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@syntheticache
SYNTHETIC ACHE ——
.ind ♦ .priv ♦ .semi-sel multi-muse Roleplay blog feat. Original Character Lavent van der Olorovius , Archmagos Belisarius Cawl , Primarch Sanguinius ( and others ) from series Warhammer 40k — blessed by Nik.
Follows back from @quantumlogician
Information under cut.
MOVED TO VICARLUNARES
This blog has been moved over to @/vicarlunares.
Seeing that smile, he bent downward and leaned in some, snickering a bit to himself, " Well, it'd be more than that. Think about it with me for a moment. " Gently taking his Sigillite's shoulder, Ayhan very carefully shook him, making sure to not jostle him too much.
" Efficient warriors that also have the time, and capacity, to understand other things beyond it-- arts, philosophies. History, too. They can be molded to whatever you wish to be... " A pause, and soon he was snickering again, " The eye-candy is just a bonus. "
Thin-boned shoulder is seized in a hand far too big to bear it. Malcador makes no effort to move away, swaying to the motions of his Emperor.
" Your emphasis on the latter is telling, " he is rocked off his heels, forcing him to exert minor effort to remain balanced, " the Thunder Warriors have fell short of your standards? "
" Give me a warrior and I'd make an errand boy of them. We both know how this will go: wasted potential. "
" Well, it wouldn't be all at once, Malcador. One thing at a time-- since we also have to build an army if we want to reclaim the rest of Terra... and the Thunder Warriors are highly unstable. "
" ... imagine the possibilities-- would you feel better if I said you could have a few to yourself? "
" That's precisely why my thoughts are aligned with critique and not praise — for we have much to do, no? "
A shake of his head. He jests. It shows as much on his unveiled smile.
" You think you can win me over with a bite of eye-candy? You must have me mistaken. "
" What? "
He threw his hands up, pouting at him.
" I can't be a little self-indulgent? "
" This is beyond indulgence. Avarice, more like. Ten-thousand, my King. "
" Theoretically, you must be insane. "
Ash rolled his eyes. "Not on me it won't." Ash poked at the wound, he looked annoyed if anything, "I would need a properly functioning immune system. It won't heal properly until the next time I die."
The Night Lord is suspended in such disbelief, it was all he could do not to balk at the perpetual.
" How are you alive, if this is true? Don't piss me off. " Ceramite claws grab Ash at the waist and sets him on one thigh to continue his fussing over the rest of them; sleeves rolled back towards the shoulder, looking for other lacerations.
Ash raised an eyebrow. His expression still twisted in confusion. Finally once Alaric finished tying off the bandage Ash tore his arm away. He winces slightly as the notion pulls at the wound. "Wasn't going to bleed out, and it's so very likely to get infected."
Ash is given an incredulous look so intense, surely it must be felt through the unfeeling gaze of Alaric's helm.
" What are you talking about? " he secures the bandage in with an extra tug, even if he had every intention to peel it off and re-examine his clean work, " it is stitched properly. It will heal. "
cont. — @looking-for-lost-stars
Alaric was empty of reason when his hands mindlessly worked gauze around wounded forearm. Perhaps the acrid copper scent disturbed his finer senses— or, maybe he had just wanted to. Oversized bronze claws handled the medical tape with a precision that belies his bulk.
" It's bothering me, " he replies, offering no further explanation beyond that.
The ancient was so lost, so alone, that he swore the sight before him wasn't real. At first, he believed his eyes to be playing tricks on him again. Perhaps he saw that golden light because he hoped beyond hope that someone else was out there, was looking for him even when he didn't deserve to be sought out. But then the shape drew closer, and closer still, taking the form of one of his guardians, his Custodian sons. They, unlike the Primarchs who shared his blood, were raised in the palace, hand-reared by him alone. They were warriors and scholars, poets and princes, and one was here, here for him! This wasn't real; this couldn't be. Kusig Alad was the last man alive, at least on this world, perhaps on all. He was tempted to strike the hand away, to tell the daemon tormenting him to reveal themselves to him so that he might banish them. But animalistic, simian curiosity compelled him to entertain the notion of a Custodian having come for him, especially when that Custodian spoke in a voice distant, yet familiar.
A discolored, scarred left hand reached out and grasped the gilded armor as though it were driftwood in a stormy sea. Fitting, as Kusig Alad certainly felt like a drowning man.
In any normal circumstance, Sulla would have known better. His second senses would have alerted him to who was undoubtedly before him and bow deeply in reverence. This, understandably, does not happen.
Unfeeling gauntlet touches over the broad expanse of thin, taut skin. It felt the presence of a heartbeat within; the infusion of spirit, a life yet manifest. It even mirrored him with all the human weight upon his breastplate no apparition could ever replicate.
His intuition could be wrong. Damn it all, falling for such an easy warp spell could rightly kill him, but Sulla didn't care. His hearts only beat by sheer will alone, his body only possessed strength from the final fatty caches before his animal body resorted to eating through the muscle.
The Guardian Spear is thrown aside, clattering over the glass before it's carried off over friction-less scales.
Sulla hugs him. In no dignified gesture, his arms are thrown around this man at anywhere they would catch over his gaunt body; auramite looping somewhere along his trunk. A proud golden wing flared out from the mask of Sulla's helm, rusted over by Warp frost, slams into his lordship's chest— the Praetor's head sinking into forced solace.
Live Sulla reaction.
Was none other than his own Master, alone, naked and coated in a thin layer of soot. Even without his regal regalia, he was still recognizable, but fundamentally and inexorably changed. Night-dark hair crowned a head covered in thickened ropy skin the texture of the dark volcanic glass he stood upon. One of his golden eyes had gone milky-white, with only the faint outline of an iris remaining. This mottled, discolored skin of his extended from the left side of his face, to his neck, all the way down to the very fingers of his left arm. The silvery remains of lacerations raked their way across his bare chest, the only clear hint at what these scars represented. The wounds of his last battle had been soul-deep. They would follow him so long as he lived, died, and lived again. Though the Custodian is fairly distant from his Master, that Master could, in his one remaining sighted eye, catch the glint of his golden armor in the harsh and knifing light of Sol. The former Emperor approached, nearly as flabergasted by the sight of one of his protectors as that protector was by the sight of him. He knew not whether any vestige of the human race had survived his cataclysmic rebirth, but the sight of golden armor gave him hope where he should have none. He was no longer the man Sulla once knew, no longer the proud and arrogant ruler who presided over the human race, for he was Emperor of the ashes and dust now.
Every step he took cracked the glass under his feet and shredded their worn skin, leaving bloody footprints in his wake.
There were no words to be said. Sulla's mouth parted, whether in awe or to speak was unknown, for nothing came. His armor soon became the very shackles of his being, chaining him at the finality of his death march where he stood waiting; at attention. Auramite claws strangled the hilt of his spear, relegating his proud weapon to the demeaning ranks of an anchor, hilt fixed into shattered Earth to tether him here.
Within brewed a maelstrom of emotion, ugly and terse, with all the vulnerability of a child and all the unsightly despot of a cheated man. Sulla laid eyes upon his Emperor, in all his lost glory, ghosting over the scales of volcanic glass an apparition of not only his majesty, but also his Empire.
The Praetor's knees threatened to arrest with gravity towards the ground. Almost did, if it weren't for the strident step forward— one heavy crash of his armor at a time until the distance between the two of them was no less an arm's length ( for a man relative to the Custodian's size ).
" My King, " he utters, quiet into a world that no longer sings, " my— "
The words fell away. In their place was the lift of a golden clad hand towards his master, seeking a connection, confirming his existence.
It did not matter that he was outnumbered. It did not matter that he was outmatched. There were only two things that mattered now. The mission, and getting back alive.
I promised. I promised.
It was in that moment that another wave of electricity surged forth. But this one was not his own.
Laertes lifted his gaze, his eyes still flashing with the glow of psychic power as he searched for the source. And there he found it. A tall figure, though not as tall as a Primaris, clad in old armor bearing an unfamiliar sigil. The staff was of strange make, but it was a Psyker's weapon, there could be no doubt. And while Laertes could not guess at where this man had come from, he would not turn down the aid.
"Your timing couldn't have been better, Cousin!" The words were punctuated with the sound of rapid gunfire, as he aimed at the commanders. Once, twice, thrice, his shots found their mark, and three of the beasts fell. And it gave him the opening he needed.
A truly guttural cry rang out, and he slammed his foot on the ground, crushing one of the hormagaunt's near him. With that same motion a wave of lightning erupted. The power curled upward, domed around him, and rapidly pushed forward and out. A crackling surge of lightning wrapped around a telekinetic shield and forcing the monstrous wave back. The lightning sparked and caught, electrocuting and charring many of the creatures, if not outright crushing them.
At last, it appeared there might be an end to the misbegotten horde.
Cousin.
Either this one was blinded by battle, desperate for assistance, or just that vapid. Alaric will grant him benefit of the doubt, if only because this hoard of hissing, salivating creatures was proving to be an amounting headache. Another strike of his bronze staff against the suggested presence of the Immaterium, sucking in a breath of the void, before striking its warp-flames in retaliation.
Another front line of these gurning creatures fell to the unnatural-natural element of stolen lightning. Their carapaces wafting steam up into the air along with the dust and the ash.
Between the two of them, the air crackled, sparking in all areas around them as they pressed on the advance— at some point, the Night Lord joining this unusual Astartes so they might fight on equal ground.
" Your left, " came a snarling warning. The unwielding arm reveals itself from a red cloak with plasgun in fist, spraying down another pathetic flank from these annoying pests.
" If we spearhead - at 3 o'clock - we will break their defensive line. " Alaric couldn't rely on the convenience of a private vox, so he chooses the undoubtedly better alternative: lovingly injecting himself into the mind of this soldier, for better or for worse. He doesn't suppose there were any consequences to that, surely.
"Glass is difficult to manufacture in warpspace. The ship has space. Wasting resources is suboptimal." Finalising the discussion.
Roboute declined to look at his brother's form while he changed. Instead fussing with his fabric folds to ensure they lay properly. The curiosity was killing him. He knew he wouldn't be able to stand the sight without crying. He had to be strong. He could cry about the situation they found themselves in later. Oh if only he were not so numb.
"Presently I prefer bland instead of being covered head to toe in purity seals, gold, and a swarm of cerubs flying halos, lights, and decorative cloth around my form. A choir at minimum 500 strong narrating my existence back at me constantly. I assure you, unmolested cotton is the highest luxury you will have for a long while yet unless you cave to corruption."
With a tired smile he led the way to his hardly used sitting room. The room looked hastily dusted to the Primarch's eyes. No matter.
"Come sit. The wine has been delivered and... ah..." Roboute sighed "Your sons have gained a penchant for blood." The 13th pointed at a well insulated box placed oh so neatly next to several bottles "I believe Cawl is willing to spare you some of my extra blood bags that are soon to be unusable for me in an emergency." With a grunt of couldn't care less, Roboute sat.
As always with Guilliman, it was numbers, wasn't it? Sanguinius shouldn't have anticipated any less.
He tugs over the fitting of his plainwear, hiding away the sin of another brother slapped dolefully over his shoulder and down the length of his thigh. Not much could be done other than the forward cascade to shield over the shoulder, obscuring it from view.
" It has been too long since I've worn anything that was not my own ceramite. I was beginning to wonder if I would live in it forever. " Bad jokes, yet he still laughs.
The humor didn't last ( it never does ) when Roboute slips the comment concerning the curse Thirst. A dour expression tempering his luminous eyes when he scans over to the cache. " ... I'll have Astorath take them whenever we are finished. "
Sanguinius tries, again, casting away the storm upon his countenance with the sunshine in his ever-burning soul. It becomes less convincing each time when his lips draw into an agreeing, pleasant smile.
" What's on the menu today? Cabernet sauvignon, merlot? " A tease, " no, clearly, you fancy a riesling. "
Lyra released a sigh of relief, a smile crossing her lips for just a moment as she watched the pair. This must've been how people felt watching her and Laertes. It was refreshing to see such candid camaraderie. And more than that, it allayed her remaining doubts.
"Unfortunately yes, a rather big reason." She opened her coat, revealing a slim armored vest, along with a myriad of pockets, a small pistol, and at least six visible grenades. All of which had been carefully hidden by the cut and fabric of the garment. But she didn't reach for the weapons, instead she reached for a large pocket sewn into the side, from which she removed a data slate. Flicking it on and inputting the code, she held it out for the pair in front of her.
"We're dealing with what could well be a full blown cult. As far as we can tell all channels of communication on world are being monitored. Our tech-priests are busy ensuring that we remain undetected. We'd rather save as much of this world's populace and production capacity as possible, rather than just sending them in to start blasting." She gestured flippantly at the Marine behind her.
Laertes gave a nod and offered his best apologetic shrug. How one managed that with pauldrons the size of a small child remained a mystery. And yet he was nothing if not emotive, in body and expression. "To be fair we are made for one job, and we do it rather well."
"Tch, except when it comes to not being caught." Lyra let out a sigh, and looked back at the Astropath and Mechanicus. "Anyway, we needed to establish contact with any remaining uncorrupted Mechanicus. Apologies for the scare, but I wanted to be sure you see."
Both war-raised bodies immediately cut to the sight of Lyra's jacket opening, weary of her next move. The pretense was clear that there was to be no contact had, but instinct often took before reason. Seraphine was first to relax when the corner of the data-slate slips from her pocket.
Lavent remains hyper-vigilant in lesser ways, his awareness heightened, but nonetheless compliant with the Inquisitor's demand. His holo-lense turns mid-axis, correcting his vision to the text before him with a binharic hum after a quick read.
" That is quite the accusation, Miss, " he comments, " a cult? In a world guarded as this? They must be quite elusive — or persuasive. "
Seraphine betrays her avoidance of the Astartes when massive pauldrons move, fingers twitching at her side as her scarred arms raised with gooseflesh. She says nothing otherwise, seeming more guarded about the Artisan next to her above all else.
" You can prod me with all the necessary scans. I assure that I am safe, right? " he nudges the woman next to him, who returned only a scowl, finding absolutely no humor in this," you are quite up the chain here. Will you be asking me to interrogate my fellow associates whilst I'm at it? " It seems this Mechanicus lacks social tact, or maybe he was prodding for a reaction, there lived no hint in the shade of his hood neither in the position of his many hands.
It must've been the end of the world. At least, that was the first thought within the Praetor's mind. Staring over what was considerably a chasm anymore instead of the spires of gold and brilliance, Sulla felt a unique ache center-chest, stabbed in with loss: remorse.
The very marrow in his bones ached. His armor hung heavy like a penance than it did an honor. And, to make matters worse, Terra was somehow so much brighter — blinding — without its bronze and glass towers. Yet, in all his wanting to submit to the very dirt and die ( probably ), he marched on to nowhere. It was his spirit that anchored him to realspace, weaving in some purpose to tether him to this realm; he doesn't understand it. It was simpler to admit that he had plainly gone mad than to decipher this subconscious motive.
Somewhere from the entrance of the golden gates towards the heart of where his life used to be, he drops however many kilometers down over cliff onto weather volcanic glass.
What good was it to be here? It was all gone.
He moves. Sulla never stops moving. The sweltering sun weighs him in by the step and he swears the connective tissue of his body has long eroded, but conviction kept him in motion until he was seemingly graced with a distant presence. The outline of someone in the depths of this echoing cavern.
The Custodian clambers over towards it, Champion Spear serving as a walking stick before a weapon, puncturing nature's glass with every step until he meets this crumpled flesh. This...
By the Throne, he thinks but never says. His throat has long gave, so it was all he could do to stab his stare into what he could have sworn...
Closed starter — @divinituscaptivus
who is Sulla?
He was originally some lore-supplement OC for Malcador, being his Custodian Equerry/Guard detail. He ended up spawning a life of his own.
