## page was renamed from SeverusStigLog
[[SeverusStig|Personal Log of Severus Stig]]
== Log 170316 ==
I found myself in what could only be described as a cell on some barely-functioning world, surrounded by mostly feeble sub-humans. The lot of them consisted of ferals, and one void ship resident that was vaguely interesting, but for the most part it was on the whole both a physical and mental prison. So be it, I was a criminal after all. I sat patiently and silently as time passed.

Then, from the doorway, a [[http://warhammer40k.wikia.com/wiki/Servo-skull|Servo Skull]]! Finally, a semblance of the [[http://warhammer40k.wikia.com/wiki/Machine_God|Omnissiah]] to free me from this! It began to identify my cellmates, whom could barely muster the courtesy of an acknowledgement towards the Divine's servant. It eventually turned its sensors towards me and I politely scanned in response. It then led us down a myriad of winding bureaucratic halls - of which I was vaguely familiar of from my times on Lathe-Hadd - to arrive at a large closed  doorway. It showed no intention of entering, and so I waited in turn. Some foolish cellmates attempted to open the door, only to find it securely shut, and then attempted to invite themselves in with an invitation knock. To my surprise, such brazen forwardness was responded by a man whom seemed too perfect in flesh, almost animalistic, whom I later learned was named Dogman - quite a fitting name for him. After remarking about the security measures planted on the door, he invited us into a rather pleasant-looking area, with a distraught looking woman huddled around a map and stack of books on a desk. He left us to her company while retiring to consuming some alcohol.

The Servo Skull moved into a holding pattern above the woman, whom I quickly ascertained was not only its master, but had also undergone some crude tech-augmentation to her skull. It seemed to have been affecting her sanity somewhat, calmed only by a periodic ingestion of some kind of chems. She was Sargent Wofle, and she began going on about the typical Imperium droll involving "mysterious happenstance" and trying in vain to spell out that there was heretical works going on without mentioning the blasphemous words. Not something I would be terribly interested in, until she had mentioned the nature of the particular's death: a servitor's arm had pierced the man through the chest. This certainly piqued my curiosity, and would certainly would be worth studying. Perhaps this venture would be worth my time.

The fellow ferals inquired in some of the details of the incident, and I requested our Sargent - it was made apparent at that time I was to be employed under this woman for the time being - of two things: the whereabouts of this servitor's arm (and subsequent expired flesh attached to it) and the request of ownership of the Servo Skull which had first introduced itself to us. Though seemingly intelligent, I could sense a bit of madness in our Sargent's mind, along with the observation of the crude repairs on her skull. I could not stand the thought of his holy piece of The Machine God to be owned by one who might mistreat it, and it is now my imperative to free it of this woman's hold. While I have only been appointed as it's point of origin for now, I am sure that through show of devotion (and persuasion) it will be be in proper arms soon; namely, mine.

The Assassin has some sort of fit en-route to the transport. He seems perturbed by the sprawling crowds we are winding our way through, and draws his weapons in panic. I pay no attention to this nonsense; such things are commonplace at home, and it's best not to dwell in such places to make yourself a target or get caught in unnecessary squabbling.

We arrive to the mortuary, and after more bureaucratic nonsense, head to the body where we are greeted by a high physician and his assistant. This matters not to me as I am completely enraptured by the '''arm'''. It seems to be an arm of mechanicus origin, but something seems... strange about it. The connecting filaments are of something I've never seen before. They seem almost... '''alien'''. I greatly desire to have this arm, if not directly attached to my harness, than to take back and study further.

The servitor and aide are then instructed to take the arm protruding from the dead man's body and scan it thoroughly - it astounds me that such an action had not been taken sooner. The man in charge goes on and on about procedure and other dribble when he asks the aide what is taking so long. To our astonishment, the aide has been cleaved at the head! The servitor has now somehow had the mysterious arm attached to itself, using it as a weapon against the aide and appears to be hostile. Our group immediately take a battle stance; the assassin starts to sprint towards the thing. I draw my las-pistol and fire towards the rogue machine, but in my haste fire wide and miss, as do a handful of others. The arbitrator's aim is true however, and hits the servitor's leg, causing it to stumble. Using this advantage, the assassin closes the gap, first severing the leg at the wound and then sliding underneath while cleaving the machine in two. While the danger seems to be passed, the mysterious arm continues to move of it's own volition! We request the assassin to sever the arm from the body, and after doing so it becomes dormant, the bits of servitor flesh still attached falling off like dry leaves from a muddy stick.

I take some brief time to study the arm but find no answers other than those I had begun to suspect: that this _thing_ was indeed a heretical piece of hardware that goes against the will of the Omnissiah, and must be disposed of (after any bits of valuable knowledge have been gleaned from it, of course). I am also now very wary to attach such a device to my person, lest I fall pray to its corrupting influence as the poor servitor did. Feeling pity for the lost machine, I begin to perform the rite to put the troubled machine spirit to rest. As I am carefully applying a drop of my sacred machine oil, I notce the feral guardsman spitting on the body. Too involved with the machine spirit ceremony to respond to this offense, but I shall remember this one's blatent disregard for the sanctity of the machine spiprit in the future.

We raid the dead man's belongings, and find 50 thrones among the otherwise unremarkable items. I pocket 10 thrones for myself, deducting 10 from the current amount necessary to the next augmentation for my body.