By the time the resouling of the Uhnashret Dynasty was complete, Manric felt like he'd been dragged through a wire sieve backwards.

The problem was not the process itself, which required relatively little energy, just patience and skill. What had seared his mind and sapped his will were the emotional reactions of the necrons. It wasn't like the non-sentients… they had all their memories of the Flesh Times fully intact, and all the traumas that came with that. That was more harrowing and required intense work. Still, the sentient necrons often began experiencing memories immediately and many were related to biotransference. The sudden recall of loved ones who were no longer present was a common theme. Fortunately – for a very dark degree of fortune – Manric was finding that most of them had been like Panaa, walking through the Furnace semi-voluntarily. Those who actually fled, like Ahabi, were in the minority and their traumas were much, much worse.

Still, there was a degree of trauma present in almost everyone. Even the most joyful reactions were tinged with sorrow. Kototep's reaction when he discovered he could sing had been bittersweet to Manric, because he could tell he'd missed it so much.

It was all incredibly taxing to an empathic telepath. Manric could have shut himself off from their feelings, walled away his mind, but he couldn't bring himself to do that. Many of them needed comfort and support, things he was very well suited to give. So instead, he offered himself up, attempting to take on their pain.

The only thing that kept him from going into complete emotional exhaustion was visiting with his family. Spending time with Zelda and her children, and Nanci and hers, was a balm on his soul. Istaal had come home for good, intending to return to the army only when his children were grown and Nanci agreed to his taking biotransference. Manric would be pleased enough to have him in his forces… Istaal was a bit limited in some ways, but still a worthy man and an excellent Knight armor pilot. His skills would easily translate to the Short Knives or the Doom Scythes.

The best part of visiting his family was playing with his grandchildren. Some of them were afraid of him at first, but Manric cheated shamelessly to win them over. He played with them, revelling in the fact that his metal body never got tired and could take any abuse from mere children. He was very careful with them, of course, but not the reverse and the most enjoyable thing for him was the smaller children using him as a living jungle gym.

(unknown to Manric, Zelda captured the whole thing on video and sent it to Rahkaak. She then sent it to Zahndrekh, who loved it and wanted to show it to everyone. Before long, even Imotekh had seen it)

(the ribbing he would get later would be embarrassing, but also well meant)

As always, though, Manric meditated on his spear. He still had visions of the future but they were no clearer than before… now, his visions were haunted with a strange vision of a garden and a pool of water that invited him to look in, but when he started to do so something seemed to warn him and he would always look away. What that could possibly mean, he had no idea.

One night, though, his vision was entirely different and clear as glass. Manric came out of his meditation with a start and reacted instantly, pulling his spear from the ground. He was supposed to be spending two more days with Nanci and her children, but he needed to leave immediately. Nanci and Istaal were both very unhappy to hear it and Manric felt they deserved some kind of explanation, although it was a bit hard for him as part of it was simply not their business.

"I have never really explained this to anyone, but my spear sometimes grants me visions of the future," he said carefully. Istaal looked a bit dubious as Nanci stared at him accusingly. "Nanci… if I do not return immediately, and take care of something, someone is going to die." That made her pale a bit and Istaal frowned. "Someone very important. We really cannot afford to lose him, so I must take care of it." Zivok was not really Manric's favorite person. He tried to find worth in everyone, and he did find it in the amoral researcher, but he had to look very hard.

"Will you come back once this problem is addressed?" Istaal asked and Manric considered it before nodding.

"I will, as soon as I can. Probably tomorrow." He could complete his last few days with them then. For tonight, he would make sure matters were taken care of. If he didn't stand over Zivok and literally force him, he might make an excuse not to follow through and that would result in tragedy.

Manric took a private glideship, owned by his family, to Hope's Landing. Then, as quickly as he could, he made his way to the underground research facility. When he got there, Zivok was present and in deep conversation with one of the new Crypteks from Charnovokh. He was unrestrained, so Manric had the idea that a change in loyalties had occurred. Well, it wasn't surprising, necrons would never contemplate surrendering to an inferior race but with each other matters could be very different.

"Oh, Manric! Aren't you back early? Also, this is Semephren, he is apparently from the Nihilakh Dynasty originally and he has sworn loyalty to the Sautekh. Remarkably, he's also showing some signs of psyker abilities, he probably lucked into a particularly active soul." Really? That could happen? But then, the DNA stock they had used for the clones did include his own DNA, taken from military records. However, Manric refused to let himself be distracted.

"That's nice, make sure he wears a blackstone collar." Could a necron be used as a chaos portal or possessed? His guess was yes and Semephren would have no defense other than blackstone. "We can talk more about it later. Zivok, I am here for you. You are getting biotransference, I have already scheduled the appointment." This was not optional. Zivok's mouth dropped open before he suddenly glared.

"Excuse ME! You have no authority to do such a thing!" Technically true, but Manric didn't care. He would frog march Zivok to the biotransference chambers if he had to. "How dare you! I am still preparing for my presentation, it's only next month!"

"Zivok, you don't have a month. You don't have a week, and I think you don't even have a day," Manric said, reflecting on his vision. It had been extremely clear. "You've abused your body too far. You're going to have a massive brain hemorrhage in your sleep. Not even your modified Scarab will be able to save you." It would try, he knew. Unlike most of its kind, it was programmed to help Zivok every way it could, including soothing the overwrought tissues and trying to keep him healthy. An uphill battle for the poor thing Manric was sure.

"But… but… Manric, you know why I haven't gotten biotransference yet!" Yes, he knew, and it was completely insane yet also incredibly important to Zivok. It was also the thing about him that made it hard for Manric to just write him off as an amoral psychopath. It was so beautifully human. "I can't give up now! I can't!" Zivok's knuckles were white as he clutched his pen. Manric gently reached out to grip his shoulder and give him a comforting squeeze.

"I know and I'm sorry, but you need to let it go. If you die tonight, you're not going to win the golden whisk," Manric said compassionately. "Let it go." Zivok had to give up on this dream.

"Pardon me. 'Golden whisk'?" Semephren asked and Manric hesitated, thinking of how to explain. Zivok was just staring at his datapad, lost in what Manric registered as a form of grief.

"Forgive me, but do you have any recollection of necrontyr feast days? The great spreads of food that would be made for the Phaeron and his court?" Manric asked, hoping he did. Unfortunately Semephren gave a quick glyph of negation. "This might be a bit difficult to understand, but such things are more than mere sustenance… many emotions are attached to it and such things can be a display of high status." That, Semephren would surely understand. The necrontyr and necrons were both all about status.

"The creation of food can also be a work of art, a great labor of love. There are recipes that take literally days of work, all kinds of preparation, to execute properly. In particular, baked goods are the provenance of such things… they require precision in execution, perfect timing and temperatures. Even then, random luck, like a muggy day can interfere and cause a cake to fall." Manric knew all about this because – "My aunt is a devotee to these arts. Every year, there is a great competition for the title of Worldwide Amateur Baking Champion and a massive battle for the coveted golden whisk." Manric paused a moment, trying to think of how to explain the scope of that battle. "To put it in perspective, defeating the current champion is a feat of difficulty on par with defeating Imotekh the Stormlord in a naval engagement when he already has an advantage."

"That is impossible," Semephren observed and Manric nodded sympathetically, glancing at Zivok. He was mumbling to himself.

"Eight years. Eight years! Every single year, second place!" It was a hard life. "I can't give up now! I need to win, I need to finally defeat Rosalia!" Manric knew Rosalia and found it mildly amusing that Zivok was in a feud with a very sweet, grey haired grandmother. "My new recipe for the plum pudding would have done it! I know it would have! Manric, I'm not done yet!"

"I'm sorry, but you are done." Manric said firmly. "One way or the other, Zivok, this is over." He could either leave the stage on his own power, or in a body bag.

"By shell, you mean an artificial body like our own?" Manric nodded at Semephren's question. "Can he not continue to compete after biotransference?" Well, technically he COULD but –

"Without my sense of taste?! If I can't use that to refine the flavors, I might as well not even enter! I'll be kneecapped!" Manric nodded, understanding perfectly. "I probably won't even make second place anymore…" Zivok was actually mourning his loss. If Manric hadn't known him so well it would have been utterly bizarre.

"Zivok, I know you're having an existential crisis, but we need to make that appointment," Manric said firmly and gripped Zivok's upper arm. Then Semephren interrupted.

"Could I please watch? I admit to recalling nothing about biotransference." Well… he saw no problem with that, if Zivok didn't mind. Manric glanced at Zivok but he was still sunk in his depression.

"Zivok? Do you mind if Semephren watches the process?" No response. "Silence is assent so yes, that's fine." That was the rule anyway. Manric gently steered the researcher out and to the underground Tomb World. They had initially set up all the biotransference facilities there and saw no reason to move them. "Come on, cheer up Zivok, you can finally become a cryptek."

"I really don't care." What an attitude. "Not having my Scarab is going to hurt my research activities, Manric. I'm really such a terrible psyker and the methods to enhance my abilities will be so much more limited as a shell."

"Yes well, those 'methods to enhance' are why you need a shell." That was simply a fact. Zivok had abused his own body severely and had to face the consequences. Zivok lapsed into hurt silence and Manric let him. Some disappointments just had to be borne.

The biotransference itself went smoothly enough. Unsure of what Zivok would want, Manric had picked a fairly generic civilian grade shell. It was a silvery human style shell, with flexible woven metal braids for hair, matching the silver of the body. Each braid was capped by a heavy bead, a style that was becoming quite popular on Hope lately, probably in reaction to the shells.

"Interesting. What did it feel like?" Semephren asked as Zivok animated as a machine. He tilted his head to one side, taking his first halting steps as Manric retrieved the ghost wood holding his soul.

"Like nothing at all, really. Adjusting to this is a bit awkward though. Manric, please, can you give me my soul the quick way?" Manric nodded. The only reason they used the one-week method was the lack of psykers to 'chase' the soul into place. But Zivok was a psyker himself so he'd want his soul back as quickly as possible so he could continue his work.

Manric quickly transferred the soul, and Semephren watched that curiously as well. Manric made a mental note… if this cryptek was strong enough and could be quickly trained, he would take him to Mandragora to help with the re-souling of the Sautekh Dynasty. Speaking of which.

"Zivok, something just occurred to me. Can you see if there's a way to nurture psychically strong souls?" Manric had a few misgivings about it, but… "We really do need more psykers, and stronger ones." If a few necrons could be converted to psykers, that might be good, despite the dangers. Zivok tilted his head to one side.

"Well, I can look into it, and see if I can get some samples from Rafeef. I don't think he's part of the DNA records right now." Manric was sure he wasn't, aside from necessary samples for security. And also, being entered in the DNA database did require consent. Manric had given his samples when he joined the army. "I'm sorry Manric, it's a bit hard for me to think about this right now… I suppose I should just donate my supplies…" Now that was going too far.

"Zivok, stop that. You don't have to completely give up your passion just because you can't win the competition. Also, while it's not good for this year, you could find a partner and start entering the doubles tournament," Manric said and Zivok shook his head, but he persisted. "It might not have the same status as the golden whisk, but the silver measuring cup is still a worthwhile trophy. And you could always go for the platinum rolling pin in the pie category."

"Manric, stop trying to cheer me up. Although I suppose I shouldn't do anything rash… I can always donate things later." That was a better attitude. "Let's get back to the lab." Right.

Manric got them back to the research facilities and, his work done, went to take the glideship back to Istaal and Nanci. It was officially the next day by the time he arrived, it was so late and everyone was asleep. Manric no longer needed real sleep, aside from a bit of time for maintenance, so he took the opportunity to meditate over his spear again.

Hopefully this time, he would not have any urgent visions of the future.

Valdar Toshka did not like Solemnace at all.

The issue he had with it was that it was clearly an artificial world and if he'd found it surveying, he'd have instantly passed it by with a small shudder. He'd also have marked it on a map as extremely dangerous, to be avoided or possibly, destroyed. That would be up to his superiors.

Instead, they had to land on it and Valdar didn't particularly want to touch the surface, but he did it anyway. Sheaf of papers in hand, he walked through the silvery dunes in a brilliantly lit world with a feeling of deep trepidation.

"What in hell is this?" Sisus growled, looking at the silver 'sand'. "This isn't sand." He kicked a bit of it experimentally and it behaved in a manner similar to sand, floating in a graceful cloud. Was it Valdar's imagination or had it made the image of a skull, just for a moment?

"It is n-nanomachines." Eh?! "S-Similar to what empowers our self-repairing n-necrodermis. We have the t-technology to do t-this but for most things it would be p-pointlessly w-wasteful. It is said the C-C-C… Star Gods did this for T-Trazyn, long a-ago." Ah.

"I see… a lot of things are like that. So many things we COULD build, but they're just such resource sinks." It amazed Valdar sometimes that they'd actually built the thing that could destroy stars. Of course, they'd done that to move planets around for terraforming, but still. They had actually BUILT THAT! Holy shit!

Solemnace put that bit of technical overkill to shame, though. Valdar paid very close attention to everything and he could tell this was a Dyson sphere. The harsh lighting of the planet came from reflected light and energy from the sun inside the world, which was very impressive.

"What are we looking for?" Casimir asked. "What signs of the way inside?" Well, if Valdar had to make a guess, they weren't looking for anything. They were waiting for Trazyn to get bored of watching them shuffling around.

"We are r-really just w-waiting for T-Trazyn to let us in." What he'd thought. "He w-will eventually when he gets b-bored of this. B-But it might take a wh-while because of m-me… I am s-sorry." Ah, right.

"No, that's fine," Sisus said and Valdar nodded. "We've got nothing but time." Of course, the same was true of Trazyn. Still, he'd want to know what they were there for eventually.

It took almost an entire three days for Trazyn to take pity on them and let them enter Solemnace. That entry came in the form of a platform, free of the silvery sand, that they were clearly meant to use. They all stood upon it and it descended into the depths of the artificial world.

The galleries of Trazyn the Infinite were truly amazing. Lit with the soft green light that all necrons preferred, they were incredibly expansive, with monumentally large displays of entire landscapes. Valdar had no idea what he was seeing for many of them, because there was no frame of reference and while there were labels on things, they often didn't clarify too much. What Valdar did easily notice, though, was that they were not being permitted to take their own route through Solemnace. Someone unfamiliar with Necron technology, or less observant, might have missed it but Valdar could see where routes had been closed to them, walls moved and re-shaped. He strongly suspected the entire interior of Solemnace could be changed on the whim of the owner.

"We're being mocked," Sisus growled and Valdar glanced over sharply to see what he'd noticed. It caused him to stop dead in his tracks.

"…" It was a display stolen directly from Hope. A beautiful church, built of stone, with the silver and black cross they had always favored. A priest, dark of skin and eye, was wearing the Vestments of the Prophet and conducting a Mass. Valdar noted that they'd clearly missed some kidnappings… those were serfs, most likely, taken from remote villages. Definitely Hopian, just judging from the appearance.

(Valdar was mostly correct, although Trazyn had also taken a few dark-skinned humans from other displays to fill it out a little when he decided he didn't have quite enough of the Hope humans)

(they fit in reasonably well although a close examination would have revealed the substitutions)

"Y-Yes, we are v-very much being m-mocked," Oramoton agreed with a glyph of resignation and Valdar looked at him to see he was staring at something else… a staff, standing alone in a stasis field. It was a beautiful staff, malachite and silver and matching the color scheme of Oramoton's body. "T-Trazyn, can we p-please speak?"

Valdar twitched a bit as a Necron seamlessly stepped out of the shadows. He hadn't known Trazyn was there, which actually bothered him quite a bit. Valdar took pride in his abilities at scouting and being surprised like that wasn't pleasant, even if he knew Trazyn undoubtedly had the ability and equipment to defeat much better than him. Valdar took the opportunity to examine Trazyn the Infinite. A necron Overlord, he wore a cowl and many plaques, removable adornments that denoted his very high status. What surprised Valdar was how he moved… he moved almost like an old man, leaning on his staff like a cane. Valdar strongly suspected it was an affection and if he was motivated, Trazyn would move like the wind.

"Well, well, Oramoton. How very daring of you to come see me here. And you've brought me the gift of some pwi-necrons! I could use more for my displays, how kind of you." Oh excrement. Although they HAD been warned that might happen, their families would get special death benefits if they didn't come back. Except Sisus of course.

"Please don't. We like our jobs, we want to go back to surveying," Valdar said, a touch hopeless. They really had no power here at all. "Also, we're here for a purpose." Valdar squared his shoulders before launching into his prepared speech. "Trazyn the Infinite, Archaeovist of Solemnace, please accept these images, the only known images of the visages of the necrontyr." Valdar offered him the folder containing the papers and Trazyn's eyes flared. He took the folder and flipped it open, stopping and staring at the first image. "Also, please accept this recording, where a necron who recalls the Flesh Times in full details the funereal rituals and the blood sacrifices of the necrontyr." Trazyn's head snapped up as Valdar offered him the cube that contained the recordings. "Please note that while these are deemed common heritage, the commoner who gave us these images and information is a treasure of the Uhnashret Dynasty. Any action to interfere with her will rouse the ire of the Phaeron of the Sautekh." Imotekh would be more than willing to declare war over Panaa. But then, from what Valdar had heard, he was still more than a little annoyed with Trazyn for trying to steal his staff. Trazyn took the cube and in an almost dreamy way, activated it. For a moment it projected an image of Panaa dancing and singing the song for Lord Inabi. Then Trazyn shut it off, but Valdar was sure he was itching to watch all of it privately.

"I see… how incredible." Trazyn put the cube away before flicking through the folder. "Ah… is this Phaeron Rahkaak? Yes, I see that it is." Valdar nodded. They had added her name and rank in the bottom corner, in Necron runes, for the necrons who wouldn't be able to recognize the symbol of the Uhnashret. They were a very small and unknown Dynasty, after all. "And this one… Commoner Ramotekh. Trainer of hetra and husband to Panaa." Yes… they'd put in that little blurb of information as well, to give context to the images. "Well. I think perhaps I will let you return to your surveying duties after all." Thank God! Although Valdar could tell, from his long experience with necrons, that Trazyn was deeply moved by this. He closed the folder and made it vanish, likely put away in a very safe place, before turning to Oramoton. "But what are you here for, Oramoton the Eternal? To beg for your staff back?" Trazyn's tone was extremely taunting and Valdar winced internally. Oramoton took it calmly.

"Y-Yes, that is my in-intent." Oramoton bowed deeply, putting his hands together. "T-Trazyn the Infinite, I m-most humbly a-apologize for my c-conduct towards you. I h-have wronged you d-deeply for n-no good r-reason. I k-know you have no r-reason to take p-pity on me, but I h-humbly beg you to r-return my s-staff. It is very d-dear to me, not just as an item of p-power but the g-greatest honor the Phaeron ever sh-showed to me." Oramoton followed that by a long glyph poem of supplication and abasement, very eloquent and almost painful for Valdar to read. There was a long pause as Trazyn mulled it over.

"Ah… how can I refuse so eloquent a plea? It seems you truly have learned something," Trazyn said and Valdar had the strange impression that he was grinning. "Very well, I see no point in rubbing your face in the dirt any further." Trazyn made the stasis field around the staff vanish and it slowly levitated to the floor. Trazyn plucked it easily with his free hand and Valdar noted that he definitely didn't need to lean on his own staff, that was certainly an affection. "Just try to do better in the future, Oramoton. And if you actually do recover from that engrammatic damage, I will consider that you owe me a favor." Ah, that was his spin on this. Oramoton nodded as he accepted the staff.

"That is acceptable. Th-thank you." Oramoton bowed again and they all beat a quick retreat. Trazyn let them go without comment… no doubt he was going to immediately immerse himself in what they'd just given him. The way out had changed, though, and Valdar saw they were being mocked again.

"…" They all paused to just look at a display of a Necron Warrior gently holding a tiny old woman. Valdar felt a deep sadness as he looked at it, a moment of true love captured and frozen in time. What saddened him more than anything was that even if they could convince Trazyn to give them back, it had been how long? Over fifty years. So much had changed, that old woman's children might be dead, would it even be a kindness to return them now? Or was it better to just leave them here, a testament to the Hopian culture and the Uhnashret Dynasty, what they were building together?

"There's nothing we can do," Casimir finally said and Valdar nodded sadly. Trazyn wasn't offering to give them back, this was just a final dig at them. They moved on then, leaving that scene behind with a feeling of bittersweet sadness.

Valdar would be very glad to leave Solemnace behind him.