The Reverent Exhumation does not feel like a ship that was built and launched. It feels like something that was unearthed.
There are voidships that announce themselves with elegance, menace, or grandeur. The Reverent Exhumation wears a different sort of authority. It has the presence of a relic-prison, a cathedral excavated whole from beneath a dead world and somehow taught to breathe vacuum.
Even in flight it never quite loses the sense of buried weight. Its lines are stern and old-fashioned, its flanks broken by shrine-work, armoured galleries, and sensor vanes that look less like fittings and more like the petrified antlers of some ancient beast. Its upper structures still carry the architectural memory of the forge-colony that entombed it: basilica towers, processional buttresses, blind rose-windows plated over in iron, and lofty sensor spars that once jutted from vitrified ash like the broken crowns of a drowned city.
Long before the dynasty claimed it, whole generations lived in its shadow. When the ship lay buried beneath the crust of that dead forge-colony, only its highest cathedral-spires and auspex vanes were visible above the ash plains. The local descendants of failed colonists, salvage-scavengers, and shrine-keepers gathered around those protruding sanctified ruins. They built lean-to chapels against sealed armoured doors. They lit candles to dead machine saints. They passed down half-remembered rituals for hatches that never opened and bells that had not rung in millennia. Children were raised under the looming shadow of its upper works and learned to speak of the buried vessel not as a machine, but as a sleeping holy place. Those people, or rather their descendants, still serve aboard it.
That is the soul of The Reverent Exhumation : not merely its bridge, its engines, or its guns, but the fact that much of its crew was not recruited so much as inherited. The ship-clans aboard it are old, intermarried, stubborn, and profoundly loyal. They have the kind of loyalty that does not come from discipline manuals or prize shares, but from ancestral memory. Their forebears sheltered under the vessel’s sealed sanctums when it was still a half-buried mountain of iron. To them, serving aboard it is not employment. It is a return. A reclamation. An ascent into the body of the god-house their ancestors revered from outside. They are not the finest voidsmen in the Expanse. There are other crews who are slicker, faster, more polished in drill and ceremony. But few crews endure like these. They weather deprivation, casualties, and long passages with a kind of inherited stoicism. They think in generations rather than voyages. They quarrel, brood, pray, marry, and bury in the same steel warrens their grandparents helped clear when the ship was first exhumed. They do not break easily, because breaking would mean betraying something older than themselves.
That endurance is shaped not only by iron and ritual, but by places aboard the ship that should not, by all rights, feel as lived in as they do.
Deep within the vessel are the clan quarters, the shared kitchens, the shrine alcoves, the old communal halls, and the arboretum that has become one of the strangest lungs in the ship’s body. The arboretum was not planted fresh in some neat post-restoration scheme. It was adapted from the gardens that had grown in and around the vessel while it lay planet-bound. What began as windblown growth in cracked galleries, devotional planters tended by shrine-keepers, and stubborn pockets of green clinging to ash-fed moisture became, over generations, part of the culture of those who lived in the ship’s shadow. When the vessel rose again, cuttings, root-beds, and seed-stock were brought within. The result is not a decorative pleasure garden, but a living relic-space: part memorial grove, part air-warden, part monastic refuge. Some corners are clipped and ordered by deck-clans who treat them as ancestral inheritance. Others are half-wild, with black-leafed vines, pale fungus lanterns, and hardy shrubs descended from the growth that once crept over sacred iron under an open grey sky. Children are brought there to learn old stories. Oaths are sworn there. The dead are remembered there. It is one of the few places aboard where the ship seems to exhale.
Set among the clans, like iron nails driven through old wood, are the Mechanicus cabals.
The Adeptus Mechanicus never loved the whole ship equally. Their devotions have always had a hierarchy. Their true fascination lies in the ancient heart of the vessel: the bridge and the enginarium above all, then the auger systems, the grav-culverins, and the reclamation decks. Those places bear the clearest stamp of sacred design, of lost doctrinal artistry, of machine-rites too old and too exact to be mistaken for mere utility. The bridge in particular is the sort of place that makes even seasoned officers lower their voices. It is less a command center than a mausoleum of command. Brass columns rise like organ pipes. Hololithic projectors bloom in dusty light. Ancient command thrones sit in recesses like reliquaries. The machine-spirit there feels watchful, proud, and a little disdainful, as though it remembers captains whose names were carved in finer script than any living man’s.
The enginarium inspires a different sort of reverence. It is the domain of heat, chanting, and controlled terror. The great drive-cathedral does not merely power the ship. It dominates it. To walk those decks is to feel that the vessel’s true heart is not martial at all, but liturgical: a vast mechanical devotion expressed in turbine scream, incense haze, and reactor-light. Yet there is something less reassuring in it than in many Imperial vessels. Part of that comes from the warp engine itself, an ancient and faintly suspect thing by later standards, revered for the swiftness it can lend a passage and mistrusted for the same reason. The tech-priests who tend it behave less like engineers and more like hereditary clergy assigned to a dangerous miracle. Each cabal has its sacred jurisdiction. One maintains the bridge’s sleeping intelligence and the logic-choirs wired into its antique control stations. Another tends the drives and plasma regulators. Another keeps the rites of the Miloslav engine, watching its seals, harmonics, and sanctified housings with an intensity that borders on suspicion. Another oversees the auger vaults, where the ship’s senses are interpreted through rites of filtration and omen-reading. Others care for the grav-culverins, whose broadside chambers thrum with the heavy, elegant brutality of Martian doctrine.
Some of these cabals are true priesthoods. Others are half-clan, half-order arrangements: adsecularii and servitors bound to a presiding magos or enginseer, living in component-shrines and speaking of “their” systems with proprietary ferocity. They are ship-clans too, in their own fashion, though colder and more doctrinal than the blood-kin warrens that fill the habitation decks. Where the void-clans speak of ancestors, the cabals speak of prior custodians. Where the void-clans tell stories, the cabals maintain liturgies. The two ways of life do not always harmonize, but they have learned to interlock.
That interlocking is visible in the ship’s manufactorum. To an outsider it appears simply as another industrial deck, another grim necessity among many. Aboard The Reverent Exhumation it is something more intimate than that. The manufactorum is where the ship’s practical life becomes visible as a continuous act of maintenance, adaptation, and stubborn self-renewal. The Mechanicus oversee its machine-spaces, sacred templates, and sanctioned production rites, but the clans live close to its rhythm. Its furnaces cast a dull red weather through nearby passageways. Its presses hammer time into the ship’s bones. Small necessities for daily life, repair pieces for deck machinery, devotional fittings, replacement tools, coffin-plates, shrine grilles, garden frames for the arboretum, and a thousand other humble essentials all emerge from its smoke and clangor. It makes the ship feel less like a finite stockpile drifting in the void and more like a closed world that can, to a degree, keep remaking itself. It is one reason the clans endure privation so well.
The Reverent Exhumation does not merely carry supplies. It breeds continuity.
If the manufactorum is the ship’s working hand, the auto-temple is its outward-facing soul. It is not merely a chapel for the crew, though it serves that purpose every day. While aboard, it tends to the spiritual needs of the clans, the officers, the servitors’ overseers, and the countless laboring hands that keep the ship alive. Its priests hear confessions, bless births and unions, preside over funerals, lead feast-day observances, and keep the vessel’s devotional life from collapsing into private superstition and inherited half-memory. For the void-clans especially, its presence matters. It gives their ancestral reverence a properly Imperial shape. It reminds them that however old their bond with the ship may be, that bond remains within the Emperor’s light.
But the auto-temple is more than a shipboard consolation. It is a weapon of faith in its own right. When the need arises, the temple can be cast down from orbit to the surface of a world: a complete, staffed, self-contained church descending from the heavens with priests, relics, icons, devotional infrastructure, and the full theatrical certainty of Imperial truth. On a benighted frontier world, the sight of it must be terrifying and magnificent in equal measure. One day the sky is empty. The next, a temple has fallen from the void and planted itself in the dust like a divine verdict. From there the missionaries of The Reverent Exhumation can preach, organize, judge, succor, and convert with an authority no mere portable shrine could ever hope to match. It is not subtle. It is not meant to be. It is faith delivered as an event.
This gives the ship a peculiar spiritual gravity. The crew do not merely live with religion humming through the walls. They live with the knowledge that part of their vessel can descend whole to a planet’s surface and become the Emperor’s foothold there. To the clans, that makes the ship feel even more like a wandering sacred precinct. To the Mechanicus, it is an interesting but secondary miracle, a sanctioned ecclesiastic organism grafted onto an older and sterner sacred machine. To the missionaries attached to the vessel, it is proof that The Reverent Exhumation is not just a relic of the past, but an engine of future compliance.
That function changes the culture aboard in subtle ways. The ship’s devotional life is stronger, more disciplined, and more public because the temple’s priests are not ornamental. They are an active presence among the people, tending the flock in the ordinary days between crises and conquests. They bless the arboretum’s memorial groves. They walk the clan-decks. They preside beside the manufactorum’s heat and clangor. They offer comfort after the reclamation decks have taken their due. Their ministry does not make the ship gentler, exactly, but it does make it steadier. It gives grief somewhere to go besides silence.
Nowhere is tension clearer than around the lance battery.
The prow lance is infamous aboard the ship. It is old, temperamental, and given to moods that the Mechanicus cabals describe with suspiciously personal language. It is said to whine at some hands and answer eagerly to others. It has a reputation for petty balking, for taking offense at rushed invocation, for running hot when insulted and cold when neglected. Around it has grown a distinct social body aboard ship: the lance-clan, a knot of hereditary gunners, loaders, wardens, and shrine-servants who speak of the weapon almost as if it were a blooded ancestor. They polish its housings with obsessive care. They resent outside tampering. They claim, in low voices, that the lance knows its own people.
The Mechanicus cabals, naturally, find this intolerable. Not openly. Not enough to provoke a true breach. But there is a long, subtle, needling feud between the lance-clan and the priesthoods assigned to the prow sanctums. The cabals insist the weapon belongs to the Omnissiah’s order. The clan insists that without generations of familial service the battery would have sulked itself into silence centuries ago. Between them has grown a dense layer of ritual compromise, territorial grudges, and carefully veiled contempt. It is one reason the dorsal mount remains empty. Officially, the ship does not need more spiritual disharmony in its upper spine.
Unofficially, no one aboard truly wishes to discover how the lance’s machine-spirit would react to a rival weapon enthroned above it.
Then there is the reclamation facility, which tells outsiders more about the ship than any heraldry ever could. On many vessels, casualty and depletion are misfortunes. On The Reverent Exhumation, they are also logistics. The reclamation decks are run with cold, exacting efficiency by Mechanicus functionaries who see no virtue in waste. Broken bodies, damaged labour, spent flesh, exhausted stock: all are assessed, sorted, and put to use. To an outsider this can make the ship seem ghoulish, even monstrous, especially because it sits alongside the fierce familial culture of the void-clans. But aboard the vessel there is less contradiction than one might expect. The clans do not love the reclamation decks, but they endure them in the same way they endure vacuum, hunger, and warp-sickness: as part of the law of living inside a sacred machine older than any one life. The ship protects its people with the same blunt logic it uses to consume them. It wastes little. It remembers enough.
That contradiction shapes the mood of the whole crew. The Reverent Exhumation is not cheerful, but it is not hopeless either. Its people are loyal because they belong. They are hard because they have always had to be. Their world is made of compartments, shrines, inherited obligations, garden-walks under lumen light, forge heat, prayer, and family rights carved into steel. Its tragedies are intimate. Its endurance is communal. When the ship suffers, the clans close ranks and the cabals tighten rites. The vessel carries itself through misfortune by converting grief into duty with terrible, practiced grace.
To command The Reverent Exhumation is to rule less like a naval officer and more like a sovereign balancing priesthoods, houses, and old ghosts. The bridge does not invite improvisation. It imposes ceremony. Orders given there seem to enter the ship through layers of remembrance, translated by antique relay-thrones, echoed by vox-choirs, and carried outward into decks that are part monastery, part foundry, part garden-sanctuary, and part family crypt. A captain who is impatient with ritual will feel resisted, if not by mutiny then by atmosphere itself.
The vessel likes deliberation. It likes confidence. It likes commanders who understand that some orders are best delivered as pronouncements rather than shouted instructions. In open void it feels deliberate, measured, slightly aloof. In the warp, however, it feels different: quicker than something this old ought to be, but never entirely comfortable. Officers accustomed to steadier ships sometimes come away with the uneasy impression that The Reverent Exhumation makes its immaterial passages with clenched teeth and a fixed stare, as though forcing speed from a route it does not wholly trust. But near worlds, that tension changes. Around gravity wells, orbital debris, rings, and upper atmospheres, the ship grows uncannily sure-footed. It moves with the confidence of something remembering a former state, like a beast returning to familiar ground. Officers who know it well say that this is when the ship seems happiest, if such a word can be used for something so stern.
To outsiders, The Reverent Exhumation can be difficult to read. Traders see the cargo decks, the manufactorum output, and the lighter bays and conclude it is a pragmatic, workmanlike vessel, only to be unsettled by the cathedral spine and the prow weapon’s shrine-guarded sanctity. Naval officers see an old monitor-cruiser with respectable guns and disciplined lines, then discover a crew culture far more tribal and devotional than regulations would prefer. Pilgrims and missionaries stepping through its public aisles find a ship that can smell of loam, hot metal, and incense all in the same hour. Worlds below learn that it carries within itself a temple that can be lowered from orbit and raised upon alien soil. Navigators and other warp-sensitive souls often react most strongly of all, sensing that beneath the ship’s stately discipline lies an older, more uneasy relationship with immaterial travel than is comfortable to name aloud. The Mechanicus see one of their own designs and grow attentive, but not entirely at ease, because the ship belongs to the dynasty now, and because too much of its soul has been shaped by generations of non-priestly reverence to be fully claimed by Martian doctrine.
That, more than anything, is what makes The Reverent Exhumation memorable.
It is not merely a Mechanicus vessel. It is not merely a dynasty flagship. It is a sacred ruin that learned to voyage again. A buried shrine transformed into a voidship without ever ceasing to be a shrine. It carries gun-decks and cargo holds, priesthoods and bloodlines, scavenger-descended clans and iron-limbed servitors, workshops and processional aisles, remembered gardens and living worship: It carries, too, the faint and troubling prestige of a vessel that crosses the warp on an engine old enough to be admired, doubted, and feared in equal measure, all woven into one uneasy but enduring whole. It feels old in the way mountains feel old. It feels inhabited in the way tombs sometimes do. And wherever it goes, it brings with it the unsettling impression that some things were not built to be owned so much as inherited, feared, and obeyed.
(@weldun's write-up of our ship for the Rogue Trader campaign - he really is a much better writer than me)
blakekathryn
stormborns
kianamaiart
2087
germansingergirl
