Necrons' whole "we are an extremely advanced spacefaring civilization but also Bronze Age Egypt" thing is funny in a lot of ways, but my favorite one just has to be the crypteks' whole deal.
Because they are, like, scientists. In the way that would probably be (save for those of T'au) closest to the way we understand the term. They have specializations. In fact, with how advanced necrontyr technology was, and how short their lifespans were, they would probably be incredibly hyperspecialized to the point that two plasmancers from slightly different sub-fields of study would barely be able to understand each other.
But in the necron society they play the role of the Wise Men, the Priests, the Scribes - old and wise keepers of all manner of knowledge at the king's side, always ready to talk at length about the mysteries of the universe...
Like, Trazyn's long-suffering buddy Sannet is a dimensionalist. Probably spent his entire mortal life to become one. But he works as a museum curator... because he is a cryptek. And it's crypteks who handle all the nerd shit like "writing things down", right? And yeah, I guess he needs the expertise to handle all of Trazyn's stasis toys (he is probably the one who makes them for him, come to think of it) - but it doesn't change the fact that my man is as far from his homefield as he could be.
Essentially, what I am saying is that Necrons treat PhDs in the same way that Hollywood movies tend to - as a mark of belonging to an order of mystics, not as a professional specialization. And I think it would be hilarious if it was ever acknowledged:
'Come, Zuldarekh, your phaeron calls. Tell me of this stellar anomaly and how I could use it for the glory of the dynasty!'
'I... uh.. fuck, man, I don't know. I am a floramancer. Do you want to know about the effect that cross-pollination strategies have on mutation rates in plants in a particular region of that planet over there?'
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is there anything that makes necron lords as much of a threat as a crypteks should be other than just being the ones in charge usually?
In reality, no. Granted they could physically threaten one, but they donât tend to have a whole lot over them otherwise.
The simple fact is that Crypteks are usually occupied with their own stuff to the point that they prefer being left to their own devices. Plus, theyâre valuable enough to nobles that they can usually just ask for resources in exchange for some of their services. If your mind is utterly bent towards a mind-boggling exploration of science, and you can have all the material and respect you want if you do odd jobs for some rich people, why wouldnât you do that, yâknow?
Sure, some Crypteks will desire more active control and the like, but most of them are content to just do cryptek things and politick amongst themselves in between helping out the dynasty theyâre attached to. Some of them are quite fond of their dynasties, even.
Theyâre turbo nerds. Unparalleled savants. Theyâre happiest doing their own thing in the corner 90% of the time. Even Szeras, egomaniac that he is, prefers to help out Szarekh and work on his experiments than pick fights.
Being that frighteningly intelligent is a blessing for everyone else, really, because theyâre often preoccupied with their own brains.
âSend the canopteks swarms to clear the place.â Imotekh's words were sent on a wide carrier wave across his ship. The noises wouldnât have reached anyone in the cold, nothingness of space.
Osirok was sitting quietly behind him.
Obedient.
The Inevitable Conqueror was sitting in the orbit of Syndrosus.
The planet in front of him burned.
The primitive contraptions that the humans inhabiting this world built to extract and refine the reaction mass were an attractive target for the gauss blasters.
The explosion that followed soon engulfed the planetâs surface. It has been burning for three solar days. Enough time for Imotekh to deal with the orbital and space reinforcements.
Now the dwindling flames were reflecting in his oculars. A dying ember.
It would still be of use to the Sautekhâs empire and its Phaer-
He stopped the thought as something tightened up in his engrams.
âAnother planet has been reclaimed.â His words felt cold as he broadcast his speech. âAnother world has been cleansed of the touch of those opposing the Infinite Empire. Now it is cradled under the Sautekh Dynastyâs protection.â He tried not to think about how many subjects could still understand his words. âMay my words be carried by the solar waves across this galaxy.â A glyph of conquest of the same colour as the burning planet was projected. âTo those still in their stasis sarcophagi. To those hidden in their sanctums and interdimensional seclusion.â His vocal transduces seem to react without his input, the words pouring out it, the same words someone else uses to hold after every one of his conquests, only change slightly to fit the present better. âTo those fighting both the usual enemy and their own inner ones. May those words reach those who are hiding, the cowards who abandoned the Infinite Empire, condemning it to the fate of a mountain faced with the river of time. The Sautekh Dynasty reclaim another, and it shall do so, again and again, until the Infinite Empire shall be unified. Not by treacherous words, not by shackling algorithms, but by the Glory and Might.â Imotekh turned towards the Eastern Fringe of the Galaxy, watching the cold expanse of the universe. âGlory to the Sautekh Dynasty!â He declared as he ended the message with the glyph of the dynasty.
It was quiet for a microsecond.
A flood of congratulatory and renowned vows of loyalty flooded Imotekhâs interstitial feed.
All the nobles and Overlords were ready to affirm their dedication to the Sautekhâs cause. To Imotekhâs cause.
He felt bitterness emanating from his vocal actuator.
A long time ago, when he was but a soldier, blinking away the sand in his eyes, he would have spat the bitterness and got on with his day. But now? Now he couldnât. He was stuck like this, forever and after, with bitter words that he could not utter, in fear that they were truthful.
He activated the translation protocols, watching as the swarm of scarabs descending upon this world became brighter and brighter. He could hear the distorted steps of his bodyguard as Osirok got closer to him before initiating his own translocation sequence.
The world materialised in front of his oculars.
The bitterness was choking him as he stepped towards the throne in the command room of his ship.
His olfactory receptors picked up the faint smell of wax in the roomâs faint atmosphere. It was a remnant from its previous owner, leaving the waxy substance slowly sublimating and coating the inhabitants with its waxy, strong smell. He used to joke that it was meant to prevent rust formation. Imotekh felt like his engrams were about to melt through his ocular sockets. If he were to raise his hands, he could hold the spilling engrams in them.
His cryptek advisors flanked both sides of the throne room.
Navgran and Orikan both bow their heads in his presence.
Navgranâs deep and heavy with loyalty, and Orikanâs short and shallow, backed by confidence.
Imotekh walked to the Phaeronâs throne, staring at it grimly.
âI desire to be left alone.â The words were cold as steel. âLeave.â
âUnderstood.â Navrgan said as he turned around.
âYour will is my own, my Phaeron.â Osirok bowed deeply, his knees touching the ground, before he raised himself and ushered the rest of the lychguards with him.
The noise of the footsteps leaving the room was not enough to fill his cognition buffers.
Imotekh almost rushed to scan through the congratulatory messages he received after his speech.
The words that held various degrees of loyalty, and the many ways they can be interpreted, took on an embarrassingly small part of his computational power to analyse.
He stopped at Zahndrekhâs message.
The chrysoprase green glyphs meant little to him. The words were just as empty as all the other letters, but Zahndrekh has always been loyal to Imotekh. A wise and eccentric old general, the Nemesor now bore Imotekhâs old title, the one bestowed upon him by Phaero-
His head jerked, as if he was trying to stop his body from collapsing.
His core was reaching the critical cycling speed, even if he was stationary.
âMy Lord?â Orikanâs voice was cold, unusually patient.
Imotekh looked at him, before his legs folded under him, like the Stormlord was only a mere puppet.
He felt his knees slipping sideways as his back gave up. He kept trying to extend his thorax, trying to relieve the pressure, but it was suck in the breathless position of a statue.
This was the only time Imotekh felt like suffocating.
This was not alright.
Things could never be proper again.
The missing piece of his engrams was almost vital. The death of the Phaeron ripped away a part of him. He was incomplete. He was missing a key point.
His oculars kept resetting, blinking on and off into existence. After another reset, he noted that the world seemed to be lying on its side.
He was on his side.
He collapsed. Orikan seemed to be near him. He was speaking, but Imotekh couldnât hear him.
The missing piece inside of him was growing, a gaping blackhole of wrongness, threatening to swallow him whole.
Hands started to drag him upright.
The emptiness hurt.
It hurt.
The pain was so excruciating.
Hurt.
He was unable to let out a single gasp, or whimper.
Orikan dragged him back up, sitting next to him on his knees.
The cryptekâs ocular served like a light in the dark, guiding the agony out.
Imotekh was shaking, his hydraulics smashing in their chambers, jerking painfully. All of his pumps are moving in their own rhythm, trying to rip each other apart. Trying to join the former Phaeron in his grave.
Former.
Imotekh struggled to push through his vocal actuators a heavy whimper.
The sound itself seems wet, splashing heavily into the weak atmosphere.
Orikan was hugging him.
Imotekh pushed himself.
He tried crying.
The tears wouldnât come outside.
He was suffocating in them as he tried to sob again.
Another broken sound escaped his immobile lips.
He tried crying again.
Orikan was petting his back.
Imotekhâs hands felt like they were made out of dead lead. He couldnât lift them.
â- ease, do not give up.â Orikanâs voice was filled with concerned glyphs.
The Stormlord pushed into him, a desperate attempt to hug and cling to the cryptek.
The storm inside his engrams was dying as he listened to the astromancerâs words.
â Hypnos, right ascendant of the galactic north pole, at 17 hours and 46 minutes, 40.0409seconds, â29 degrees, it fell after releasing the technophagic virus against the unclean ones called Adeptus Mecha-â
Imotekh felt himself getting lost in the endless astronomical coordinates. Orikan was just reciting his previous conquests.
He let the number fill his engrams. The need to sob, although suffocating, was slowly dying.
âJorokh, compared to the South Galactic pole, at 24 hours ââ
His core was starting to slow the cycling rate. He could feel it rattle against his still thorax.
He finally had the strength to raise his arms, hooking his fingers onto Orikanâs vertebral spines.
The astromancer was new, compared to most of his subjects, yet Imotekh trusted him more than he trusted his oldest confidants. Experience has taught him that everyone was your friend until they werenât. Opportunists, and soldiers of fortune, we were all born.
Imotekh wouldnât have doubted that Orikan wasnât the same if not for his history.
Orikan left the Royal Court of the Silent King himself to seek shelter under Imotekhâs wing.
Such a lucrative role.
No cryptek could ever dream of such great honour, maybe only being part of the triarchy itself.
Orikanâs clawed hand rubbed circles on the hard metal of his back.
No one would run if it werenât for someone whose word cannot be denied.
Szarekh the Last of the Silent Kings.
Green acid bile bubbled in Imotekhâs conduits. The Silent Kingâs name was like a curse, whispered shamefully by necrons with enough dignity to understand his betrayal.
Imotekh did not have to be a brilliant strategist to deduce the reason why Orikan came under his protectorate, why he supported the Stormlord, even if he had to bite his acid tongue. Why was he the only one who witnessed Imotekhâs fragile psyche almost shattering.
The Phaeronâs hands were imitating Divinerâs hand motion, rubbing circles into Orikanâs shoulder pieces.
The passing of the Sautekh Phaeron in his sleep left deep injuries in Imotekhâs partitions.
Still bleeding wounds, unable to ever close.
Imotekh gathered his legs, pressing them into Orikan, as he shook slightly when pressing closer to him.
The gauss fire inside his engrams chased the bitterness away.
The diviner never asked, never question, and always helped Imotekh get over his ⌠episodes. He was the only one Imotekh would tolerate to show his weakness.
He hugged Orikan tighter, as the cryptek continued to whisper numbers and coordinates to him.
Oh, how the anger bubbled inside him.
A welcome blame to all of his problems.
 âI shall make you pay.â Imotekh swore.
Orikan hugged him tightly as well. He did not need to ask who Imotekh was referring to, he already knew.
Away from fantasy stuff for the time being, here's a technomancer I just finished. I had a tone of fun painting this guy and I stuck a little bit of visual humor in on the face.
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Necron culture is beholden to an informal but strict hierarchy based upon Lifting and the concept of âGainsâ. Specifically, those who can tote around the heaviest weapons demonstrate that they have not skipped the Arm Day Protocol, and thus receive more respect
At the lowest end of the social ladder are Crypteks, whose love of âThat nerd shitâ automatically makes them less welcome to Necron keg parties
Immortals have heavier guns than Warriors, and are as such more respected, similarly to the difference between Destroyers and Heavy Destroyers
Lords and Overlords, who are innately able to Lift many impressive things, are obviously usually in charge, with the ones wielding the famously heavy Warscythes occupying top positions and usually being crowned Necron Homecoming Overlord
It is possible to go too far, however, as seen with the notoriously bulky Lychguard who opt to use a Warscythe AND a Dispersion Shield at the same time. These hulking individuals are labelled âGymbotsâ or âChadcronsâ and banned from social events lest they start trying to benchpress the Crypteks
