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Oct 13th, 2015
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  1. The Cult of the Micro-Omnissiah (this is no shit: http://wh40k.lexicanum.com/wiki/Cult_of_the_Micro-Omnisiah ) is a small sect of tech-priests, secretive but more or less loyal, that think they can find god in the little things. Their temple houses some of the only Imperial micro-forges left - they play with nanotech, because like all tech-priests they want to die. The navy loves their control hardware, pilots love the bio-circuitry cybernetic systems they spin out of high-grade silicon, and the nobility loves the only source of digital needlers in the segmentum, maybe the whole Imperium outside of captive Jokaero and rogue trader finds. They even look more like people than toasters because all the bulky shit most cogheads have to bolt to themselves is rendered far less necessary when miniaturization's your game.
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  3. But [character name] wanted out. He was never cut out to sit around his whole life and make another thousand tiny devices - he was born in the microcult, raised working the nano-forges, matured while learning to handle the medicae for delicate implant work as well as a Magos Neuralis, and learned his cult's needle-gun manufactora like the back of his hand by the time they made him a full Magos, which was coincidentally about when he started entertaining thoughts of escape or suicide. He'd always pull emissary duty and talked to every group of visitors that docked when he got the chance - collecting a little extra data on the outside word was exciting for him, and everyone else was happy to let him so they could get back to work. He studied administration and logistics to try for promotions and decide his own fate, sociology and psychology to survive cabin fever, finally got himself appointed chief adept to the Factor…and then everything started going sour.
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  5. The once-per-century muttering about a purge started up again, and his cult needed to curry favor with Mars or take their chances with a bunch of zealots. They sent him out to bargain down the asking price for not getting their tithe doubled or their whole order dismantled down to the last mechadendrite and came away only having to put together a token addition to the quest for knowledge, and to reward him for this incredible feat of diplomacy he was promoted to Factor and put in charge of the fool's errand.
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  7. Technomagos [character name here] reported for duty to the most rusted-out spacecraft he'd ever seen, a frigate-scale Forge Tender fleet logistics and repair vessel, complete with half-cursed tech-forges and a skeleton crew of misfit outsider cogheads his Archmagos had collected from a few dozen of the minor orders and subcults of relatively equal importance they'd had to take on as bargaining partners against Mars. The ship stank from centuries of uncaring use, complete with an air recyk nobody bothered to fix so it could scrub out methane traces. The undersized servitor crew muttered scrapcode as he passed. The Metasurgeon down in medicae specialized in Xenobiology and not people, the chief biologis adept managing the servitors's life support and nutrition was a politically divided Genetor who couldn't decide if he was Carnicula and wanted his vat-grown pets to outlive him or a Vogelite proponent of forcibly bio-upgrading every baseline they met. The security detail were disgraced Skitarii. There were dozens more, all black sheep from some small flock happy to see them go, and none of them shut up about their borderline tech-heresy politics.
  8. The sanest one was Omniprophet JPL-325, a product of the AdMech's refusal to let a legendary geneline run out just because the cloned brilliance it bore them came packaged with a love of getting fucked up on bad code and baseline human drugs outdone only by their need for lobotomization. At least [character name] has someone to practice human-style negotiator binge drinking with.
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  10. Such is life on tender-ship Truth From Error.
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