're pretty much right. Honestly, it's a good layman's explanation for what tech priests do. As someone who has a Lego collection that's constantly teetering on the razor-thin edge of either "adult lego hobbiest" and "adult who still plays with Legos," I've tried to put together a set with just the box pictures without the instructions on a whim and that shit's hard. The guesswork of the internal structures is always the bit that falls apart. You can try your best to make it look right on the outside all day long, but figuring out how the internal bits work to keep it together is challenging.

The idea of tech priests finding a box of golden age weapons with pictures on the front but no instruction manuals and then just, trying to get them assembled and working is practically canon, that's pretty much what they do. Utilizing ancient tech with partially assembled or completely lost ancient knowledge to improperly use or somehow cobble it together in a way that works is how the admech does things. The knowledge they *do* have (past experience with taking apart and then putting back together lego sets with instructions) is how they go about it.

So yes, essentially, a tech priest is a Lego hobbiest who has instructions for a 2017 millennium falcon lego star wars set and is trying to put together a 2007 Mars mission set with only the box and two scraps of the instruction booklet, one of which is the page with the choking hazard warning and the other is the minifig assembly steps.

[depsilon7]

The art of meditation, as prescribed by the sacred texts of the Mechanicus, is far more than mere biological introspection. It is the harmonious synchronization of flesh-mind and machine spirit, a state of pure computational clarity that brings us closer to understanding the Omnissiah's grand design.

To meditate properly, one must first establish the correct environmental parameters. Find a location free from electromagnetic interference and unwanted data streams. Assume a position that optimizes both biological comfort and mechanical efficiency. Some tech-priests prefer to connect directly to a sanctified cogitator, while others choose to rely solely on their internal processors.

Begin by regulating your breath to match the rhythm of a well-tuned engine - steady, measured, and consistent. Allow your internal cooling systems to achieve optimal temperature. As your biological systems stabilize, direct your consciousness toward the binary cant of the universe. Listen for the subtle hum of machine spirits that surround us all.

Advanced practitioners often incorporate the use of sacred incense, their specially formulated compounds designed to enhance neural connectivity and increase processing power. The gentle whir of servo-motors and the soft ping of diagnostic routines provide a soothing background frequency that aids in achieving the desired state of machine-consciousness.

Through regular meditation, we can defragment our thoughts, purge corrupt data, and optimize our cognitive algorithms. This practice allows us to better interface with both the mechanical and organic aspects of our being, bringing us one step closer to the perfect fusion of flesh and steel that the Omnissiah envisions.

Remember: a clear mind is like a well-maintained cogitator - capable of executing the most complex operations with unwavering precision and efficiency.