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You should publish this.

Keep up the good work buddy, this is an awesome content.

You made me write here for the first time just to congratulate you!

Cheers!

If its published and keeps this standard I'd probbly buy it

 jhe90 wrote:
If its published and keeps this standard I'd probbly buy it

Wasn't that why DLS stopped posting before? Because he was working on publishing?

 pretre wrote:

 jhe90 wrote:
If its published and keeps this standard I'd probbly buy it

Wasn't that why DLS stopped posting before? Because he was working on publishing?

Don, t know.
I never read the first version so I cannot even make a estimated guess

+++information loadout, blessed be the machine+++
+++information to be sent+++
+++for eyes of the Fabricator General only+++

My Lord, blessings of the high mind upon you, may your metal never dull and your energy never wane.

As in line with your requests, I identified the landing-craft of Adept Lakshmi Istavael as it entered Hangar 118453-Alpha. It had come immediately from Terra judging by its noospheric ident and ghost trace. Istavael was accompanied by five Thallax Guardians (Antilles-class, third generation, Ultima forge-wrought) of her Father’s [subject: Magos-Cardinal Yuri Istavael – separate ident file included in upload] personal retinue.

I thought it interesting that Magos Istavael was not on board the craft. As to whether he remains on Terra or has travelled elsewhere I can only speculate. He is however not on Mars.

Adept Istavael upon arrival took the 133.54.688 Tramline to Ultima Forge. She has remained ensconced there since her arrival. As per your request, I have station vox and thermal thieves around Ultima Forge and also upon the main concourse routes leading to and from the forge. Istavael will not leave the Forge without your prior knowledge.

I understand that you mean to visit Istavael in person my Lord. May I offer you the services of my Thallax Cohorts Gemini and Brutus as holy escort on your journey?

I remain as ever your humble servant,

Praise be the Omnissiah

Adept-Third Class Hashu’ut Retram III

+++Upload ends+++
+++Blessed be+++

Hmm... Why is it yellow?

lliu wrote:
Hmm... Why is it yellow?

It's meant to be a data packet, and Dakka doesn't have Lime Green

 Dark Lord Seanron wrote:

lliu wrote:
Hmm... Why is it yellow?

It's meant to be a data packet, and Dakka doesn't have Lime Green

Oh. That was quite an eyesore. It was a great effect, though.

This writing is making me want to start an Alpha Legion army from scratch. I just ordered an Alpha Legion Contemptor because of this story.

DarthDiggler wrote:
This writing is making me want to start an Alpha Legion army from scratch. I just ordered an Alpha Legion Contemptor because of this story.

Oh wow, that's awesome dude Alpharius would be proud!

The inner sanctum of Ultima Forge was quiet and dark, completely at peace despite the turmoil of recent weeks. It was, as it had always been, a place of contemplation and knowledge, a temple of quiet meditation and inner revelations. The lumen globes of the massive dome were set low, giving the vast space the feel of some subterranean lake system, swallowing sound and replacing it with peace and silence. Traces of light gossamer circuitry covered the copper walls, tracers of energy running across their lengths in languid jolts. Several alcoves had been built into the great walls, housing everything from cylindrical generators, data storage systems, silent work benches and wooden shelves groaning under the accumulated weight of thousands of books and scrolls. Golden skinned drones, no bigger than small birds, hovered through the great space tending to the workings and care of the sanctum. At the apex of the dome was a smooth, colossal sphere of crystalline malachite, naturally formed and achingly beautiful. Gentle light shone through it, waves of pearlescent green light shimmering in the air, faint images and schematics forming in the liquid haze before fading like a trail of fireflies in the night.

At the centre of the chamber was a simple wooden work bench, its surface pitted and well used, fresh wood and metal shavings dusting its surface. It was forged of a deep oak, and although it appeared old and archaic in comparison to the rest of the chamber, it was clearly well-loved. Great works and ideas had been birthed at this bench, and faded scrolls of paper bearing lines and drawings were piled neatly to one side. A set of ancient but well maintained tools sat on a rack suspended above the workbench by graceful suspensor fields, and several tall benches lined it length. This simple object, in many ways the smallest and least important part of Ultima Forge, was the catalyst to many of the Forges greatest achievements. Ultima Forge was a shining golden beacon in the Martian Deserts, and its power and glory owed as much to the humble workbench as it did its master.

Built nearly four centuries ago by Magos Yuri Istavael, he had intended his forge to be as far removed as possible from the grim stagnation that had settled on the rest of his beloved Mars. It was to be a place of progress and hope, a lifeline to pull Mother Mars from the brink and back to her former glory. He had always been seen as a radical by the old guard of the Martian Clergy, and his desire to erect a new bastion of progress on the red sands met with conflict form the offset.

Istavael had locked horns with several senior Magi of the Mechanicum during its construction, including the Fabricator General himself, at the purpose and design of his inner forge, and also his expansionist, forward-thinking views. Many stated that his lack of adherence to accepted dogma and scripture was, at best, most unbecoming of a senior cleric of the Red Order, whilst several others stated outright that his desire to push invention and the unknown sciences was borderline heresy. Dissent was eventually cowed by what always silences arguments on Mars: the needs of the Imperial war machine. The senior Magi were drawn back to their own tasks demanded by the depthless hunger of the Imperium of Man, and the Fabricator General himself was pulled away by matters of State and Diplomacy. Istavael’s Forge was built, and soon it and its surrounding vassal tracts became known to many on Mars as The Aureus Harena: The Golden Sands.

Although life there was hard, as it is in all domains of the Imperium of Man, it was dignified and respectful, and it was said Magos Istavael cared not whether his people were lowly menials or High Cardinals of the Omnissiah, he viewed every individual and machine under his charge with great affection and respect. There were no slaves within Ultima Forge, simply brothers and sister united in a desire to forge a glorious future for mankind.

Of course these views were to bring conflict to Ultima Forge time and again even after its completion, their distance from Mechanicum Scripture being too much for some Martian Lords to take. Open war had been threatened by Magi of a more dogmatic cloth on numerous occasions, beings so blindly dominated by the Mechanicum’s self-stalling traditions that The Golden Sand’s message of hope and scientific progress was terrifying beyond compare. They sent missives and threats to Istavael and his inner circle, threatening to unleash righteous fire upon his heretical works. Requests were sent to the mighty Titan Legions and their Knight Houses by the furious magi to march on Ultima, but these were ignored by the commanders of the God-Machines: clergy politics being one of the many issues beneath such vaunted and powerful individuals. Several other beseeched the Fabricator-General himself to intervene, calling him to unleash the full might of Mars’ military to quash the unruly stain upon the Red Planet’s honour.

The Fabricator-General however had not risen to his esteemed position through only his mastery of the machine, but also a shrewd political mind quite unlike the majority his brethren.

Istavael was close to heresy in several respects, many of which privately sickened the High Lord of Mars, but much of his work had benefitted Mars and The Fabricator-General greatly, in particular its relations with wider Imperium: Istavael had the ear of several prominent lords of not only the Red Planet, but many off-world supporters as well. Istavael’s views had enamoured him to several of Terra’s noble courts, many vassal Forge Worlds of the Segmentum Solar, the Jovian Fleets and, if rumours were to be believed, the thanks and backing of Ultramar itself. Open conflict against Ultima Forge would reflect badly on the Fabricator-General, better to rise above the concerns of his minions and do nothing, allowing him to reap the benefits that Istavael brought.

Istavael would face a reckoning, not now but later, and not with the full fury of Mars’ armies. It would be quiet and dark, just as the Fabricator-General preferred. For the time being he would let Istavael and his ilk prosper.

Many of Mars’ recent great works began their gestation in the forges and work halls of Ultima: the grand solar array of Ganymede, the water recovery trench system of Isiah XI and the Radiation Nullifier Drone Network of Ultramar to name but a few. Many more had been aborted before they could blossom, their growth stunted and rejected by the dogmatic master of the Red Planet.

Istavael had developed a method of energy conservation that would allow the machine shops of the Astra Militarium to streamline construction of all energy-based weapons and equipment, and boasted a 99.986555% recurring success rate. They were safer, cleaner and more powerful. They would revolutionise the way the Imperium arms its troops and could save potentially millions of lives.

It was rejected out of hand by the Fabricator-General and his cronies, seemingly for veering too far off the blessed STC scriptures that all las-technology is derived, but mainly that the coffers of the Mechanicum would suffer as the weapons would require less maintenance and replacement.

The Lord of Ultima Forge also developed a seventh-generation adjustment to the Imperial Standard Gellar Array that allowed ships to weather the storms of the Warp as they travelled its hellish tracts. The simple adjustment would see a colossal drop in Gellar Failure rates and crew casualties, and see an increase in successful warp translations across the Imperium. It was cheap, efficient and simply required the replacement of the Gellar Vanes that generated the field.

The Mechanicum ousted the plans before they even left Mars, the replacement of existing blessed technology with a new, non-STC derived alternative was heretical in the extreme. The lives of the Imperial Navy mattered not in comparison to the approval of the Omissiah’s established dogma. The improvements never saw the light of day.

Istavael never let the repeated refusal from his masters stunt his desire to build a better Imperium, and he strived relentlessly to do what he could for his fellow man. For every failure or rejection, there was a quiet success that made his toiling worthwhile. But one challenge always eluded him, locked as it was behind millennia of superstition and denial.

Istavael had always desired to work upon The Golden Throne itself.

It had been known to the Magi of the Mechanicum for centuries that the Throne was failing. The blessed construct’s functions had been dying sequentially at a glacial pace, and when they ceased then so too would be the blessed Lord of all mankind. The Mechanicum had always maintained to the wider Imperium that the Throne was simply beyond their ability to repair, that they could only slow its gradual decline. The works of the Emperor they claimed were so complex as to render the Lords of Mars idiot children compared to the glorious perfection of the Throne’s function. They could no sooner heal the Golden Throne than they could stop the flow of the Universe itself.

The truth however is much darker.

The Mechanicum had not attempted to repair the Throne simply because they had chosen not to.

The Throne and its occupant has always been a strained subject among the upper echelons of the Machine Cults of Mars. Many view the Emperor as the Omnissiah, the Mechanicum’s God and Master, and as such anything made by his hand is sacred, and is therefore divine in its creation. To sully such a device with mortal hands was seen as tantamount to heresy.

A steadily increasing camp in the red order postulated that the Emperor was neither the Omnissiah nor the Mechanicum’s true master. They served simply to further the Red Planet’s own survival. To repair the throne would simply lengthen the bondage of the Red Planet to the whims of an uncaring and undeserving empire. Argument and counter-point raged in the cloisters of Mars’ forges, and no single view could gain dominance over the other, despite both coming to the same conclusion.

Istavael himself, as in all things, took a more radical view than his colleagues. He postulated that the Emperor was indeed the Omnissiah, the greatest and wisest being that mankind had ever sired. He also believed (unlike his fellow magi) that the Omnissiah acts through his servants, and therefore it was the Mechanicum’s innate duty to not only maintain the Throne but also repair its primary functions. He argued that whilst the works of the Emperor were complex in scope and labyrinth in design that they would not be beyond the combined knowledge of the Mechanicum if they simply left dogma in this instance and applied a new approach to the reparation of the Golden Throne. Istavael even offered to head the endeavour himself, so keen was he to see the Throne restored.

The Fabricator General, in his infinite wisdom, decreed that no work would be done upon the Throne. He stated that if the Emperor was indeed the Omnissiah, then surely he would exercise his power to save himself and the Throne.

The supporters of the Emperor were silenced, not wishing to countermand the Lord of Mars’ words or refute the divinity of the Emperor’s design. Their opponents smiled inwardly in their dark forges and hovels, elated that the matter had been stamped out in their favour. Istavael himself rose furious argument against such a blasé response, but was shouted down by the Fabricator-General. Istavael would attempt to bring the subject to the Magi time and again, but always to deafening denial from the established order.

Out of sheer frustration, Istavael would eventually move his household from Mars to Terra itself hoping to study the workings of the Throne in secret. Of course his ministrations would be too little too late, as the Emperor would perish as would Istavael in the holy fires of the His passing. His last words were to his daughter, the young adept Lakshmi, who he bid to make haste to Mars and inform his allies of the Emperor’s passing. He feared that the Lords of the Mechanicum would at best fall to disarray or at worst, make a play for the throne of mankind.

And so Lakshmi journeyed to her Father’s forge, and it is here we find her now. Seated on a bench of ancient wood, her small form wrapped in red robes is slumped heavily on her Father’s old workbench. Sorrow is heavy in her heart.

Her Father is dead, his dreams of a better future die with him.

Her Emperor is dead, his glory and holy power snuffed in an unthinkable end.

She knows what she must do, but she does not know where to begin. The task seems so beyond her as to be maddening. Her first action was to come here, where her Father taught her the ways of invention and industry. Where he stroked her crimson hair and read to her the stories of their order's former glory. Where he instilled in her his vision for a brighter future for mankind. Here is safe, here is happiness.

Here is where she will hide till the end of days.

Her sorrow is interrupted by a chiming in the air, and a genial, gentle voice in the noosphere. It is her Father’s second in command, Jermiah. His voice is soft and kind, much like her Father’s was before him.

“Lady Lakshmi, I do not mean to intrude. I know you have asked for solitude, but you have a visitor. The Fabricator General is here to see you. He states that it is urgent”

Lakshmi looked into the darkness above and wiped the tears from her eyes. She stood from the bench and straightened her robes. She sent an impulse through the noosphere, confirming that she had heard and understood Jermiah. If she was to enact her Father’s will, then there was no better place to start than with the Fabricator-General himself. Turning from her Father’s sanctum, Lakshmi Istavael, heir of Ultima Forged marched to meet the Lord of the Red Sands.

It would be a meeting that would spell change for Ultima Forge and Mars itself.

Wow... Just wow...

OK, my jaw is in Australia....

 jhe90 wrote:
OK, my jaw is in Australia....

I just got hit in the back with mine.

Hello? Anyone?

lliu wrote:
Hello? Anyone?

Shhhh... You can't rush genius.

 King Pariah wrote:

lliu wrote:
Hello? Anyone?

Shhhh... You can't rush genius.

True but once fed such good writing its only natural to want more.

In his long and illustrious two hundred and ninety three years of life, Jermiah Sol Miah had rarely felt anything approaching fear or intimidation. For most members of the Holy Mechanicum it was because such emotions had been stripped form them with mechanical coldness and efficiency. For Jermiah, it was a simply an air of confidence and faith in his purpose, a knowledge that his work and the work of those around them served a higher purpose. His position was one of security which Jermiah was eternally thankful for.

He had been blessed to be born into a proud, noble house of Mars that boasted wealth, status and the protection of Ultima Forge and its vassals, one of the most inventive and humanitarian of Mars mighty Forge-cities. Jermiah’s life had had its challenges and hurdles, much like any human born into these uncaring times, but he had always felt secure in his belief in his Forge, his Masters and the Omnissiah on his Golden Throne. As the Huskarlar of Ultima Forge, Jermiah had felt assured in his place and destiny in the regal halls and palatial machine-shops of the Golden Forge. Nothing could cow or diminish him in his duties, and he had always stood tall amongst the lords and ladies of the Martian Cult. His work was important, and his duties divine. Life for Jermiah was good.

All such feelings of blessing and security had immediately fled from him as he was dwarfed by the shadow of Ultima Forge’s latest guest. His ears thumped his heartbeat in a staccato hammering and fear and trepidation filled his lungs. The Fabricator-General was here, and Jermiah felt dwarfed as a moon is to its planetary parent.

The Fabricator-General had deigned to personally visit Ultima Forge under a banner of peace and inquiry as was his right, but every aspect of Mars’ preeminent Magus radiated aggression and techno-arcane horror. Well over nine feet in height, much of the hulking Lord’s body was swathed in robes of the deepest bloody red that ran over his solid form like heavy wine spilling from a table. His shoulders were monstrously broad, artificially widened to carry a heavy, humming generator that squatted from his spine like an obscene, mechanical tumour. Cable, wires and thick, lubricated piping snaked from the generator to delve into the deep folds of his red robes at multiple points, and wisps of smoke and electric corpse-light sparked and rose from exposed plating and joints in his vestments. He did not breath, having no need to thanks to his extensive augmentation, and stood like a monolith of ancient Terra, unbreakable and ageless. Almost completely stationary, except for his hands.

His hands were more akin to steel claws, razor-sharp and wickedly pointed; they clicked and spasmed in a palsied fit, in constant twitching motion despite the stillness of the overlord’s slab-like form. The robes splayed out across the floor below him, pooling like molten metal from a forge, but no amount of cloth or covering could hide his lack of human legs or the cold, metallic armatures that replaced them. Crowning the grim horror of his appearance was a deep ragged hood, a black scar that shadowed his face and kept his true visage in darkness. A single vertical slit of yellowed, sickly light shone from the deep hood, its intensity rising and falling like breath of ragged, diseased lungs. He stood like an arachnid woven of iron and spite, his body radiating power and dark knowledge that stained the surrounding air and noosphere with grim potential. Jermiah could swear that he could hear faint screams when he looked upon the Overlord of the Mechanicum.

Jermiah had learned from his master that the Fabricator-General’s name had once been Shaiaal al’ Shaiom, a name of grim repute among the higer echelons of Martian culture but his name, much like the rest of his humanity, had been worn away under the relentless yolk of the machine. Jermiah was secretly reviled by priests such as Shaiaal, and he pitied them their willingness to embrace mutilation and monstrosity in the name of their shared deity. But no amount of pity could overcome something so terrifyingly augmented as what stood before him.

His master, Lord-Magus Istavael, and his predecessors had embraced augmentation much like the Martian Hierarchy had done for millennia untold, however they had always shown a restraint that their counterparts in the other Forges sorely lacked. Istavael believed fervently that mankind and the machine should become one, but neither should usurp or dilute the other. He had believed in discreet augmentation and never diluting the human form with gross or monstrous surgery. This belief had flowed down into his servants and subjects and most if not all of Ultima Forges people could pass for a normal human despite their upgrades and abilities. Jermiah himself boasted many dozens of augments and artificial upgrades, but his form was still decidedly human. Compared to the hulking mass of the Fabricator-General, they appeared as two different species entirely.

Dwarfed in the shadow of the robed monster, Jermiah appeared slight and frail although he was anything but. His skeleton had been reinforced and rebuilt with Carbon-enforced steel, his skin boasted a discreet layer of pale ceramic plating and his muscles had been replaced with hardier and longer-lasting synthetic polymers. None of these could be divined from his outward appearance, which was that of dark-haired human male, skin dusky and slightly wrinkled around the eyes, no more than maybe fifty Terran Years in age. His eyes were the only notable difference from the human norm, being a solid liquid green that shone warmly like the sun through canopy. They had been replaced on his ninety first cycle, completing his transition from neophyte to Huscarl of Ultima Forge, a day he was infinitely proud of. His robes were clean and crisp, a brown over-cloak covering his red vestments, and his badge of trust and office was clipped to his collar, a golden star emblazoned with a ruby hawks head.

He gazed up at the cloaked, hulking overlord of Mars with his green eyes, and spoke in a proud, clipped tone that just hid his unease at his Martian Master’s presence.

“I have summoned young Lady Istavael to call upon you my Lord, she will be her momentarily. Would you care to inload from our Noospheric link whilst you wait? Perhaps take nourishment from our current?”

The great hood of the Fabricator-General inclined slightly toward Jermiah, and in a harsh, mechanical bark laced with static and the scrape of working parts croaked in response.

[RESPONSE] I require nothing from your noosphere, nor your circuit’s servant!
[REBUTTAL] Save your pleasantries for ones who still desire such things Huscarl. You and your master’s are more than aware of our opinions on your practices.
[RESPONSE] I will await your mistress here, preferably in silence!

Jermiah winced at the Lord of Mars’ inhuman screeching, which barely covered the sounds of mothers weeping and tried not to look at the juddering, palsied claws as they twitched erratically. Jermiah’s position was an outdated one by Martian standards, the position of Huscarl falling away to be replaced by Servitors and automated, virtual servants. Istavael had maintained the position as a mark of respect for his forebears and Jermiah was proud to serve. He was to see to his Master and his forge, and act as the mouth of House Istavael in all aspects of diplomacy. The Fabricator-General had made no secret of how foolish he had found such things. “An outmoded concept”, he had croaked on a previous visit to Ultima Forge, when his master had discussed the history of the Huscarl’s position “a pointless affection for days better left forgotten. Weak flesh in the place of mechanisation is foolish, automation would be the wiser choice.”

Lord Istavael had laughed such comments off, stating that the Mechanicum was labyrinth in its traditions and nuances, and such things should not come between such esteemed lords such as them. Shaiaal thought much differently, and catalogued Istavael’s eccentricities alongside a heavy list of potential heresies.

(Did Jermiah smell burning? Surely not…)

Shaiaal’s infinite displeasure covered much of Istavael’s works, the greatest of which being Ultima’s extensive Noospheric network, a near-invisible cloud of data and communication that seeped into every pore of the Forge, allowing instant understanding and communication between any who used it. Great swathes of the ancient Mechanicum had abandoned such research and communication after the Great Heresy, with its usage dwindling into nothingness over the boundless millennia. It was the product of invention and cooperation, and not based on a historical STC that the Mechanicum possessed, but a quasi-heretical modern STC designed during the Great Crusade. For this reason it had been widely deplored and demonised, especially by the Fabricator-General and his cronies. Istavael and his supporters had argued that the STC still lay on Mars, and although built after the great schism would still be beneficial and sacred if found. A thorough and expansive investigation would be needed to bring it back to the fore and Istavael offered to pour his own resources into the hunt, but the General and his ilk would have none of it. Better to be forgotten than remember and bring the Mechanicum low. Sometimes, they argued, ignorance was indeed bliss…

Jermiah shared his master’s frustrations at the Martian Overlord, but he knew his place and he held his tongue. The Fabricator-General was the rightly elected master of Mars, and his word was law on the Red Planet. By all accounts, the Fabricator-General was Jermiah’s master above all others. However, Lord Istavael had attempted to countermand Shaiaal on much, but always steered clear of outright conflict or division. His master was wise enough to avoid that which would bring ruin to his domain. Jermiah would have felt much more assured had Lord Istavael been here to greet the mechanical noble before him, but he had not returned from Terra with his daughter Lakshmi. She had arrived herself and had immediately ensconced herself within her Father’s inner-chambers, requesting no disturbances of any kind. It was not Jermiah’s place to question his lord or his daughter and their actions, but he did worry after these irregularities, especially after the recent outpourings of chaos that had gripped Mars seemingly from nowhere. A visit from the Lord of Mars himself confirmed to Jermiah that something was very, very wrong. The sound of war and screams lilted beyond hearing, and Jermiah winced at the ghosting sounds.

His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of soft footsteps on metal stairs. He turned to the grand entrance way, a set of spiral stairs constructed of gold and platinum at its head leading into the great foyer, they twisted and moulded into the great edifice like capillaries and gave the great chamber an organic feel, like the inside of a colossal golden heart. Down these stairs came the lithe form of Lakshmi Istavael, robed in deep crimson and bracing white, bearing a staff of blackest obsidian. Crowning the staff was a golden eagle entwined in delicate ruby and emerald circuitry and it glowed with a soft reassuring light. This was her family’s badge of office, and whilst her Father was absent it allowed Lakshmi to speak with the authority of Ultima Forge. Her posture was tall and proud, and she moved with an ethereal grace almost as if she wasn’t touching the golden floor at all. But Jermiah could see something deep and sorrowful in her eyes, something broken that Jermiah desperately wished to fix. She was showing strength to cover some great hurt and Jermiah quailed at whatever could have laid the daughter of his Lord so low. Could she hear the screaming too?

She approached them with her head raised and expression neutral. When at last she stood before them, she raised the staff in a ceremonial greeting and spoke directly to the towering Fabricator-General.

“I thank you for your patience, Lord of the Red Sands and Black Skies. I am Lakshmi Istavael, daughter of Magus-Prioritix Yuri Istavael, Lord of Ultima-Forge and all its domains. I stand as Reagent in my Lord Father’s absence, and welcome you to our home. May your currents be strong and your knowledge be broad”

She bowed slightly before the Fabricator-General, her words seeming strong but underpinned by an emotion that only those close to her and her family would hear. Jermiah stood alongside her quietly bowing in unison with her, worry growing in his mind and the noise becoming louder. Shaiaal bowed shallowly in response before the scraping hack of his voice spilled from his metallic throat in response.

[GREETING] We observe your words and gestures Lakshmi Istavael and approve
[QUERY] Where is Lord Istavael? We greatly desired to converse with him

The depthless hood lowered and came closer to Lakshmi’s face, malice and hidden threat radiating from it in waves. Jermiah swore he could smell blood from the hulking monster. To her credit however, Lakshmi did not quail before the intimidating presence of Mars’ Master, and answered him in a strong, clear manner.

“I apologise for my Father’s absence Lord Fabricator. There has been…a development that means I must greet you. I assure you I can speak with his authority and the word of Ultima Forge.”

The Fabricator-General straightened, standing once again to his full, monolithic height. How like a revenant or wraith he looked thought Jermiah in his flowing, ragged robes and skeletal immensity. Jermiah had seen the Fabricator-General on numerous occasions, both from afar and in close council, but had never felt the palpable sense of dread that he felt now.

Something had changed.

Something was not as it should be.

Why could he hear the screams of the betrayed?

Lady Lakshmi continued to converse with the ragged wraith, although Jermiah could not hear the words: all he heard was blood pumping in his ears and the slowly rising screams of men, women and children. His vision was edged with fire, and voices that dripped with murder and massacre scraped across his spine. Dread settled on him, like a cowl of blackened smoke it hung, filled with betrayal and utter horror and Jermiah felt that his lungs may give out in fear. His eyes shut tight to drown out the thumping pain and bloody lights and he opened to them to Fabricator-General gesturing with his great talons.

[REQUEST] May we converse somewhere more private, Lady Istavael?

The great hooded head nodded toward Jermiah

[EXPLANATION] We feel there is much to discuss which requires the greatest confidence.

Lakshmi nodded graciously, and raised her arm to a set of silvered doors to the right of the entry hall. Beyond them were the private meeting halls and reclusiam of Ultima, rooms where dignitaries and Magi could meet and converse in privacy. The pair unhurriedly walked toward the great silver entrance conversing quietly, the doors sighing open on gentle suspensor fields. Jermiah wanted to cry out, to scream to his mistress to not go with the shadowed Lord of Mars. His loyalty to his house and master warred with his loyalty to Mars itself. Surely he was imagining danger where none existed. Surely the images of WAR AND FIRE AND BLOOD AND WAR AND FIRE AND BLOOD. His hands snapped to his ears as the pressure and sound became too much.

Jermiah’s eyes snapped open and his breath came in short, sharp gasps, sweat pouring from his head and soaking his heavy robes. The silver doors closed with a stately click of auto-locks and he was alone in the grand foyer once more. Losing sight of Lady Lakshmi and the dreaded Shaiaal triggered something within him: a need to act, a need to protect. Opening his mind to the surrounding noosphere, Jermiah sought out an ally. Through the particulate consensus of Ultima’s billions of minds, his will flew and tumbled and dived until he identified the bright blue spark of whom he sought. As he communed at a speed faster than light, Jermiah knew what he must do: He would not let anything happen to Lady Lakshmi, even if it meant going against the Master of Mars himself.

THIS IS WHAT WE ALL EXPECT!!! This is very good. Could be the best one yet. Hmmm... Could the Fabricator General be planning to kill the girl?

The Fabricator General is a Flayed One Lord hahaahahaha

But has he brought blood to the forge?


And is he under the will of somthing darker?

 jhe90 wrote:
But has he brought blood to the forge?


And is he under the will of somthing darker?

Could the Fabricator General be planning to kill her? It says that the FG would ensure that her message would end with the audience

lliu wrote:

 jhe90 wrote:
But has he brought blood to the forge?


And is he under the will of somthing darker?

Could the Fabricator General be planning to kill her? It says that the FG would ensure that her message would end with the audience

We are on a excellent cliff hanger as per the norm
Though will the loyal forge servent save the day?
However what can he do vs the bulk of mars most augmented and inhuman?

Ps was that your jaw just flying by at about mach 2?

Almost sounds like the loyal servant might be getting some temptations from a certain blood god.

The automated camera sees everything in the room. In life its central cogitator had been the brain and spinal system of a nameless dreg from the sumps of Mars Forge networks, scraping a life off waste and overflow, biting and hissing at its kin like rats in refuse. Its existence would have been short and brutal if the Mechanicum hadn’t reclaimed its wretched flesh and raised it into a higher, more esteemed form. Now it was but one of millions of security systems aligning Ultima Forge. Its twin ocular orbs watch the grand reclusiam with a tireless vigil, the world painted a faint emerald green and sketched with information and ceaseless calculation. It tilts its head in a slow steady sweep, drinking in the room ravenously, taking in everything the room has to show and feeding it back to the central mind of the grand forge. It is a singular nerve in a system spanning miles.

The room it guards is as golden and refined as the Forge that contains it, and its main wall is dominated by a trio of cyclopean stained glass windows. Built from armoured glass and stained gold, white and crimson, the windows depict a rolling scene of Ultima’s founding and eventual rise to glory. Its borders and rims are a strong Martian steel, coloured slightly red due to the over-oxidisation of Mars’ soils. The light of the sun pours in through the grand portals, lending the air a sacred, church-like demeanour. Artisans from across the galaxy would weep to see such a beauteous sight, and would cast down their tools in envy at the glorious glass construct. The room itself is palatial without being gaudy: the floor a black tiling of volcanic glass, the walls the warm gold of the Forge’s main material. On the walls hang data-banners, enormous depictions of Mars’ achievements wrought from crystalline information and holographic light, with the largest representing the noble lineage and character of Magus Istavael and his bloodline. At the centre of the room stands a heavy circular table, an Arthurian piece of heavy reddened wood and iron that could seat over a dozen dignitaries at any one time. At the table’s centre stands a marble and gold depiction of the Holy Aquila, it two heads screeching in victory, its wings unfurled in unbound flight and its talons seizing the flames of understanding in Promethean bravado.

Toward the table, the camera spies two figures approaching steadily and deep in conversation. The lead figure is one that the camera has seen many thousands of times: Lady Lakshmi Istavael. The camera detects elevated adrenal responses and a slight hazing of her Noospheric aura. It registers several indicators of high but repressed emotion, and detects several key stress points in her vocal processes. These things the camera sees and hears with no emotion, its job to simply feed such things back to those better equipped to understand.

Behind Lady Istavael comes someone the camera has never seen before, and it extends its consciousness to Mars’ central database to identify. The figure is large and swathed in shadow and mystery, and every identity check registers no response from the central servers. The cameras orb-like eyes whirr and buzz as the attempt to further focus on the stranger, its apparatus straining to divine any information of the tall, darkened figure. It has no presence in the noosphere, its aura being one of deadened emptiness, an informational wasteland of barren bones and decrepit winds. Its presence warps the information around it, the sheer weight and gravity of its being affecting everything around it. The hooded head turns slowly to the camera as Lady Istavael lights devotional candles upon the heavy table. Its gaze fixes the twin orbs in a deathless stare, and the cameras vision blurs. The meat and bone of its inner parts bubble and die as technologies older than the Imperium burn away its core, ensuring that what transpires in the great reclusiam goes unseen. With a mechanised sigh the camera dies never to see anything again.


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Lakshmi lit the devotional candles arranged on the meeting table, a tradition among the Martian elite for visiting dignitaries. It was thought the flame of the candles represented the wellspring of knowledge that sprung form the union of man, which was the candle, and fire which was the machine. She lit them with a discreet taper she drew from her robes, and bowed lightly before the table. She heard the heavy whine of servos and gears as the Fabricator-General mirrored her movements, wincing at the sound of metal on metal. He rose to his full height once more, towering above Lakshmi like a Goliath. She gestured to the bench alighting the table, realising too late the ludicrousness of offering such a massive individual a wooden seat. The Fabricator shook his head and waived his massive talon in a dismissive gesture. Lakshmi nodded lightly and sat herself facing the Master of Mars. Clearing her throat, she began.

“Thank you for visiting our Forge, My Lord. I was hoping to visit you at Olympus Mons myself in a day’s time to meet with you”

The Fabricator inclined his head softly before responding.

[REASSURANCE] We understand, Lakshmi Istavael. We had heard word that you had returned alone from Terra, and wished to enquire as to the whereabouts of your Father. He has often been a friend to the Master Forge, and we were greatly concerned.

Although his voice lacked any emotion or tell, Lakshmi winced inside: her Father was no great supporter of the Fabricator-General or his cronies, and although he had tried to protect his daughter from the politicking of Mars she could not over hear his anger when Mars’ most preeminent Magus halted his plans. The cloying words made her shiver.

“I thank you for your concern, My Lord” she stated with a bow “however I bring ill tidings from Terra. Events have occurred which threaten Mars and her sons and daughters”

Shuffling closer, the great hood of the Fabricator bored straight into Lakshmi, its sickly yellow eyeslit casting a pale gout on her skin. She could feel him gazing into her, as if searching beyond her words. His voice crackled once more from his core, all static and clicks.

[QUERY] To what do you speak, young Lakshmi?
[STATEMENT] There is no trial that we cannot tackle. Mars is strong!

Lakshmi could feel tears burn the back of her eyes as she repeated the Mantra back to the Lord of Mars. She had had no time to mourn the recent events properly, her flight from Terra consuming her thoughts until she reached the safety of Ultima. To discuss them so soon weighed upon her heart. She cleared her throat, and closed her eyes.

“Sire…my Father is dead.”

She had expected some form of reaction, some subtle movement or sound to highlight the Fabricator’s surprise, yet none was forthcoming. The depthless hood remained fix on her, and his palsied talons continue to click in random motion. Seconds passed, and she opened her mouth to speak once more before the distorted voice crackled to life once more.

[CONDOLENCES] We are sorry for your loss.
[STATEMENT] You are now Ultima Forge’s new Master.
[QUERY] How did he expire, young one? We desire to know.

A tear ran down her cheek, her breath hitching in her chest. This moment would change Mars forever. The news that she brought could only bring trouble to her home world. She steeled herself for the Fabricator’s reaction, and in a voice riven with grief she whispered.

“He died in Holy Fire my Lord. The Emperor is dead…and he took my Father with him”

Again seconds passed, the only sound the lunatic whirr of gyros and mechanisms within the Fabricator’s robes. Lakshmi took several shuddering breaths, scanning the hood for any reaction. She wanted to cry out at his stillness, rage at the events and his seeming disinterest in them. She blinked in surprise when he spoke again, his voice noticeably quieter than before.

[QUERY] Who else have you told?

“No…no-one else my Lord, I thought to bring the news straight to you. There is so much to do, so many people to tell. Mars must know that the Omnissiah has passed. We must prepare…”

The great, dull talon raised sharply in a gesture of silence, Lakshmi caught off guard. Her breathing was painful, and the sheer solid stillness of the Fabricator filled her with dread. He straightened to his full height, and turned his horrific gaze to the stained windows. When he spoke again, it lacked the harshness of before and sounded almost human. Almost…

[QUERY] Are you sure you are the only one to bring this news to Mars? You did not take anyone else into confidence?

Lakshmi nodded her head, and gripped her robes. Tears had started to run freely from her eyes, and her vision appeared foggy. Wiping her eyes, she lifted her head to face the Fabricator-General fully, feeling his thoughts running through his darkened mind. When at last he spoke, her stomach quailed.

[CORRECTION] Mars will not be told anything, young Lakshmi.
[EXPLANATION] We know of what transpired in the Palace on Terra, and we see that it is good.
[ASSERTION] We cannot allow you to endanger the future of the Red Planet with your knowledge.

The right talon shot out and seized Lakshmi by the arm, the pressure unlike anything that she had ever felt before. The pain was monstrous, and she felt her muscles and skin bleed under the grip. She cried out sharply, and tried to pull away. A static laden croak escaped the hood of the Fabricator, and Lakshmi realised with terror that he was laughing at her pain. He fixed her once more with his gaze and with a hiss of releasing steam and pressure his face plate opened to reveal a ruined skull, its features scrawled in circuitry and stained with gore and foul-smelling lubricants. Its lower jaw was entirely missing, a mass of cables and piping snaking into the hole and down through the great robed body, coated in condensation and grease. In the wide, weeping sockets were a pair of all too human eyes, staring wild and bloodshot, the orbs pierced by a dozen needles and wires. They stared into Lakshmi with a hatred far beyond anything she had ever seen before. This was the face of the Mechanicum and its master. Its true face.

“Look now upon the future Lakshmi Istavael, a future that you will play no part in. We cannot have you endangering our position. You must die.”

The Fabricator raised his heavy claw and Lakshmi screamed for help.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

My money is on Jermiah coming in to save the day albeit at the cost of his own life... Or maybe soul.

I'm wondering the real intentions of the Fabricator... is he driven by chaos or just some yearning for Mars independence...