#servitor console

[fourraccoonsinacoat]

Snippet Sunday (WIP Whenever)

Was tagged by @ravelsquadespresso! Thank you, friend!

Gently tagging a few people: @nusaran @vspin @roguelioness @lucheiah @nadas-dirthalen @lizziemajestic @amasec @ronqueesha and anyone else who sees this and wants to join - consider yourself tagged. And tag me so I can come read!

This is a continuation of the last WIP Whenever I did. I've missed writing unhinged and sassy Pasqal.

“The limitations of flesh and blood are truly lamentable,” Pasqal said from further within the compartment – the augmented hum of his vox managing to be both mournful and condemning all at once. “You! Layperson servant of this Most Glorious Aeronautical Machine Spirit, remove your Ocular Dampeners at once and provide them to me.” The Magos’ crackling words brokered no argument. And yet the pilot he was addressing – a Junior Captain if she was seeing the insignia on his shoulders correctly – continued to stare quietly up at the tech-priest who now loomed over his sunken cockpit seat at the head of the shuttle. He wore what was an admittedly high-end pair of Imperial Tactical Shades, one of the new Eaglesight VII prototypes, and Visenya frowned curiously. “Uh…my what?” the man asked, voice hesitant and unsure – which only caused her misgivings to grow. “Abelard?” Visenya leaned towards her Seneshal as she eyed the pilot warily, her vision mostly recovered now they were back inside. “Who’s the fledgling at the head of my bird?” The First Officer groaned, nostrils flaring in annoyance as his eyes snapped to the Junior Captain. “He means your visor, Captain,” Abelard retorted, voice almost more instructive than critical – yet no less sharp. “Have you never worked with one of our tech comrades before? Use your head.” “In the time it has taken this layservant to process my request, this unit could have been lobotomized and made to perform the command.” Pasqal’s tone thrummed with static, thundering in the tight compartment with unimpressed conviction as he turned to the Lord Captain – his mechadendrites poised readily over the now cowering pilot. “Shall I perform the procedure in order to speed up compliance?” “No, Magos!” Visenya barked, holding out a hand as she took a step towards the tech-priest and the Captain – who had leaned so far back he was nearly laying on the shuttle’s control console. “The solution to every problem with a 'layperson' isn’t servitorization.” This was not the first time Pasqal had made such a suggestion, and Visenya was confident it would not be the last. “That statement is debatable,” the Magos said – and she swore she caught just the slightest hint of cheek in his augmented tone as he retracted his mechadendrites. The pilot, having been spared a fate he likely had not realized would be an option on the day’s menu of events, quickly removed his visor and dropped it into the expectant hand of the still-looming tech-priest.

Also, this poor shuttle pilot is in for some shit. And by shit, I mean lots of psychological damage.

[baldieboi]

The Luna Wolves are known for discipline. Tactical brilliance. Unrelenting force.

Jaros? He is known for being a walking morale hazard.

The embarkation deck hums with tension. Drop pods lock into place. Final checks roll through the vox. Legionaries steel themselves for battle.

And Jaros? He’s singing.

Badly. Painfully badly.

His vox-grille amplifies the off-key screeching into every helmet and comms system aboard the ship, ensuring maximum suffering.

"I’M STILL STANDING! YEAH, YEAH, YEAH!"

Nearby Legionaries physically recoil. Helmet auto-filters struggle under the sheer auditory betrayal. Maras doesn’t even glance at him, just mutters under his breath:

"Throne above, Jaros. Why."

Meanwhile, on the command deck, Horus and the Mournival are reviewing battle plans. Until—

"DON’T YOU KNOW I’M STILL STANDING BETTER THAN I EVER DID—"

Abaddon slams his fist onto the console.

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF TERRA IS THAT NOISE?!"

Horus stops, tilting his head slightly, listening. Then—completely unfazed—he glances at Torgaddon.

"Is that… music?"

Torgaddon grins, delighted.

"Oh, that’s Jaros. You should let him finish."

Abaddon turns his glare onto Torgaddon, practically radiating pure murder.

"I will not ‘let him finish.’ I will find him. And I will ensure he never sings again."

Back on the embarkation deck, Jaros has committed fully—moving now, swaying like a man performing for a nonexistent audience.

Serfs stare. Legionaries suffer. Sergeant Korvak, their squad leader, looks like a man questioning every choice that led him here.

LIKE A TRUE SURVIVOR, FEELING LIKE A LITTLE KID—"

Then finally. Blessed silence.

Korvak’s voice cracks over the vox, utterly drained:

"All vox channels are closed until further notice. And someone shut Jaros up!"

The entire deck cheers.

Jaros, completely unbothered, lounges against a drop pod, grinning under his helmet.

"What? I was boosting morale."

Korvak levels a dead-eyed stare at him, done with existence itself.

Maras doesn’t miss a beat.

"You were boosting the enemy’s morale. If they’d heard you, they’d have surrendered out of pity."

From this moment forward, Jaros is officially banned from singing over the vox.

He immediately starts finding loopholes. Servitor speakers. Augmetic echoes. Creative solutions.

If the enemy hears him, they retreat in sheer confusion, convinced they’re under some experimental psychological warfare.

Horus? He keeps the recording and plays it at Legion gatherings purely to annoy Abaddon.

[the-consortium]

Dear dr. Bile.

I have heard rumours that you might own the most priceless collections of ancient music data device in the galaxy, some mythical objects called "records". Can you tell us how you came across them, and which is your favorite?

In the semi-darkness of the room without windows, crowds of pedestals emerge as light from the opening door falls into the cavernous gloom. Rows and rows of pedestals. Each about chest high for an Astartes and made of dark stone. On top, a superstructure of glass and with golden struts around the edges. Luxurious on the one hand, yet simple on the other.

In each of these presentation showcases, a stasis field holds something in suspension.

Lumen globes illuminate each cabinet with matte light in which not even dust dances, so pure is the space kept.

And no two things on display are alike - apart from the fact that they are all flat and rectangular. There seem to be two or three standard sizes, but the design is different for each object.

As the Chief Apothecary enters the room, rows of lumen strips on the ceiling automatically switch on. The clack of their activation travels down into the depths, bringing more and more of the pedestals out of the darkness. When finally everything is illuminated, it becomes clear that there must be thousands of display cases.

Fabius walks between the rows to the centre of the room, where a huge cogitor console is connected to several external appliances. Voxcasters are set up and hung at obviously precisely calculated points. An armchair with a side table stands in a place that is presumably just as precisely calculated. On the table a bottle of Amasek, a glass and a silver cigarette case.

"No one enters this room except me and the service servitors. Not even the noise marines are allowed in here. I provide them with digital copies, of course. But the originals stay here.

There are hardly any surviving records from pre-unification times. And the hunt for them keeps some rogue traders busy, whom I pay well enough that they can retire after a few successful heists. Fortunately, I have little competition for that. Quite a few of my brothers may find old music interesting, but they almost always settle for copies. They're not really prestige items."

He wanders between the showcases. Touches some in passing. "I don't have a favourite object. Each of them has significance in its own way. But some of them are very suitable for concentrated work. Sometimes I wish I could find out in which context this music was played. Weddings? Ceremonial occasions? Military parades? For example, this song … it's in an archaic version of the language I grew up with. But it seems like meanings have changed completely. I desperately need to find a linguist to sort it out."

[impybutt]

Garden of Bones 01 || Rex does a GTA

Servitor Rex lands with a SPLAT on the windscreen of an unsuspecting motorist, traveling at highway speed down the M3. “Ryan!”

The driver’s name is not Ryan; he screams.

“Ryan I need the car, get in the passenger side!”

“WHAT THE FUCK”

“I SAID GIMME THE CAR”

Wearing nothing but a pair of jeans one size too big, Rex clambers in via the driver’s side window, too fast and too small for the motorised glass to forbid his ferret-like squirming. Thankfully, not-Ryan is present enough of mind to swerve onto the shoulder and judder the car to a halt, grinding the front bumper against the guard rail. His full-volume objections go unheeded as Rex kicks him to the opposite side of the cabin, with far more wiry strength than his tiny, fatty frame belies.

“Aurgh, of course it’s a fucking manual,” Rex growls, and struggles impotently with the gear stick.

Not-Ryan is still screaming profanities, pressed against the passenger door to maximise the distance between himself and the clearly unhinged, dog-faced Fae who just hijacked his vehicle, and is now attempting a clumsy, grunting dance with the uncooperative clutch.

The chaos rattling around inside the cabin is interrupted by a thunderous tremor, vibrating up from the ground beneath them.

Then another, boom. Scrape; boom; scrape, rhythmic, as something titanic approaches from the rear on claws and legs big enough to disrupt the surrounding traffic.

Both occupants turn to look through the back window, in time to shriek in unison at the serpentine figure bearing down on them teeth-first.

CRASH, as a spidery, articulate hand the span of the entire car slaps down on its roof, cracking every window and irreparably buckling both axles. “REX, YOU SQUIGGLY FUCK” the serpent howls; Rex and not-Ryan redouble their screaming, before the driver’s side door is pinched in half and ripped from the hinges.

Another, similarly arachnine hand reaches into the car and wraps around Rex in his entirety, squeezing just enough to deflate his mania with a little squeak! He kicks formlessly as he’s pulled from the driver’s seat, leaving nothing behind but the thumps and honks of his bullet-like feet striking at least every square inch of the front console.

By now, it’s all not-Ryan can do to hyperventilate; the air hitches in his lungs as the serpent’s colossal face makes its appearance in the gaping void left by his car door. Human features, unsettlingly soft and smooth around those horrible pointed teeth, regard him with a matronly kind of exhaustion.

“I am sincerely sorry, he has a seizure condition. Let me get you my details, for the… the car stuff. I have a guy.” Its voice is too smooth and lilting to pick a gender, unlike Rex, who looks and sounds like a bogan vampire — despite his petulant screaming having returned at a helium pitch.

In all the confusion, not-Ryan latches on to a concept more foreign to him than the existence of Fae at all, which is barely news in the era of camera phones. “Wait—Fae can have seizures?”

The serpent’s statuesque face was withdrawing, but the promise of an impromptu lecture brings its aquiline Germanic nose front and centre once more. Huge, pale yellow eyes peer into the rumpled cabin. “Oh! Yes, and Rex is right from the taproot of our tree, so actually his spasms hit all of us. It’s quite fascinating, in fact—”

Not-Ryan half-listens, figuring himself more or less a captive audience, while his wider awareness registers the rest of the serpent’s pied coils compressing into a more catlike form under the initial forty-or-so feet of muscular neck.

“— And I’m forced by necessity to bear down on mine, so of course I have constant pounding headaches while I have to deal with his dissociative episodes—”

“Dissociative episodes, uh-huh,” not-Ryan mutters, eyes flickering around for signs of where the serpent stashed its prey. He hasn’t decided which one is the more present threat: the titanic Sphynx making a resting spot of the entire highway while it vents its frustrations; or the tiny, hyper-manic dogman who seems to be some kind of literally spastic escape artist, smuggling a frightening amount of lean muscle and compacted rage.

“—I could go into the nitty-gritty of Fae physiology, all the interlinked psychic viscera, the somato-sensory homunculus, shapeshifting and dysmorphia, etcetera—”

Actually, the long-winded hyperfixation is helping not-Ryan locate his own  frantic pulse again, and he’s able to start absorbing specific details — like the serpent’s magpie-styled fur and disturbingly graceful fingers, as it gesticulates with (he counts briefly) at least eight arms. He finally spots the captive hijacker, and breathes a sigh of relief; it’s far more comforting that ‘Rex’ is visibly accounted for, lest he airdrop on a less experienced driver.

“S-sorry,” not-Ryan begrudgingly interrupts, “you said something about—about fixing my car?”

The Sphynx-Fae blinks a couple of times and makes an exasperated “nguh” noise, shaking off the word-vomit. “Of course, I’m so sorry. My name is Weaver, let me just— uh. Hold on, I have no pockets—” two or three arms disappear into the fur… feathers… coat of Weaver’s neck, which begins rustling around like they’re looking for something. One arm darts back out and places a pair of low-profile spectacles atop that proud nose.

Not-Ryan points a hesitant finger at Rex, who has since stopped thrashing and looks suspiciously limp in Weaver’s sinewy grip. “He okay? Or uh. Alive?”

It pauses in its rifling and turns its attention to Rex, who has been absent-mindedly compressed for the last few minutes. Embarrassment flashes across its ambiguously feminine features. Sitting upright, Weaver relaxes its grip and examines Rex for a moment, well above not-Ryan’s field of vision.

Rex appears well and truly unconscious, his limbs dangling uselessly from between Weaver’s fingers. It takes a moment to appraise him; consternation twists up its features briefly. A free hand gingerly rises up as if to poke him awake, before prod, prod, prod, precisely ten times at random spots on his torso, and Rex’s floppy ragdoll is lifted to one side of Weaver’s head. They release a frustrated little huff from the nostrils, mouth pressed into a thin line.

Not-Ryan squints his confusion at the weird silhouette before him.

BR-R-R-R-INGGG

“Agh fuck me, Jesus!”

Bones is shocked alert by the brassy ring-tone, which seems to come from everywhere in the treehouse. They plug one saucer-sized ear with a pinky, and raise a piece of yellow fruit to the other.

“Banana phone, what’s up.”

“Can you check Rex’s vitals for me?” Weaver’s exasperated voice bounces around in Bones’s primordial skull.

“Chrissakes, did he take off again? Hang on,” the banana phone is lashed under a convenient headband for hands-free correspondence, so that Bones can start tapping away at the immense console built into their work station. “Swear to fuckin’ god, lose track of that cunt for five fuckin’ minutes—”

“I got him before he caused any serious damage, but we owe somebody a new Camry and there’s some havoc on the motorway.”

“I call an entire fuckin’ car ‘serious damage’!”

“Not compared to the first incident.”

Bones pauses in their tapping and sets their jaw for a moment, conceding that point without argument. Hiding the carnage from the police was a day-long job. “I suppose as far as cars go, a Camry is pretty easy to fix up. His vitals are fine, looks like an adrenaline crash.”

Weaver heaves out a sigh of relief. “Good, I was worried I squeezed a bit hard… he’s gone very limp, normally he doesn’t sleep this well.”

“Just hard enough, apparently. Crush his soul back into his body, all that good autsy shit. Anyway.”

As promised, Weaver exchanges “information” with not-Ryan, in the form of what appears to be a holographic tarot card with some kind of nursery rhyme hand-written on the back. “Speak this out loud into a mushroom ring to get in contact with our correspondence guy. Name of Bonesy, looks a bit like a spider monkey with too many legs.” This being the first time he’s been involved in a traffic incident with some Fae, not-Ryan is more relieved that he still has skin and teeth.

[codexmaledictus]

Codex Maledictus – Glyph Event Record: Vault 77-Omega

Prohibited Record | Vault Layer XII | Read Access: Denied. Breach Source: Glyph Transmission

They called it containment. They called it science. They called it weaponization.

They lied.

What ruptured in Vault 77-Omega was never housed. Never held. Never built. It was gestated—a thought carried in bile, wrapped in warp-threads, woven from memory and gifted fever. What you see in the transmission is not a birth. It is a summoning of plague-bound consciousness through ritual mutation.

The vat cracked—not from pressure, but from recognition. The glyph had ripened.

Within the fluid—green-gold and thick with rotborne scripture—something ancient reassembled itself from coded decay. It twitched not out of instinct, but out of remembered purpose. Its claws did not reach blindly. They pierced the membrane as if reclaiming an oath.

No one screamed. The servitors didn’t run. They watched. They always watch, those who’ve already failed.

The creature—designated Mutoid Vermin, Strain: Choral Decay—did not roar. It pulsed. Each movement a recitation. Each step a syllable of Nurgle’s endless sermon. Glyphs carved themselves into the floor where bile dripped. Spores clung to light. Data consoles bloomed with infection before they could warn the next sector.

This is how a glyph spreads.

Not with armies. With awareness. You watched the footage. You thought it was a video. It was a symptom. The swarm is not the threat. The glyph is. And now it knows your name. Chapter I is not out. But the glyph is loose. And the Codex remembers what you saw.

🕯️ Return to the Prologue. Before it’s too late. 🎥 https://youtu.be/UiticuffM4k 📖 https://youtu.be/qrrH0dWpTno

[cynicalraccoon]

Eye of the Storm Part 3

Warning: None for this chapter

Exactly one hour later, the doors to the bridge opened with a metallic groan and her guests entered. The bridge was a wide rectangle chamber with two doors on either side leading to unknown areas; its pillars and floors were of dark grey metal. Like the rest of the ship, it was void of any servitors and crewmen. The only sound was the gentle hum and whirr of the unmanned consoles. 

A dias sat near the front of the bridge, overlooking a curved subdeck and facing a massive main observation port, which showed off the vast inky void and stars. On it, they could see the back of a large, onyx marble throne. Extended from the rear of the throne, and stretching around it were articulated limbs suspending pict-plates and consoles in reach of its captain.

Malia stepped around the throne, walking down the stairs to meet her guests. 

“Captain,” Pyremere acknowledged, his eyes analyzing his surroundings as they strode down the forest green carpeted walkway. “You weren’t exaggerating about being alone.”

Malia knew it was less extravagant than other ships. She loved the Nomad, but the ship was just too big for her to go crazy on decorating it. Besides, its natural gothic aesthetic was pleasing enough for her. 

They met at a square table that marked the center of the chamber.

“No, but that’s not the main topic of the evening,” She stated. “What are your plans, Inquisitor?” 

“We aim to travel to the Eximus system, where we picked up a distress beacon. That is all.” 

Sounds easy, she thought. It's a bit too easy, but she won’t jinx it.

Going back to the throne, Malia inputted the coordinates on a console. The trio looked at the table as it activated, materializing a green holographic map of the Eximus system. 

Malia took the wheel. “Coordinates are set,” 

“Good,” Pyremere said. 

‘His unease is delicious,’ Reaver wheezed. 

Malia didn’t reply to him. She spoke, instead, to her guests. “You’re free to roam, excluding the areas I said were off-limits earlier. I’m also making lunch later. If you want to join me, you can.”

“We would be terrible guests to refuse our hosts.” Pyremere nodded curtly. “Very well.”

“Excellent.”

The bridge fell silent as the Nomad left the planet. The trio of Inquisitors spoke quietly among themselves. Malia could feel the occasional glance thrown her way. 

“If you have questions, you can ask,” she said finally without glancing back at them. “I’ve had many people do so when they found out it was only me aboard.” 

“Then how does it work?” Pyremere questioned, brows furrowed. “This isn’t even remotely possible.”

“Anything is possible with faith, good health, and knowledge of how ships work.” And some other things that would most definitely get her executed without a trial. Her lips quirked in a slight smile. “Admittedly, it took some time for me to operate the Nomad when I got it, but I’m a fast learner when I put my mind to it.”

Those early days of traveling were certainly trying. The Nomad, Reaver, and she had to learn to work together as a team; as one mind.

Pyremere gazed at the woman in stunned silence alongside his two companions. 

“Surely, it’s not that surprising, Inquisitor?” Malia asked. “The universe is vast, and there are more wonderful, strange, or horrible things than one person manning a ship.” 

“It’s a first,” he jeered. 

“Then I’m glad to give you a new experience.” 

Greygard spoke then. “Was it a punishment?”

Malia shook her head. A reasonable question considering the Imperium’s rather…creative ways to show its authority. “No. I specifically asked that I fly the ship alone.”

To what end?” The scarred Inquisitor’s tone was filled with bewilderment. “Surely you overexert yourself with the multitudes of tasks required of you?”

She shrugged lightly. “It keeps me busy, true. And I do get tired, but the quiet is nice.” 

“A surprise you haven’t worked yourself to death, Captain,” Helmann said, just as baffled as the other two. 

The woman chuckled. “Me too, honestly.” She probably would have if she weren’t who she was, and if she didn’t have Reaver with her. 

“Do you work for a house?” Greygard asked, having moved around the table to peer at a nearby cogitator. 

Malia nodded. “Thornfield house.”

Her response caused Pyrememre and Greygard to raise their brows. 

“A prominent and old house.” Greygard mused. 

“Quite so.” Pyremere agreed. “Are you perhaps a ward or…?”

“Related. Somewhere in that vast family jungle, I’m a branch. If that makes sense.”

“Somewhat.”

“Any other questions?”

“None for the moment. We have a long journey. There will be plenty of time.”

“Hm.”

The trio fell silent again, splitting up to inspect the bridge. Hellman appeared in the corner of Malia’s eye, walking down to the subdeck. Their gazes met briefly as he peered at the consoles. Malia gave him a small nod, to which he returned and quickly looked away. 

Behind her, Malia heard the doors open. They closed a moment later. 

‘The woman is going to snoop,’ Reaver informed her. 

‘Keep an eye on her and Sveras.’ 

The cursed sword made a noise of acknowledgment. 

Xxx

Tania Greygard has been on many ships as an Interrogator under Inquisitor Pyremre; some practically buckling with luxury, others the exact opposite. But this might be the first time that a vessel has unnerved her so much. 

Walking the corridors, the chill of invisible eyes on her person caused the hairs on the back of her neck to rise and her fingers to hover anxiously near her gun. She had to stop multiple times to ensure she was truly alone as the echoes of her steps played tricks on her mind. 

Each time, she was. 

Tania soon noticed another oddity. One that furthered her unease. Throughout her search, she had not seen a shrine to the God Emperor anywhere. 

The woman came to a stop, brows furrowed. Every ship loyal to the Imperium and the God Emperor, poor or rich, had at least a few shrines. To not have one was blasphemous and a clear sign of heresy. 

She brought up her hands to make the sign of the Aquila when her ears picked up a sharp noise behind her. A clang, the echo of metal against metal. 

Tania startled, whirling around with her gun in her hand and aiming. Her heart pounded in her chest as her eyes darted around for the source of the sound, but she only saw the empty corridor. 

It could’ve been the ship settling or the engine, but Tania had served under Pyeremere long enough to know not to take chances when the enemy was involved.

Not lowering her gun, the Interrogator cautiously moved to investigate. It took her back down the corridor, to a forked path where she heard a low thrumming sound. It conjured a static sensation in her mouth. The pressure of eyes on her increased. 

Body tense she scanned the two corridors, but could not locate anything that could’ve made the noise. Gradually, the low thrum faded away and the pressure lessened somewhat. Tania waited for a few moments more but went back down the corridor when nothing else happened. 

Overhead on the speakers, she heard Captain Ceres’ voice shipwide. “Entering the translation point. Shutters coming down.” 

The ship shuddered violently, its hull groaning. They were entering the warp. 

Tania’s resolve strengthened as did her suspicion. If there were any heresy, she would root it out and punish the captain to the fullest accord. With a determined gleam in her eyes, the Interrogator pressed on. 

She opened the vox to Pyremere some hours later, somewhat disgruntled at having found nothing incriminating so far. “Sir, all clear. She was telling the truth.” 

“Very good,” Pyremere stated.”Return to our rooms at once. Greygard. I would hear your assessment.”

“Yes, sir.” She cut the link. Giving one last suspicious glare at her surroundings, Tania hurried back to the guest rooms. Entering Pyremere’s room, she noted Helmann and Pyremere by a desk. The Inquisitor sitting while the Stormtrooper sat on a cushioned stool. They both had a plate with sandwiches on them. 

“What’s that?” She asked, motioning to the sandwiches. 

“Something called Basil chicken sandwiches,” Helmann replied, muffled around a mouth of food. She mentally grimaced at his manners. He swallowed. “It’s good.”

She turned her gaze to Pyremere, who gave a small nod in agreement. 

“The captain made a plate for you as well.” Pyremere gestured with his head to the third untouched plate next to his on the desk. He waited until Tania had a bite of her food before getting to business. “Your report?” 

“There was no one, sir,” she reaffirmed. Her brows furrowed. “Or at least, I think so. I felt eyes on me the whole time.”

“I felt that too,” Helmann interjected. “Do you think it’s cameras?” 

“It’s a possibility,” Pyremere acknowledged with some doubt. 

“Even more strange,” Tania continued. “There are no shrines and no banners. Nothing like the other ships we’ve been on.”

The older man straightened, eyes narrowing. “Not even a Cult Mechanicus presence?”

She shook her head. “None. There’s one more thing, sir.” She recounted hearing the metallic clang and the low thrumming. When she finished, Pyremere frowned, eyes locked on the floor in pensive silence. 

Tania and Helmann ate while they waited. 

For a possible heretic, the captain made good sandwiches, the Integrator thought begrudgingly. 

Finally, the Inquisitor spoke. “The stench of heresy has not fully revealed itself. We must proceed with caution.”

“I hope she isn’t a heretic,” Helmann said. “Would be a shame.”

Pyremere snorted softly, throwing the other man a faintly amused look. “Hoping to ask her out after the mission, Jethro?”

Tania crossed her arms, watching with a smirk as the Stormtrooper spluttered. 

“No!” He denied. “I don’t know about you, but I certainly know I wouldn’t be able to drive this ship if we executed her.”

He had a point. Ships this large required thousands of crew members to keep it running. Plus, they had no idea how the ship operated. 

“If she does show signs of heresy, we will wait to exact judgment. Until then, we carry out our duties.” Pyremere’s voice was firm. “I will not be deterred by a ghost ship with hints of heretical learning.”

Tania nodded. A thought then came to her. “Speaking of, how much do you know about the Thornfield house?”

He shook his head. “Not much. If at all. Their house is shrouded in naught but rumors and mystery.” A chuckle left him. “Even the Inquisition has no information on them.”

Tania and Helmann’s eyes widened, brows raised. 

Helmann whistles lowly, blinking. “That’s certainly a feat. Will we have to worry about any retaliation then?”

Pyremere opened his mouth, then closed it. His lips thinned. “I am…unsure.”

They fell into silence. Unease bubbled in Tania’s stomach. 

The Inquisition was powerful. They seemed to know almost everything about anyone. And if they wanted someone to disappear, they could do it with no problem. She couldn’t fathom them not having information on a house. 

“Perhaps,” She began slowly. “When we finish the mission, we could gather information on them?”

Pyremere nodded. “In due time, my dear. In due time.” 

[uncle-jaskas-writings]

Recovered personal datafile

Segmentum: █████████ World: ███████████ ██████ Date: 9 ███ ███.M42

-are routed, as is the 1st, 2nd, 5th, and 6th companies. Rebel forces captured the equatorial hab zones. Direct lines to polar bastions are severed or they've fallen. Long-range vox-network thoroughly destroyed and short-range frequencies are muddled with interference. Or what the enginseer termed "vox-ghosts". ███████████ has fallen.

Only five of us remain. Six, if you count the servitor. Myself, lieutenant Arema, two guardsmen and a civilian conscript. They arrived minutes before the bunker was flooded, bringing message of the line falling. I do not know if she should be considered lucky to survive with what they were given. A lassgun, flakvest and helmet and instruction on which end of the gun to point at the enemy. Outside, she'd be already dead or tortured. Here... We'd starve eventually, but even with the flooding the rebels would have breached the bunker in a month or two.

We all stared at the screen of the sole working camera pointed at the horizon over the fortress when the ships appeared. Undoubtely Imperial. Once the ident-tags were displayed the conscript lept up and cheered. "The angels! His angels have arrived to save us!" After few minutes she cheered again. "Look! They are bombing the rebels!"

Such innocence. The kind of innocence only found at the agriworlds at the edge of the galaxy, on which the Imperium is built upon. I did what I could to save that innocence as I pulled my pistol and fired. Better to die suddenly than see your homeworld destroyed by those you put your faith in. I've served long enough to know what a saturation bombardment looks like, and one does not waste time of the Astartes. The sudden shot startled the guardsmen and one even leveled his gun at corpse in confusion. I told them that as of this moment they were relieved of their duty, and could choose either the Emperors Mercy or waiting until the bombardment reaches us. Disbelief was clear on their face, slowly turning to horror as the vox-network came back on, declaring the damnation of the world in the name of the Emperor. Arema confirmed that the bunker could not withstand orbital weaponry.

One guardsman nervously started to flick through the vox channels, then began cursing, hitting and´shooting at the console. He then leveled his rifle towards me, his last curse cut short by the lass of the servitor. The other stared at the approaching wave of explosions and slowly with a wavering hand reached for their sidearm.

Arema stood staring at his watch until we could feel and hear the reverberations of the explosions. He took of his cap, kneeled with his back towards me and formed the Aquila with the watch in hand. He didn't need words.

I went over to the servitor and patted it's bald, pale head. A thanks for all the years of servitude. I think it looked at me when I pressed the barrel on it's forehead.

Ave Imperator. Gloria in ex-

File Status: To be purged

[hydralisk98]

Φlaumen Cooperative (Lisp-y style guide ref, part 1...)

Reads as Pflaumen, loosely inspired onto the eponymous information technology firm within Machinegames' Wolfenstein franchise (reference page card below...) & plenty of historically-informed inspirations like DEC, Symbolics, Konrad Zuse KG, KDE E.V, etc.

Context

Essentially, I build my way towards a small creative business to call my very own (with major technological & culturally-driven aspects), which is also related to personal worldbuilding projects & manifestation goals of mine.

Some reference pictures

Keywords dump

Groovy soft natural retro grunge warm natural filmic comfort, tramway at dusk from mesas to the ocean far away, distant future LISP DIY copyleft cartoons, symbolic CAS LISP Gruvbox poetic devkit, soft-rounded bold geometric shape language, fontmap vector prefab modules, slice-of-life cozy rollerwave cartoons, communal retrofuturistic optimism, Bauhaus, Art Deco, Art Nouveau, "Gruvbox Light Medium + OldBook Light Academia" mashup, seventies toon cel, copyleft GLOSS data transparency movement, soviet-bloc indie shareware culture, Nintendo 64 console with 64DD expansion cartridge, SEGA Dreamcast, DEC Alpha, Sanyo 3DO TRY, Nuon, Ouya, Commodore PETSCII CBM-II, Commodore Amiga 3000+4000, bronze-age historical time period, Chronokinesis, True Polymorph, lunarpunk mysticism, Teslafunk, Solarpunk, Cyberfunk, syndicalism, georgism, ecology, harmonious innovation, progressives, seventies rollerwave futurism, filmic, OGG container format, OGV, OPUS, Vorbis, OpenEXR, Animated SVG, CSS3 animations, PK3/ZIP file archives, USD format, harsh raster XY plotters & printers, selectric typewriters, comforting Shoshone music / songs / hymns; "Soyuzmultfilm", "Helluva Boss", "The Powerpuff Girls Z", "The Powerpuff Girls", "Jet Set Radio", "Newgrounds", "Jin-Roh The Wolf Brigade", "Android Arts", "Nicky Case", "Jucika", Nintendo 64 with N64DD module, SEGA Dreamcast, Sanyo 3DO, Nuon, Ouya, DEC Alpha, Commodore 64, DECmate II, DECmate III, Intersil 6100 & 6120 lineups, PETSCII, OpenXanadu web, IBM Z/16 Linux One mainframe, OpenPOWER, Libre GLOSS data-transparent Apple Silicon M3 system, RTTY protocols, Minitel / Videotex services, hard-copy terminals, Typex, Telex Teleprinters (read-only & Read/Write), block data terminals, explorable explainers, federated ActivityPub RSS feeds, SPARC Voyager, Xerox Daybreak, R2E Micral Portal, libre bio-modding & cyberware, Pflaumen, Utalics, Lambda Star, Lambda Nova, Wyatt, Sass, MathML, XML+XSL, OpenREXX, PDP-8/e, PDP-12, PDP-15, ALGOL68, LISP 1.5, Steel Bank Common Lisp, Trial Engine, GNU Hurd, Linux, Macroware, SoundTracker, Multi-Agent Simulations, Mixtapes, Android Clades/Classes (Robots, Droids, Synthetics), Open Virtual Worlds, "Rogue Servitors"; "Liberty" caucus within "Union Party", Al-Gore (2000), Trump + Michelle Oprah (2004), Theodore Roosevelt (1912), Charles Hugues (1916), Progressives party since ~1910-1915, Pedro II of Brazil + Haile Selassie equivalent figure during the later 19th century, political split around 2024-2025, female programmers still in charge, gender inclusivity, major 3D, animation & game engine-y frameworks abundant in Common LISP (Trial Engine + AutoLISP as copyleft GLOSS / open source licensed software); Rust red dark grunge wood, translucid glass, matte plastics, fuzzy wool, forest flora, ocean water, arcade cabinets, hyper mall shops & stores, conversation pits, wax cylinder records, 45rpm autoplay mini-vinyl records, datasettes, cassettes, analog Laserdiscs, DECtape, MiniDiscs, programmable androids, retro unit record equipment, mainframes, LTO tape cartridges, amber earmuffs, black spirals-pattern balls, black matte libstick, cloven hoof shoes;

Links

Implicitly includes this blog's archives, especially what deemed relevant under the "maskoch", "maskutchew" & "16^12" hashtags;

Additional detailwork

GRUB 2 Bootloader custom theme, custom global theme with window decorations / Plasma styles / application styles combo, splash-screen / lock screens / login screens, vector-based wallpapers + icons & animated? cursors, 3x4 (soft, medium, hard; dark Gruvbox-alike, light Gruvbox-esque, warm olive green & warm rust orange-red variations), ;

DETAILS

OS: TuxedoOS (will diversify drastically soon, seriously)

DE: KDE/Plasma & KDE/Liquid

WM: KWin

Terminal: Konsole

Shell: Fish shell, with Bash as fallback

Fonts: Cascadia Code & Cascadia Mono

PlasmaStyle: Daisy (+ Old Plastics?), Breeze

Cursor: Simp1e-Gruvbox-Light

ColorScheme: WarmColorsLight

Icons: Gruvbox Plus Dark

Web Browsers: Librewolf, Firefox...

Dotfiles: Not yet anywhere near ready at this time.

More to come relatively soon...

[adacatlovelace]

"All I know is there's this little horse figurine that none of us touch becuase the moment anyone removes it the geller field shits itself. Like actually shits itself with an awful smelling reddish slime pouring out from the consoles. No one knows WHY no one knows HOW but we had a rookie who didn't know any better and the head enginseer turned him into a servitor so yeah he's a talking recaf machine now. Anyway when do yall have chow around here?"

Meanwhile the Tau are just silently listening with growing concern

[asklordcaptaincastronova]

✍ + interface

Ge looked at the smiling servitor head then sighed.

This was a terrible pun. Whichever techpriest came up with this should be shot.

With a sigh, he pressed the console in it's jaws.

[transmechanicus]

I doubt well get some kind of admech kill team, but servitors would make sense as our consolation kit for the edition

This would be acceptable tbh, i want servitors or some kind of Magos Biologus i can make as a Tyranid dissector like Magos Vianco Locard in the lore. Both if i’m wishing extra hard. Honestly just glad we’re the first post-launch codex, faithful of the Machine God Stay Winning✊🏻

[2lim3rz]

I think the whole yandere 40k au is great! Unfortunately, I cannot reveal my identity due to the inquisition being after my head. Is it that strange to yearn for a large, burly and ever so slightly genetically-modified man to sweep me off my feet and love me unconditionally? If none are available, I will take everything else- an imperial guardsmen, a sister of battle, admech or some xeno or heretic- I'll take anyone please!!! 😭

So, like, I hope it's ok but the only genetically modified burly men I have available are...

*cue looking at sloppily scribbled notes*

Marines Malevolent, Black Templars, and World Eaters. So 3 shades of angry

Also luckily if you're dealing with a Guardsman that has a case of the yearning, you're pretty fine! Unless, of course they're any of the following:

Catachans in general

Kriegsmen

Colonel Schaeffer (100% because he would end you solely for interfering with his work)

I want to say 100% ANY guardsman that survives to the end of his book

And as for Sisters of Battle, idk much on them but I'd say youre also pretty screwed and it gets very VEEERY iffy on Ad-mech bois because they'll either:

Servitor you. Like a really weird fucked up ;) servitor. Yes, it's grimdark setting, I like going full throttle

Servitor: Become Glorified Computer Console Version

CONGRATS! You're a non-battlefield Skitarii!

You have all your parts but all passwords are changed for you only so you can't leave

[disciple-of-fire]

“I am not so certain these are meant for security. I suspect these are meant to enforce area-denial. But on who’s behalf, and to what end?" Mi'loh considered the servitor skull-consoles jury-rigged onto the turrets above. He gestured at a bundle of trailing cables, following their descent with an armored finger. “There, by the wall. A cogitator unit.”

Anastasia Mr’ez, I presume?

@disciple-of-fire

“Depends on the asker.” The ancient perpetual and her Ogryn companion Jenny both eyed their new companion warily but without hostility. “To whom do we owe this acquaintance?” Jenny, who loomed over the smaller woman, crossed her scarred and heavily muscled arms and tilted her head to the side with a raised eyebrow.

[whatdoyoumeanitsnotcanon]

CW: Implied SA, graphic descriptions of Sores, Listener is physically attacked, they lose their hearing and are shouted at, implied Listener death

When the box finally opened the air was golden and sour sweet. You had never been so grateful to see Lorgar in your life. You fell dry sobbing into his arms. Apologizing profusely and begging, begging to be his God.

You didn't notice the demons running amok in his ship. The dead bodies under his feet. The blood staining his armor. There was nothing you could do if you did.

You were just glad to be out of that box.

"It's alright little Godling," He purred. A shudder ran through you at that word. As he cradled your head and turned you up to him. His eyes were no longer warm. "You didn't know, and have yet to ascend."

You didn't know what he meant, and only then did you realize he was covered in blood.

He carried you away, to the ships medbay. There he explained all that he had learned while you were "contemplating your behavior." He presented you with some food, which you wolfed down. As you ate, he spoke of Nurgle. The Grandfather who loves us all.

Who loves life so much, even rot and disease.

You realized your mistake too late.

Bile rose in your throat. Lorgar caught you before you could make it to the waste basket. "Don't fight him love," he murmured in your ear. "Let Nurgles love fill you."

Pain erupted from your belly. Your stomach and intestines all burning and sore. The hard hot pain of infection spread all throughout your body. Open sores oozed yellow green and black pus so much your clothes were stained. It wasn't long that you fell into a feverish haze, a haze that seemed to make the pain of disease distant and vaguely numb.

You longed for coolness, for cleanliness.

You'd forget those things soon enough.

And then your fever broke. A massive hand holding your arm as servitors tended to your infections.

"Let Nurgle love you, but don't dedicate yourself to him." Lorgar said. Allowing you to heal, though you suspect not entirely.

Blessedly he had you change, then took you to his room. This, at least, you were familiar with.

That is, until he had you on the bed screaming in agony and warped pleasure. Your skin too sensitive to every caress and fabric. Your hearing too sharp. Scents and taste too heightened. Somehow it was possible to breathe and still drown, drown in sensation.

And so you learned of Slaanesh, and grew wary of any wine you drank.

You were given rest. You were only mortal after all. Or so Lorgar claimed. You grew to suspect the real reason was his recent outings with Angron.

You did not hate this. It gave you reprieve.

And it gave Kor Pheron a chance to catch your arm. He pulled you roughly to the lower escape pods. Wary of any watching Astartes or Demons.

"Go," He told you, pushing you towards the pod.

"What-why?"

He seized your shirt. Slamming you against the wall so hard your bones shook. "BECAUSE THE GODS DON'T WANT THIS THAT'S WHY!!!" He howled.

He kept talking after that but your ears were ringing too much. He ranted at you. Shook you. Then as the ringing died to be replaced by silence he became more desperate. You had the impression he was conjoling you. Begging you. Only one word repeatedly became clear.

Leave.

He put you down with surprising gentleness. He smacked the console on the side and the doors opened.

It wasn't like he wasn't going to shove you in, but for a moment it seemed you had a choice.

Go in the escape pod, and most likely get shot down. A painful, but quick death.

Or

Stay, and see what Lorgar had planned for you, a little Godling.

You entered the pod. Just as the floor vibrated with some giant thing quickly approaching.

Will fate be in your favor?

Goddess Anon

[slayanyhivegodslately]

Shrike pulled at the collar of the plain white robe he was wearing.

"Why is the solstice armor always so scratchy? I don't know why I put up with this."

His ghost, Spartan, hung near his head. "If it's any consolation, it makes you look very scholarly."

Shrike glared at him, then turned back to the controls of his ship, flying back from the EAZ the other warlocks had created for this years solstice. He had decided to take a quick trip to the HELM. Even though the Endless Night had lifted, he wanted to check in with the servitor to see if there was anything else that needed to be done.

He appeared in front of the umbral decoder, and a very familiar figure was standing in front of him. He couldn't get out in time before she turned around at the sound of his transmat. The look on Kenna's face told him he was in for it.

Her face was lit up in an amused smile, too many teeth on display. "Hey there blueberry."

He crossed his arms, and he could feel his face going red. Traitorous body. Her armor was already glossy and golden, the energy of the Light infusing it, making it more than it was.

"Just because you have too much time on your hands to get so far ahead doesn't mean everyone does."

Kenna laughed, walking over to him and slinging an arm around his shoulder. "Oh come on you nerd, it's Solstice! Relax a little, the Endless Night is gone, we defeated Quria, and well, sure, some new awful thing is bound to happen at some point soon. But that's why we need to take a break now."

He huffed. "I'm going down to the servitor, see if there are any updates on the vex."

"Don't bother, I just checked myself. Although..." She poked at his armor. "Want some help with that?"

He rolled his eyes. "I just got back from working on it. I need a break."

She rolled her eyes back at him. "But that IS the break! Come on!"

She called in her ghost, and before he could protest they both disappeared from the HELM.

[mattchase82]

Consecration to Saint Philomena as Chosen Patroness

.

O glorious Saint Philomena, Virgin, Martyr, and Spouse of Christ, glory of the Catholic Church, illustrious Wonder-worker, I, Thine unworthy client and servitor, consecrate myself this day for my whole life to Thy love and to devotion to Thee. Yes, I will love Thee ever with warm affection, and, after Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I shall bear Thee in my thoughts, and speak of Thee to all that I may draw them to devotion and love toward Thee. Thou shalt be, after Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the object of my affection, my joy, and my consolation. To Thee, as to an intimate and dear friend, I will manifest my joys, from Thee I will seek counsel in my doubts, to Thee I will recur for comfort and help in my trials and sorrows.

.

Deign, O glorious Saint, to receive me into the number of thy clients and lovers, and to protect me at all times. O my sweet Saint, O dear Saint Philomena, I offer and consecrate my heart to Thee today. I wish all good and joy unto Thee insofar as my desire can contribute to Thine accidental glory. In return, Thou pardon my boldness, wish well unto me so there may be established between Thee and me a current of warm and everlasting affection and friendship. I will never forget Thee, my sweet advocate, and do Thou remember me that I may be Thy companion forever in Paradise. Amen.

.

.

Litany of Saint Philomena by Saint John Vianney

.

Lord, have mercy on us.

Christ, have mercy on us.

Lord, have mercy on us. Christ, hear us.

Christ, graciously hear us.

God the Father of Heaven,

Have mercy on us.

God the Son, Redeemer of the world,

Have mercy on us.

God the Holy Spirit,

Have mercy on us.

Holy Trinity, One God,

Have mercy on us.

.

Holy Mary, Queen of Virgins,

Pray for us.

Saint Philomena,

Pray for us.

Saint Philomena, filled with abundant graces from the cradle, etc.

Saint Philomena, model of virgins,

Saint Philomena, temple of the most perfect humility,

Saint Philomena, victim of the love of Christ,

Saint Philomena, example of strength and perseverance,

Saint Philomena, invincible athlete of chastity,

Saint Philomena, mirror of most heroic virtues,

Saint Philomena, firm and intrepid before torments,

Saint Philomena, scourged like Thy Divine Spouse,

Saint Philomena, pierced by a shower of arrows,

Saint Philomena, consoled in chains by the Mother of God,

Saint Philomena, miraculously cured in prison,

Saint Philomena, sustained by angels in the midst of tortures,

Saint Philomena, who preferred humiliation and death to the

splendor of a throne,

Saint Philomena, who converted the witnesses of Thy martyrdom,

Saint Philomena, who wore out the fury of Thy executioners,

Saint Philomena, patroness of the innocent,

Saint Philomena, patroness of youth,

Saint Philomena, refuge of the unfortunate,

Saint Philomena, health of the sick and infirm,

Saint Philomena, new light of the Church Militant,

Saint Philomena, who confounds the impiety of our age,

Saint Philomena, who reanimates the faith and courage of the faithful,

Saint Philomena, whose name is glorious in Heaven and terrible in Hell,

Saint Philomena, illustrious by the most splendid miracles,

Saint Philomena, powerful with God,

Saint Philomena, who reigns in glory,

Lamb of God, Who takest away the sins of the world,

Spare us, O Lord.

Lamb of God, Who takest away the sins of the world,

Graciously hear us, O Lord.

Lamb of God, Who takest away the sins of the world,

Have mercy on us.

V. Pray for us, Saint Philomena,

R. That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ.

Let Us Pray

.

We beg Thee, O Lord, to grant us the pardon of our sins by the intercession of Saint Philomena, virgin and martyr, who was always pleasing in Thy sight by Her eminent chastity and by the profession of every virtue. R. Amen.