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Two waves shuddered the cell that they were trapped in, the first added approximately three minutes to their freedom of consciousness when the quaking sent the liquid-filled vials with its hooks and tubes crashing to the ground. Neither of the two Metal Seers looked up from the alien cogitators they'd attached themselves to, seemingly unaware of the shaking that had taken place or of the stain that was spreading across the floor which had been meant for them.
Just like the assorted pieces of metal and tools that laid on either side of their restrained body. That too was meant for them. If not for the rumbling, the procedure would have begun the moment they unlinked themselves from their machines - and there would've been less time for yelling.
The cogitator scrambles with runes that they don't recognize, but it doesn't matter. The seer's return of awareness is clear, coming to with shudders, their fabricated limbs spinning
"Please," they try again, voice shrill, trying not to look happy at their unhappy expressions towards their now ruined equipment. "It was only one ration card. My parents were starving."
As if by miracle, one of them looks up with sudden interest, the still liquid part of their eye brightening with surprise.
"Starving?" 'He,' they realize, asks.
"Yes!" They yell, over a distance scream that causes the one that hadn't spoken to look up, head shifting as if to hear it better like some kind of impossible animal.
"How is this possible, Unit? Each standard-issue meal is measured to be the optimal amount of protein, fiber, and calories necessary for each Labor Day. Starvation is impossible."
"It's never enough! It -"
"An exaggeration," the seer sighs, all interest in the conversation disappearing in an instant with their statement. "If it were not enough, the population of this world would plummet, and the number of food strikes remains at a stable rate. Your flight of thoughts are all the more reason to demand your servitorization, Unit," he finishes with more sympathy and than he had any right to. Not that they could really see it. Not over the horror of realization once the second one returns - when had they even left?! - with a new cart, new tools for splitting them apart and putting them back together and more vials and cannisters that they couldn't hope to name.
"Do not be afraid."
A cold hand cups their cheek, pulling their attention towards the one that had been speaking to her, closer now, and thus exposing the truest places where metal and tiny things that looked like strings attached to skin.
"I find your body worthy of interest. I shall take take your maintenance on as a responsibility personally, Unit. You will become a beautiful -"
And then the second quake struck the building.
The machines meant for cutting, the seers, the room - all disappeared in a flash of viscera and metal, and they realized they were staring into the open sky, the great foundation that made up this side of the palace had been apart, exposing it to the rest of the world. Mountain winds dragged across their face, and it took all they had not to scream in confused terror as the seer's hand, now without the rest of them, still held onto their chin, the bloody stump hanging from them.
A shudder shook the palace. A great face filled the place where the sky used to be, and, somehow, they knew it was staring down at them, the black holes where eyes and a mouth ought to be turning a bright red as it spoke to them.
"BE NOT AFRAID."
They screamed.
... = ...
Hiya.
I'm looking for a GM interested in a plotline in 40K that sees a combination of a few different tropes and concepts; a GRIMDARK feudal world who hosts an assembly of Imperial Knights & Titans with a very Camelot-esq aesthetic to them. They worship the idea of knighthood, chivalry, all that jazz... and the RP would ideally happy to slip into some Mechsploitation in the process, exploring the relationship between an Imperial Knight and the absurd individual who becomes its pilot - a serf in the 40K 'verse, saved moments before being transformed into a servitor.
The direction for this RP in my mind is this former serf becoming bonded with a legendary and ancient Knight who sought them out upon the death of its former pilot, ignoring all other candidates from the usual class of aristocratic parasites, forcing the nobility to grind their teeth in seething rage as this peasant becomes a de-facto member of high society. They'll ideally do some big stupid fights with giant monsters, do some politics, have some dysphoria, ideally bang a haughty and arrogant princess in a very Princess Bride-esq manner; you get the drill. I'd like for them to, by the end of the story, take their world into a more altruistic and hopeful direction.
Underdog storis filled with genuine threat and danger are my preferred medium. I want our main character to have to think through problems and deal with possible consequences for poor decision-making.
Don't really care too much about the gender of our main character. The chance of me writing them as a heterosexual woman is zero, however.
Just like the assorted pieces of metal and tools that laid on either side of their restrained body. That too was meant for them. If not for the rumbling, the procedure would have begun the moment they unlinked themselves from their machines - and there would've been less time for yelling.
The cogitator scrambles with runes that they don't recognize, but it doesn't matter. The seer's return of awareness is clear, coming to with shudders, their fabricated limbs spinning
"Please," they try again, voice shrill, trying not to look happy at their unhappy expressions towards their now ruined equipment. "It was only one ration card. My parents were starving."
As if by miracle, one of them looks up with sudden interest, the still liquid part of their eye brightening with surprise.
"Starving?" 'He,' they realize, asks.
"Yes!" They yell, over a distance scream that causes the one that hadn't spoken to look up, head shifting as if to hear it better like some kind of impossible animal.
"How is this possible, Unit? Each standard-issue meal is measured to be the optimal amount of protein, fiber, and calories necessary for each Labor Day. Starvation is impossible."
"It's never enough! It -"
"An exaggeration," the seer sighs, all interest in the conversation disappearing in an instant with their statement. "If it were not enough, the population of this world would plummet, and the number of food strikes remains at a stable rate. Your flight of thoughts are all the more reason to demand your servitorization, Unit," he finishes with more sympathy and than he had any right to. Not that they could really see it. Not over the horror of realization once the second one returns - when had they even left?! - with a new cart, new tools for splitting them apart and putting them back together and more vials and cannisters that they couldn't hope to name.
"Do not be afraid."
A cold hand cups their cheek, pulling their attention towards the one that had been speaking to her, closer now, and thus exposing the truest places where metal and tiny things that looked like strings attached to skin.
"I find your body worthy of interest. I shall take take your maintenance on as a responsibility personally, Unit. You will become a beautiful -"
And then the second quake struck the building.
The machines meant for cutting, the seers, the room - all disappeared in a flash of viscera and metal, and they realized they were staring into the open sky, the great foundation that made up this side of the palace had been apart, exposing it to the rest of the world. Mountain winds dragged across their face, and it took all they had not to scream in confused terror as the seer's hand, now without the rest of them, still held onto their chin, the bloody stump hanging from them.
A shudder shook the palace. A great face filled the place where the sky used to be, and, somehow, they knew it was staring down at them, the black holes where eyes and a mouth ought to be turning a bright red as it spoke to them.
"BE NOT AFRAID."
They screamed.
... = ...
Hiya.
I'm looking for a GM interested in a plotline in 40K that sees a combination of a few different tropes and concepts; a GRIMDARK feudal world who hosts an assembly of Imperial Knights & Titans with a very Camelot-esq aesthetic to them. They worship the idea of knighthood, chivalry, all that jazz... and the RP would ideally happy to slip into some Mechsploitation in the process, exploring the relationship between an Imperial Knight and the absurd individual who becomes its pilot - a serf in the 40K 'verse, saved moments before being transformed into a servitor.
The direction for this RP in my mind is this former serf becoming bonded with a legendary and ancient Knight who sought them out upon the death of its former pilot, ignoring all other candidates from the usual class of aristocratic parasites, forcing the nobility to grind their teeth in seething rage as this peasant becomes a de-facto member of high society. They'll ideally do some big stupid fights with giant monsters, do some politics, have some dysphoria, ideally bang a haughty and arrogant princess in a very Princess Bride-esq manner; you get the drill. I'd like for them to, by the end of the story, take their world into a more altruistic and hopeful direction.
Underdog storis filled with genuine threat and danger are my preferred medium. I want our main character to have to think through problems and deal with possible consequences for poor decision-making.
Don't really care too much about the gender of our main character. The chance of me writing them as a heterosexual woman is zero, however.
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