Thanqol

[Namespace] of the Rose

There are many kinds of laboratories.

Humanity has a long tradition of martial arts. The grapple, the throw, precision strikes, secrets of stance and perception - a martial tradition going back to the era of the primate. None of that prepared the people of Houndclaw for fighting the Tyranids. Blademasters with centuries of experience were cut down by lesser bioforms because they did not understand the tells of an insect. Marksmen defaulted to shooting at eyes and heads because that was what they had been trained to do. Post-battle autopsies revealed that the Devourer had been building heads of bone and muscle. So many theories had been tested and failed, and humanity had fallen back on the supremely inefficient use of mass promethium and unguided gunfire in place of precision.

There had been enough of each, thank the Omnissiah.

In the aftermath, the dojo of ZRK-333 had become the most unique and valuable asset of the Isohedron. In collaboration with Magos Pinel's genius for servitorization, and with even Inquisitor Iconium turning a blind eye, the Swarm had been resurrected. The sacred technology of Man had been twisted into unity with xenos strains and now ranks of Tyranid Warriors line up with the discipline of Astra Militarium regiments, their shells painted in blue and bone. Their cybernetic implants blink red until they are activated, whereupon they walk into the arena to duel the champions of humanity.

And champions there are in abundance. The best Skitarii of a dozen forge worlds sit in a crowd on the stands, discussing constantly amongst themselves. Electromancers sit in silent meditation, praying to their null-staves. Neuromancers sit separately, surrounded by data monitors, observing real-time trackers of the combatants' brainwaves as they work to convert particularly effective techniques into wetware implants. The black-armoured champion of the Adeptus Astartes, Eunicornius Kim, sits alone in a box that has been ambitiously built to house a dozen Astartes. There are even guests from outside the cult - black-clad Death Cultists, hard-bitten Guardsmen, a caste of eerie knights in incomprehensible triangle helmets and mirror shields, and - is that a Custodian Guard!?

No. No. What the fuck? That's just an Ogryn dressed as a Custodian Guard. It has a Guardian Spear and everything, and a magnificently waxed walrus moustache. Who...?

That aside, this is a big change for the dojo. For centuries the presence of the Electromancers was a mild cost center for the Isohedron - they brought a little security, some maintenance for the electrical networks, but they were not particularly productive outside that. Now many of the most wealthy and powerful martial organizations in the Imperium are paying a vast tribute in wealth, favours and respect to learn the lessons being developed here. As with any action in the Imperium, the trade is earning an equal number of denunciations and accusations of tech-heresy - but almost uniformly from the half of the galaxy furthest away from the Tyrannid threat. One of Archmagos' many negotiations was to draw in a delegation from Ultramar - if possible they would bring both experience and legitimacy that would take the Isohedron to new heights.

But there were still kinks to be worked out. Not least is right now the Sister of Battle behind you stiffening as she looks at the organized ranks of Tyranid Warriors. She has been lost in a reverie as she contemplates the tale of Vandire in the context of her own personal issues, but this snaps her out of it. The sight would shock anyone, but not everyone has a bolter within arms length of your spine.

Return to Thellamie

"Inara!" hisses the Dark Dragon. "This is your game, isn't it? Every time the eye turns on you, you sidestep and offer a better target. Don't eat me! Eat this deer! He is much tastier than I am! But I can taste you on my tongue now - I can taste your pride, your clever wit and your fear. And do you know what?"

The Dark Dragon licks her teeth. She sets Hazel down to the side. Reality aches as her heartblade wrenches itself from the void into her claws.

"It's the most delicious thing on offer. Now come down here and face me."

Beyari: a Tale of Colossi

"I am glad all the evolutionary linguists are dead," said the Angel of the Harvest. "They would have been crushed to know that this was the state of the Californian tongue after a thousand years."

It stood back. "As I said, the meat belongs to the hunting cat. However, there is more than it will be able to consume before scavengers move in. As such, I would trade for enough salt and firewood to preserve the remainder. I do not intend to abandon it otherwise. We have," and here the Angel of the Harvest allowed itself to vocalize its prideful hope, "a connection."

Return to Thellamie

Sayanastia!

Is this what she wants?

Her thoughts are so ponderous. She feels like she must mark every twist and turn of the moment as the price of articulating them. The flash and parry of heartblades and skateboards, the pounding music, and through it all singular adoration that rises above every lesser distraction. Is this what she would turn her course for? For love?

The thought bends around her like light. Of course not. Never for love. That sword has broken against her scales too many times. She rises above it.

She rises above everything.

She lifts herself above the dance and the disorder. This music. She snarls and slashes it from her ears. Music! At this hour! What wretched cur is playing this music? In this place? Who is playing this music driving everyone to dance and war? Every one of her cursed puppets is lost to it! The old coward, the crownless king, the untied ribbon, the wooden sword, the forgotten neighbour, and now the ocean deer! As soon as they become hers they become its!

"DO YOU THINK I DO NOT SEE YOUR STRINGS!?" Sayanastia roars at the stars.

And she opens her mouth and unleashes the might of the Void at the tablet playing the music. A crushing, warping silence rips through it, boiling it to nothing. She sweeps the line of violet nothing across the dancers, across the party, across this hideous castle and its hideous cultists with all the wrath born of SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPILLKILLYOUIFYOUDONTSHUTUUUUUUUUUUPPPPPPPPPPP

[Giving in to desire]

Beyari: a Tale of Colossi

"Names. Jargon. Terminology," said the Angel of the Harvest. "Currently this feline subject is classified Unidentified Creature 01, this reptilian subject is classified Unidentified Creature 02, the groups around here are classified Hostile Marauders 01, the tunnels here are classified - updating - Waln't's Ruin Section 01, and you are classified Questions Guy 01. These materials, these toxin sacs, these bones which do not have analogies in comparable skeletal structure, this frankly wild assortment of bonus organs, all of these are indexed in such a way that I can track but is unhelpful if I want to communicate with others. So, names. For everything. Please."

Return to Thellamie

Yearn all you want. Plead all you want. Beg on your hands and knees for her to tell you who you are: you will get nothing from the Dark Dragon. She does not want a lover. She does not want a prop. She does not want an asset. She does not even want you to be silent. She towers above you, holding you without desire, without demand -

Without... indifference?

You have felt indifference before; the grey paintbrush of a closed door. There is too much contempt here for it to be indifference. She despises you, complex being that you are. You can feel it; she hates your fear, hates your hope, hates your desperation - hates everything about you except for what you are.

"Weak. Pathetic. What here is worth hiding?" she said, looking down through lashes set with stars.

Because she still has not broken you. Has not willed you to be a weak and desperate thing, crushed under her heel. She hates your actions. Hates your fear. Hates everything that you do and everyone that you pretend to be. But she does not hate this true, vulnerable thing that shivers beneath her claws. She only hates the shivering.

"Was that when I stopped hating Heron?" she said to herself. "When she stopped lying to herself? She made me so angry before. The hypocrisy. Fighting for a world that she didn't believe in. Fighting with a body she didn't fit in. Fighting for a romance she didn't feel. How could I not hate that? But bit by bit it changed. She changed. She started seeing beyond me. Stopped making excuses for what she was. Stopped feeling shy about walking into stranger's houses and breaking their vases, stopped pretending she was only wearing those dresses as part of stealth missions, stopped fucking thinking all the time. The last time I saw her I realized I wasn't seeing that bundle of lies and contradictions any more, I was only seeing the curious, explorative eye through which the universe saw itself. She wasn't pretending to hate me any more. She just wanted to see what I'd do next."

Her attention wheels back into focus. "But you are as bad as she used to be, as bad as all of these wretched Handmaidens, as bad as everyone else in this hideous world. You know who you are: this thing of becoming, this yearning, transformative spark of potential, this water-man who takes the shape of anything he is poured into. And rather than simply be that, you wrap yourself up with a curse like a protective blanket! You are the ocean pretending to be a man, and I cannot respect anything that would lower itself such."

She whirled you away and stood alone, staring up at the moon that was breaking through clouds and stars and passing above. If there were rooftops in the way they wisely withdrew from the Dark Dragon's piercing stare.

"I hate you," she said thoughtfully. "Almost as much as I would hate a dragon who pretended to be the end of all things."

[Namespace] of the Rose

November-Brown: First meeting was initiated by Tiefenbronn. Following from that, no invites were issued; meetings occurred every seven days on a regular pattern. The ZRK-333 meeting was initiated by Archmagos Toros immediately following a meeting with Tiefenbronn. The final meeting had Stoll and Pinel arrive at the meeting slot regularly scheduled for Toros.
November-Pink: Try not to address us individually, please! It gives us a headache trying to route incompatible data flows through inappropriate nodes. We are all November.

(Pink was the node with a little bit of humanity to her - an important balancing factor for something as complex as the November collective)

[Bullshit Detector] Arranging one meeting, then turning it into a regular weekly event, is typical of Tiefenbronn. Partially for this reason - if you're only talking to people when you've got something important to say you become transparent to logis analysis. Sometimes he'll keep the socialization going for months before he gets to the point, sometimes he pushes the same point week after week until he wears his target down.

It's impressive how often he makes it work. He's charming enough to be able to regularly meet with even recluses like PWD-40. He's also got a great sense for when he's overstaying his welcome and letting meetings lapse for a few months or years before restarting them.

[Data Recovery]
10> LAMENT. LAMENT TO THE OMNISSIAH, FATHER AND MASTER OF ALL MACHINES
20> THE SACRED RITES OF DEACTIVATION WERE NOT PERFORMED.
30> INFORMATION STORED IN THE COGITATOR'S GOAT INGRESS MEMORY WAS LOST
40> TO MOURN THE LOSS OF SACRED KNOWLEDGE GOTO 10
50> THE PROCESS OF PERFORMING A SAFE SHUTDOWN PRIOR TO REMOVING THE COGITATORS WOULD HAVE ADDED FIFTEEN MINUTES TO THE OPERATION. NOT PERFORMING A SAFE SHUTDOWN MAY RESULT IN THE LOSS OF ANY ACTIVELY PROCESSING DATA.
60> TO UNPLUG THE COGITATORS RATHER THAN CABLE-CUTTING WOULD HAVE INSTEAD ADDED ONE MINUTE TO THE OPERATION. THIS IS NOT MUCH IMPROVEMENT BUT WOULD REDUCE THE RISK OF POWER SURGES.
70> ADDITIONALLY, CARRYING THE COMBINED WEIGHT OF ALL OF THESE COGITATORS WOULD HAVE BURDENED EVEN A POWER-ARMOURED ORKOID CHASSIS, PREVENTING IT FROM MOVING FASTER THAN A WALK
80> FURTHER, VARIOUS PLASTEEL CHIPS CAN BE OBSERVED, INDICATING THAT THE CASING OF THE COGITATORS MAY HAVE BEEN CRACKED OPEN.
90> APHORISM OF MAGOS TANENBAUM: DO NOT UNDERESTIMATE THE NOOSPHERIC TRANSFER RATE OF A SKORPIUS FILLED WITH DATA CRYSTALS ON FLAT TERRAIN.
100> [load: death-to-the-brute.hmn]

[Namespace] of the Rose

November-Orange: Logistical advice operationalized.
November-Brown: Behaviour deviations were not logged for Archmagos Toros before demise.
November-Black: Noting that we had minimal contact, and no access to the Archmagos' sanctum.
November-Yellow: She did take more meetings than usual.

When in person, November tended to operate as one fluid entity. In digital communication it was different - each of her ten networked bodies had slight variations in personality and outlook. Orange was the node most focused on movement and logistics, Brown on surveillance and observation, Black is paranoia - but Yellow one didn't hear from much. Yellow was the big picture - vision, intuitive leaps, a little bit of perspective.

November-Yellow: There are periods where the Magi do not contact each other for years at a time - with the exceptions of Magos Tiefenbronn and Pinel, who regularly visit every other Magi. In the month prior to Magos Toros' demise her calendar looked like this:
1/10/999.M41: Magos Tiefenbronn
8/10/999.M41: Magos Tiefenbronn
9/10/999.M41: Magos ZRK-333
16/10/999.M41: Magos Tiefenbronn
23/10/999.M41: Magos Pinel, Magos Stoll
29/10/999.M41: Death of the Archmagos.

*

30/10/999.M1: Clone activated
5/11/999.M41: Present day

This entire month is lost to you. Two more days and the Archmagos would have performed her regular data backup, as she did on the connecting midnight of each month. If this was indeed a theft of time, it was this month that was taken from you.

[Namespace] of the Rose

It is a wretched thing to stand upon the grave of a magician.

When a priest of the Adeptus Mechanicus is alive, she might be anything. The imagination alights at the possibilities concealed within those crimson robes and the lights dancing within. Might she be a beautiful young maiden, soft and curved, body patterned with the hexagonal grafts of silica and nanofiber? Might she be a demon, body twisted and malformed, blinking lights the eerie gaze of wicked flies rather than electronics? Perhaps that limp concealed four legs, or three, perhaps there were two hands or eight, perhaps she had always been smiling like the Saints, or maybe the skin and fat of her face had been peeled back to a skull made of steel.

So many of these questions will never be answered. Even for her clone, the specifics of Archmagos Toros' physical structure were kept classified. All that secrecy did not save her: The mass-reactive bolt entered her face just below the left eye, penetrated, and then detonated. The skull ruptured, the interlaced mesh of brain matter and neural interface shattered, and that masterpiece of cybernetic design splashed across the altar of the Omnissiah before dripping down to pool on the wiry blue carpet. It was an incredible shot.

In death, all the tricks she had up her sleeves spilled out. Hidden pistols and digital weapons fired blindly, still performing their functions even as their body staggered and slumped. Scorch marks, bullet holes and tiny silver bladed discs scatter wildly around the shattered doorway the assailant had entered through. A displacement field belatedly fired, teleporting the headless and still-shooting body of the Archmagos five meters west, whereupon two additional bolt rounds to the armoured center mass and sent what was now just the incomplete body of a sedentary middle-age lady sprawled across the floor.

Then the assassin had begun their work. They had approached the inwards-facing circle of archaic white cogitators the Magos had been working on. Some had been pushed aside, some had been smashed, and some had been taken, their absence marked only by lonely cables that drifted like an octopus carved by a blind itamae.

The room - archaic, with framed circuit boards and eerie gadgets upon white-painted walls. A singularly bland blue carpet. A small personal shrine to the Omnissiah upon the north wall, flanked to either side by huge arched windows with a spectacular view of the Hive rising like a mountain's nightmare. The west window's glass is shattered entirely, large enough for a giant to fit through, and the stink from the endlessly churning petrochemical smokestacks creeps into this ivory tower like a burglar.

You have initial assessment from the Skitarii Marshal November. The chain of events as far as she can determine goes like this:
- Assailant arrived at tower door, guarded by two Skitarii
- Assailant incapacitates both Skitarii with a Webber. This non-lethal takedown prevents their flatline monitors from triggering an alarm.
- Assailant places a grenade on a timer by the two Skitarii. It soon detonates, killing both of them, but only after the danger of their flatline monitors alerting the Archmagos has passed.
- Assailant bypasses the security door somehow
- Assailant proceeds to the Archmagos' office.
- Assailant kicks open the reinforced metal door to the Archmagos' office
- Assailant kills the Archmagos with a single Bolt round to the head.
- Archmagos' Displacer Field activates, teleporting her five meters to the west.
- Archmagos' automated defense systems begin to fire blindly even as the corpse collapses
- Assailant responds with a burst of automatic gunfire. Some of these shots miss and shatter the glass window behind the Archmagos' new position.
- Archmagos ceases fire.
- Assailant proceeds to the cogitator station. Rips out multiple electronic devices and stores them in a heavy backpack.
- Assailant departs through the open window.

From this logical chain, Marshal November drew the conclusion that the motivation was at least partially robbery - the data on those cogitators must have been extremely valuable. In response she dispatched her Legion to form a perimeter around the Isohedron, block anyone from entering or leaving, and then start a slowly consolidating grid-search, tightening the noose bit by bit until she had reduced it to blockades of the six Forges. At that point - who knew what she'd do?

But all of this data is now out of date. The data point that the assailant has a modified Displacer Field of their own, potentially allowing for directed teleportation, throws the whole timeline into chaos. Everything needs to be re-evaluated from scratch to account for this new capability. But even that does not solve the murder. The evidence from the boot indent on the outside of the door, and the arcs of fire and return fire seem to point conclusively towards that most bizarre of conclusions:

Here, in this cathedral to the human intellect, atop this spire made of bioengineered ivory, an ork kicked in the front door and shot the Archmagos of the Isohedron in the head.

It is too stupid to be true. There has to be something you are missing.

Breathless Dead

Dolce!

The Supreme Ruler watched Dolce carefully while Katherine was speaking. She left a long moment after that, time enough to think - but not an unlimited amount.

"You want to know if we have built an utopia," said the Supreme Ruler. "And the answer is no. We are not pacifists or anarchists. We are running a state. We hold within our hands the full range of state powers, including execution, conscription and the freedom to wage wars of aggression. We punish dissent, censor speech, control technology and seal particularly wicked foxgirls underneath bridges. We have no bill of rights or constitution to tie our hands and no rhetoric to justify our actions that has not come from the mouths of a thousand governments before ours. I personally hold more power than countless autocrats and dictators throughout history. Our system of government has no special features other than - as Ms. Fluffybiscuits has so astutely observed - a corrected set of incentives."

She looked down at the sword that Katherine wore. She was wearing a sword, didn't you notice? This good, soft, silly girl was armed. Armed with - if the Plousios' fate was any guide - a terrifyingly deadly weapon. One that could destroy this house and the hill it stood upon.

... why didn't you notice?

"But neither," said the Supreme Ruler of Earth. "Have we invented a sword that cuts only the wicked. If our world stands, it stands by our people's wisdom alone. What would we do if someone disobeys? Well, it depends - doesn't it? It depends on everything, which depends on everything else. And as everything is ever changing so is what we would do. So I cannot answer your hypothetical - all I can do is invite you to experience everything we have done."