The Clockwork Apprentice

| Carol | Necromancer/Swashbuckler | INTJ | The path is the destination | wizard101, pirate101, Warhammer 40k I like men of war and flowers

[caroline-nighthunter]

Since you can’t view the blogs extra pages on mobile and also because I doubt  people will leave the Tumblr realm for the html theme look. (But please check the desktop versions out, some of them I’ve been customizing the hell out of!)

Copyright Notice, since... well... Some people don’t have common sense:

☛ MY WORK MAY NOT BE COPIED, EDITED, TRACED, PUBLISHED, REPRODUCED, OR RE-UPLOADED IN ANY WAY WITHOUT MY WRITTEN PERMISSION. ☚

About

The Tipping Jar

[caroline-nighthunter]

/Shadow of Prospero/

[caroline-nighthunter]

- Sin -

It gnawed on my mind and my fingers tingled, so I had to put it down.

CW: Hurt No Comfort, Mention of Graphic Violence

The door closed behind her with a heavy thud. She made no effort to close it gently.

"We are departing by the first sunlight tomorrow. I hope whatever you have to tell me is important."

He said without turning towards her. He still stood in the blood soaked comissarial uniform before his desk. She didn't comment on it.

"Are you better now?" She questioned, though she knew the answer without needing a look of his face.

The comissar's posture stiffened. She saw his knuckles whitening as his fingers tried to dig into the metal of the table.

"You shouldn't be up just yet." He replied, a slight tremour flashing through his controlled voice.

"I assure you it looked worse than it is." She tried to console.

"I am surprised the old doc even allowed you to leave your cot." The Comissar chuckled dry. There was no mirth in his voice. She mustered him for a moment before she moved towards his chest. Red robes flowing over the floor in quiet elegance. He did not turn around.

"He didn't. But exhaustion and the scare I gave him took him to slumber eventually." She replied, placing a trembling hand on the lid of the chest. "He is resting now in my cot and hopefully will still do so when I return."

The Comissar lowered his head, his jaw clicking.

"He saw it all, he looked horrible." He noted.

"He was losing it all over again." She shrugged. "Or so he thought." Her eyes narrowed as she saw the Comissar's hand twitch in its grip.

He let out a heavy exhale. "Or so he did."

She did not reply, sitting down on the chest.

They shared in a moment of silence, before she turned her gaze back at him. He was still facing her with his back, head pointed at his metal table, hands gripping the edge of it.

"What is done is done." She sighed. "But you have not taken a life today. You have not done the undoable."

The Comissar hung his head lower, saying nothing.

She looked at him a little longer, her hand playing with the lock in his chest. After a while she decided to stand up again, opening it, helping herself to its contents in it. She peeled back a few roughly folded shirts. Even after all these times the Comissar lacked the dexterity to properly fold one. Beneath a linen sack at almost the bottom of the chest she found what she was looking for. A rough wooden toyship. Worn from the years. The paint almost faded. She pulled it out with delicate hands, closing the chest as silently as she could. The Comissar was still not facing her.

She mustered it in her hands, eyeing it with great sadness. There was a knot in her throat and tears prickling her eyes, but she shook her head and her thoughts away and replaced her grief with a determined look. She stepped forward, around the table to position herself before him, placing the wooden ship before him. The Comissar's eyes went wide as his gaze shot up towards her, unbelieving.

From her deep sleeves she procured a second item, a slightly faded photo sealed into a sturdy, metal lined glass frame. A young general was holding a boy that was sitting on his lap in it. Both smiled with a warmth that felt almost alien now.

"I found it in his belongings as we went through them." She didn't look at the Comissar. 

"He loved you too, you know." She continued, her heart tightening when she saw his finger twitch. She didn't need to look at his face to feel the broiling rage and the grief that kept his mouth shut.

"Put that away." The Comissar eventually ordered coldly, head sinking back down. "Put that... away." Though his voice betrayed him.

Little droplets trickled onto the glass of the photoframe.

"I can't." She croaked, trying to remain steady, tears welling in her eyes.

"For he loved you too." She continued to press on. "And you almost... almost..." She placed a hand over her chest. Over the place where where the tooth of the chainblade had eaten chunks of her flesh hours ago. She remembered the look on his face. It was a man she did not remember. A man drunk on the lust of slaughter. She did not finish her sentence. Letting out a tiny sob as her composure faltered.

The Comissar too felt the corner of his vision getting blurry as he watched her wipe away the tears with her sleeves. His stomach dropped. He could feel nausea overtaking him, but his years of service have hardened him against the feeling.

"What right had you?" He heaved out of his heavy chest, offence mixing with guilt. He didn't know what to feel anymore. He only felt the resistance of the blade surging up his arm as steel met flesh. The horrible squelching sound as flesh tore beneath it. Her flesh. "To stand before me?" 

"You would have died!" She sobbed a high pitched sob. "You would have died." She echoed. "Whether you took him to death with you or not, do you truly think they'll just watch you kill their general? You are not that dense, are you?"

"Still!" The Comissar finally released his grip on the edge of the table, grasping for her. Then you should have let me die.

Because he wanted to be nothing more than dead when he saw her jolting at his touch and erupting into an uncontrollable fit of wailing.

"No." His breath hitched. "Please. Breathe." He tried to console her. "Breathe."

"I thought I had lost you." She confessed between her wails in a volume uncaring if anyone could hear her.

"Your hatred had made you so... terribly... terribly ugly." She hick-huped. "I hated it. I hated it. And I hesitated too long before it was too late."

"No. Don't say that." He denied, feeling the tears streaming down his face too.

"I don't understand it. I don't want to understand it. He carved you ships. He paid for your tutors. He never missed a birthday without giving you some laughable extraordinary gift. Told you good night stories. Tugged you to sleep. And you... you... you.... you wanted to cut him down like that?" She yelled without meaning to.

"How? HOW?! How can hands so gentle like yours do something so monstrous?" She continued to wail, sinking to her knees. "How can a smile so kind like yours twist so madly?" She buried her head under her hands. "How can a heart so warm as yours turn so cold?"

The Comissar did not take his hands off her as he sank on his own knees, replaying the things she told him. He remembered them all, so painfully well and he felt nothing but warmth in each of them. Yes, not rage but warmth. Terrible. Fond. Warmth.

"I don't know." He finally answered.

He thought he knew why once.

For his father.

For justice.

It was honorable vengance to execute someone who left a man behind out of cowardice.

A man. A friend. The father of the child he took under his wing. His father.

Yes, he thought he knew why once.

But as she kneeled before him, with the boat and the picture between them, all he could think of was the uncle with the sly grin and another trinket behind his back and a wide eyed boy who's eyes twinkled in excitement.

[caroline-nighthunter]

- Cold -

I crawl from my tomb to absolutely emptionally destroy myself over niche old men no one wants to read anything about and you all have to suffer with me in my creation (also cross posted over on Ao3) because I actually became so fed up with the writing of the books that I had to write something human and swallowed by grief, anyway, enough rambling, here is a snapshot out of Dorden's med tent.

Platter, platter, platter.

Rain drummed against the canvas. The back of the medical tent was quiet. A prometheum lamp was standing half dimmed on the table. A caloussed set of hands brushed over a stack of reports. The red pen had been left untouched beside it.

"You are up late again." A gentle voice chuckled. "You'll be no good tomorrow."

She looked at the red pen and a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "But perhaps we have something to celebrate."

She set down her cup infront of him, the aroma filled the old doctor's nostrils.

"Still fresh." She smiled. "I hope this iteration captures it more."

Platter, platter, platter.

His digits curled around the metal mug, warm steel against cold hands, he grips it tighter trying not to let himself get lost in the scent.

It almost smelled like home. Almost.

He took a sip, let the liquid settle on his tongue, he did not look content. 

"I assume it still needs adjustment." She sighed. "And I thought I finally got it."

"It's not bad." The old doctor shook his head.

"But not perfect." She argued, plopping down on a chair beside him, taking one of the reports from the stack to read.

Platter, platter, platter.

"We are out of clean dressings." She frowned. "Why haven't you said anything."

The old doctor let out a reflexive chuckle.

"I received the update that the next supply drop is delayed by another rotation this morning." He shrugged, joining his other hand to the one on the cup.

"But I filed the order under 'high priority'!" She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'll have a word with the munitorum clerk tomorrow."

The old doctor only nodded along, his eyes wandering to the red pen.

Platter, platter, platter.

"Sorry." She apologized, tracing the trajectory of his gaze. Her hand found its way to his shoulder.

The rain continued to drum against the canvas as the prometheum lamp buzzes.

"You did good today." She gave his shoulder a reassuring rub. He said nothing in return. The old doctor took another sip from his cup.

"But not perfect." He muttered.

Platter, platter, platter.

Platter, platter, platter.

"But enough." She quietly argued.

The old doctor put his cup down to finally face her. Her hair stuck to the edges of her face, creating veins of rainwater streaming down her face.

"I had forgotten something at hangar Delta." She replied before he could say a thing. "The rain caught me half way back home." She chuckled.

"You'll catch a cold like that." He sighed, placing his cup down to stand up and retrieve a towel. He did not wait for her to say something either, wrapping it around her head to squeeze out the water from her hair.

"You shouldn't be so careless." He argued admidst rigorous rubs that left her hair all tousled.

"Hey..." She tried to protest muffled by each motion. "You're...." She huffed. "Ruining my..." Not that he cared. "My hair!"

"Better than soaked." The old doctor denied, though there was a glint of mischiev sparking in his tired eyes.

"Do you know how long it took to braid those?" She whined. "In contrary to what you think I only have 2 hands."

"And a lot to complain for someone dripping puddles onto my office floor." He argued.

She looked down towards her boots and felt her cheeks getting warm.

"By the sacred cogitator! I thought I had wrung out most of it before I entered." She cursed, taking a step back, though the old doctor prevented her from taking another, holding her in the grasp of his towel.

"Dry your head first young lady." He continued to pat her face dry. "The floor can't be saved anymore anyway."

She reached up to take over the towel from him. Soft fingers brushing against leathery callous as the towel changed owners. Eyes dropping to the floor in embarrassment.

Platter, platter, platter.

The old doctor lowered himself back onto his chair, his knees creaking in motion. Her eyes instantly dart to them. He took another sip from the tea feeling the brew warming his tired bones.

"How long?" She questioned, furrowing her brows, her gaze wandering up from his knees to his face. "You are due for another cartrilage injection."

He laughed.

"With these needles? I'd have more than bad knees to worry about." He shook his head, making her freeze in motion.

"Not them too." She widened her eyes, holding her head. "And the sanitizer?"

He looked away in shame, leaving her gasping.

"Y-you! You have to tell me that!" She argued bewildered taking a step towards him, her boots making a wet squelching sound.

"What else of the inventory is missing? No, don't tell me you depended on that missed supply drop." Her frown deepened, though by the looks of his face she already knew the answer.

"Forget it, I'll ring the damn clerk out of his sleep! This is the third time he has misplaced a scheduled drop!" She hissed, throwing the towel around her neck. 

"No." He denied, his sharpened gaze glaring at her for a reason he didn't understand.

Platter, platter, platter.

"No? What is that supposed to mean?" She put her hands on her hips, puffing her chest defiantly.

"Please...." He found no words to finish the sentence.

Her flash of defiance went as quick as it came, seeing his pleading gaze. She let her arms fall to the side, a perplexed look on her face.

Platter, platter, platter.

She pulled a chair close to him and sat down, but his eyes kept themselves glued to the spot she just stood at.

Taking one good look at him her hand crept over the table in the search for his. They were cold. So unfamiliar cold. Yet she said nothing, only squeezed them tight.

Platter, platter, platter.

Platter, platter, platter.

P l a t t e r ,  p l a t t e r ,  p l a t t e r .

The old doctor's breath hitched as his muscles tensed, trying so hard to focus. She tried rubbing soothing circles with her thumb. He took another sip from his tea. His breath steadied. His inner storm did not by the look of his eyes.

"You should rest." She let out a heavy sigh.

"I am not finished with my reports yet." He lied.

"It was not a suggestion." She shot back stern, though her voice softened with the next sentence. "Let me handle the rest, really."

Platter, platter, platter.

The old doctor did not comply on a whim, he stared a few moments more at the puddle on the floor, listening to the rain.

"Please." She insisted gently.

"Rest."

"I'll keep watch."

Platter, platter, platter.

Platter, platter, platter.

Platter, platter, platter.

[caroline-nighthunter]

Sebastian Yarrick - Emotionally constipated man who will absolutely shoot you without warning. But I like him. Very thistle like.

[caroline-nighthunter]

There was nothing to do at work so I made a Kane sketch.

[caroline-nighthunter]

| Flower |

[caroline-nighthunter]

Finished reading Siege of Vraks lately, perfect time to pull out "My saint grows flowers" again and sketch some mundane moments of the war.

[caroline-nighthunter]

-Father Of Sorrows-

[caroline-nighthunter]

I have picked up the Ciaphas Cain novels.

Mostly because he is a highly competent coward, who stays when it matters and a person of the people.

[caroline-nighthunter]

[caroline-nighthunter]

Some super rough sketches I did while procrastinating exercising converting boolean functions into CMOS.

I came up with this idea of a very AdMech style Library. Super complex. Super inconvenient in complexity, but it's working so why fix it.

Somewhat inspired by Rain World and having recently gotten my hands on an old ZIP disk (did you ever know 100MB were the equivalent of our current 1-2TB Hard Drives? And we still use an advanced form of that old compression algorithm of that disk today in ZIP files!)

I thought the digital Archives to be in the size of superstructures where all archeological dataslates are docked in to the archive's Server (the humble techpriest permanently connected to the Archive structure.) Through docking slots. Kinda like Floppy disks on an old PC. Just that you have millions if not Billions of those slots.

[caroline-nighthunter]

-The Machine Dreams-

"Can you hear the spirits sing?"

[caroline-nighthunter]

Happy binaric sobbing noises.

Skitarii Marshal may not have been designed for quiet contemplation, but from my own philosophy speaking machines are an extension of humans and are designed with our aspirations (and hopes) in mind.

Sure Skitarii Marshal and most the Mechanicus produces is made for grimdark war and like... the conversion of a human to a Skitarii or a servitor is most certainly horrific.

But the human spirit is stubbornly persistent and perhaps even though that base organic human processor/cogitator (I think that is the 40k accurate term) is so deeply fused with the mechanical, it may have a potential probability to dream.

Maybe even of a future where they are not just machines of war and destruction, but of creation and energy.

So that is kind of the basis I have in mind when I create my Admech Artwork.

[caroline-nighthunter]

- Maintenance Stroll -

[caroline-nighthunter]

-The Machine Dreams-

"Can you hear the spirits sing?"

[caroline-nighthunter]

- Vessel of adoration -

"With me you are not Phi-81, or the Weaver. Just Maris.... Sweet Maris"

[caroline-nighthunter]

Trusted Senechal