Servitor Wheelchair

Due to recent developments in my Dark Heresy campaign I humbly present to you the servitor wheelchair.

At times, a servant of the Emperor is grievously wounded while performing his duty. But only in death does duty end, as we all know. And thus, the servant has to struggle on. In Sinophia Magna exists an ancient hospice called the House of Alms. Like the whole hive, this institution is hovering uneasily between decadence and utter dissolution. But when the arbitrators asked for something, anything to keep a crippled dignitary mobile, the house provided.

The wheelchair is made from black, lacquered wood with huge wheels extending nearly to the head of the person placed within. The varnish is scratched, and there are unwholesome spatters on the maroon leather of the seat and the backrest. The chair has a high back, keeping the patient very straight. Leather straps fixate the legs of the patient on a metal rest, while his arms remain free.

Behind the backrest, a servitor is placed. The medicae tell that it was once an infamous strangler terrorizing the docksides of Sinophia Magna in service of the Rag Court. Now it spends eternity serving the frail. Its legs are gone, and its long hands rest on the wheels. There are extensive lobotomy scars on its skull. Its back is studded with brass studs, glass tubes and wires. Its mouth was sewed shut and his ears replaced by brass grilles, but its calm, curiously mild eyes remain. The patient can use common gothic to direct the servitor, which turns the wheels with its long arms, assists with simple tasks and helps the patient to rise from the wheelchair.

The armrests of the machine contain a small dedicated cogitator linked to a drug injector rig. If the patient should suffer any kind of physical crisis, the rig will inject him automatically with a potent mixture to keep him breathing just a little longer.

The huge, black wheelchair with the lank figure of the servitor hovering over its backrest is speedily delivered to the arbitrators' HQ, for there waits a broken servant of the Golden Throne who still needs to go to dark places.

Hugh Three Cuts

Duerrenmatt turns up at early dawn. While Good Water is still fast asleep, the group starts out. Again, Zed takes point, followed by Mal Porter’s massive Nissan Conquistador. They pay the toll in values, cross the dam and roar off towards the ridge separating Refugium from the rest of the world.
They reach the crest long before midday and decide to take a break. A t-crossing and a small picnic area from the Long Ago sit on top of the ridge. Weathered benches and tables sit in the sun, an ancient billboard advertises the view down Bozeman Valley and a newer sign points out the safe route to Refugium and Goodwater. An old blacktop leads north, towards the broadcasting tower the men saw the day before. During the whole drive up the hills, Mal and Rod were looking at the ancient structure, and, naturally, they broach the subject. Sister Duerrenmatt only knows that the tower belongs to an old broadcasting station: Neither she nor anyone she knows has ever visited the place. Mal and Rod exchange a short glance, and Mal proposes a short visit to the old building – he is just too much of a scavvy to let such an opportunity slide. While Duerrenmatt is less than enthusiastic about this sudden change of plans, Rod’s honeyed words manage to get her on board for a small trip.
The old blacktop is decidedly off the safe route, and thus the convoy travels very slowly. After one hour, the explorers see a flat brick building next to the large broadcasting tower. The man-sized letters “BBYK” sit on its sagging roof. All windows are gone. The building seems to have burned in the past. The tower is rusting, only some aluminum struts at the top glint in the midday sun. There are no signs of human habitation or other visitors. Mal stops his vehicle at twenty meters from the dark entrance on the old parking lot in front of the broadcasting station. He, as well as Rod and Duerrenmatt leave the jeep, while Zed stays on his bike, about ten meters in front and Dan Hawking covers from the hatch of the Conquistador. They carefully approach the building, spread out, weapons ready. Rod glances at Duerrenmatt: The young woman seems to have shed her reservation towards this little adventure.
Suddenly a voice calls from the darkness of the building: “Stop where you are! Keep your guns down! Who are you? What do you want here?” A male voice, middle aged, rough. While Mal and the others stop, Zed slips from the dirtbike and moves towards the building: No reaction from inside. Mal starts to parlay “Everybody stay calm, we mean no trouble. We’re just exploring. We saw the tower and decided to have a look.” “Well, I saw the place first, and it’s my scav, so you better go on your way.” Zed crawls through one of the empty windows into the building. A large, dark office, burned out, long since plundered of anything of value. The voice comes from another large room just across a corridor. Meanwhile, the exchange between the explorers and the stranger goes on. Mal shouts “Come on. Let’s just have a short talk, we are new in this region, and need some pointers. We won’t take anything away from this place, alright? Can we have a talk?” “We a have a sit-down and a friendly chat, you don’t take anything away, not even a screw.” “If you have found something interesting, we might barter. But neither I nor the others will take anything away.” Zed slinks oh so silently across the corridor, sidestepping broken glass and rubbish on the floor. He peeks into the next room and gets a good look at the stranger. A middle-aged, haggard man in what once has been a trench coat, his narrow face and neck disfigured by two long knife scars, standing in the darkest spot in the room. He holds a large revolver with a scope and seems to aim outside, into the sunlight. His head is covered by a grey scarf. As Zed ponders his options – Shoot? Rush and stab? Rush and punch? With a punch dagger or without? Listen to this guy rambling on? – the man lowers the revolver. “Good. Come on in. But no funny business. You would regret it.” Mal holsters his guns, and Dan takes his sights off the windows. The group meets the man inside the building. He introduces himself as Hugh Three Cuts: a single scavvy bound for Holy Flame City to meet some old acquaintances. He is making a short detour – “Every day in Holy Flame costs a fortune, so I rather spend a few days here digging the dust than waiting for my people bleeding values by the hour.” Three Cuts seems friendly enough. He apologizes for the unfriendly welcome, but then this region has a bad history. He even extends a stiff offer to share water and food with the group.
As they squat down for a small meal in the cool interior of the broadcasting station, the explorers have a good look at their host. Wary eyes, thin blond hair, weathered skin and those two large scars: He might be older than forty or younger than thirty. Beneath the coat is an ancient Kevlar vest, mended dozens of times. Three Cuts also wears a heavy brace on his left knee and walks with a pronounced limp. Apart from that, he is kitted out like many scavvies. Lots of tools on an old police belt, a sawn-off shotgun in a belt holster, a rugged flashlight which doubles as a club for troublesome critters one might encounter in the ruins. There are a small automatic on his boot, and the large, well-cared for Colt Python with the pistol scope in a shoulder holster. He surely has other weapons on his person, and even when the mood starts to become friendly, one of his hands is close to a gun at all times.
After a silent, awkward start, Three Cuts seems to warm to his visitors. He tells them of his own visit to Good Water two days ago: He planned to drive to Refugium, but he changed his mind “I had a bad feeling when I looked at the people living at that dam. Something was not right. One young fellow gave me a strange look. The route to Refugium once had a bad reputation, and I am not the trusting kind. So I decided to skip Refugium and have a look at this place.” The scav has been bad. Most things have already been taken away or rotted: no fancy electronics or books or computers. When the group came in, he was busy in the basement, ripping out old copper wiring. The trunk of his sedan – hidden under camouflage netting – is full of this junk. The explorers have a look of their own, but Three Cuts is right. There are no easy pickings left.
The group finishes the meal and bids farewell: Three Cuts tells them he will spend the next day, two days max, on the ridge. Then he will be off to glorious Holy Flame City. He wishes the group the best of luck “Best take care and keep your eyes open. This is a strange country. They say the bad days are over – I have the feeling they are wrong.” With this final warning, the group leaves Three Cuts behind and rolls back to the safe route between Good Water and Refugium.

Little boxes are for trinkets and dead people

I don't know Maureen Johnson. But I like her manifesto about personal branding. Via io9.

Gaze upon Unhappiness

Pictures of unhappy hipsters. Pictures with funny captions. I am easy to amuse.

They are building Rapture!

Via The eXiled. City of the elect, away from all those dirty unwashed "parasites"? Check! Life of luxury? Check! The bleeding edge of technology? Check! On the high seas? Check! Of course, it's planned as a surface vessel, but looking at the people heading this project I can't help but think how fast this thing will be on the bottom. They'll have their first civil war a month after launch, and I am sure that both sides will resort to genetic augmentation, as well as knives and wrenches, as soon as the ammo runs out.
The article is heavy on the biographies of those involved, and while I would have welcomed floorplans of the ship, these guys make excellent NPC villains. So my players may expect the Utopia to make an entrance somewhere in the future.