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“The protocol should have been instantaneous. Instead it took two microseconds. Why?"
“Ageing systems? Solemnace is..." He caught Trazyn's look and trailed off, casting his monocular downward as he searched for a euphemism that would not besmirch the overlord's beloved gallery. "Historic?”
―
“Ageing systems? Solemnace is..." He caught Trazyn's look and trailed off, casting his monocular downward as he searched for a euphemism that would not besmirch the overlord's beloved gallery. "Historic?”
―
“Understand?" Orikan snapped. "To understand is not in you, Trazyn. You're a bird making a nest with shiny things. A child with a rock collection. You want things simply to have them. Their true meaning, their use, is lost on you.”
―
―
“Slave to the past? A lack of vision? Perhaps, my dear astromancer. Perhaps." Trazyn tossed the puzzle box in the air and caught it again, delighting as Orikan's monocular widened in distress. The casualness was feigned. He'd plotted the object's arc two hundred times before making the throw, and put it gingerly into his dimensional pocket. "But you are a slave to your visions, with no sense of the past. I suppose it is in our natures, yes? My lot is to preserve, yours to predict.”
―
―
“The cryptek bowed, obsequious. "The stacks are full, my lord. We are over capacity. I have humbly suggested that we expand the collection into the space currently occupied by the wine cellars".
"But then where would I put my wine, librarian?"
"You... you do not drink wine, my lord."
"Of course I don't,' Trazyn snapped. "It's far too valuable. Request denied.”
―
"But then where would I put my wine, librarian?"
"You... you do not drink wine, my lord."
"Of course I don't,' Trazyn snapped. "It's far too valuable. Request denied.”
―
“Neither of them were warriors. For Trazyn, the dust of the archive was more familiar than that of the parade ground, and Orikan had spent aeons training his mind and neglecting his body. Had this duel occurred during the Flesh Times, it would have been comical. Two withered ancients, rangy, round-shouldered, stained with ink and smelling of incense tearing at each other with barely the strength to bruise. But biotransference had, for all its horrors, made every necron an armored juggernaut. The two swung at each other, filling the gallery with the sounds of the forge. They locked weapons, shoved and bashed their plated skulls like horned beasts.”
―
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