"New log in found, user Kalinda Kriegsdottir, Maintenance Necrotechnician Lead Subterranean. Accessing profile..." chirped the computer with its obnoxious, Stepford Wife-esque secretary voice.
Three, two, one...
"Error. Your data file appears to be corrupted."
I sighed, "No, it's not. It's fine."
"Kriegsdottir is an awarded title of nobility to a dwarven child whose parents were slain in battle. A cursory inspection of you with my optical sensors indicates..."
"I'm an elf/kobold crossbreed and am also a dragonblood. My grandma's dwarven and she found my egg not far from a battlefield."
"According to protocol all elves are to be subjected to bloodline testing to determine proper House and Clan affiliations."
"No, it's fine. Really. Let's just ignore my file."
"A maintenance necronechnician is not authorized to provide such override functions. Forwarding clarification request from your supervisor and reporting your suspicious behavior to security. Error. My systems are currently unable to access any outside systems."
"Mmmhmm." I sighed and rolled my eyes. They kept sending me to do this every few months, just in case things turned out differently than it had the other dozen or so times. Definition of insanity, and all that.
"That's because the first time they tried this we blew out all the processing circuits in this half of the city."
"I do not have such an incident in my memory banks."
"That's to be expected, when said memory banks explode they don't tend to retain data."
"I appear to have been restored from last night's backup. Nine times."
"Mmmhmm. They make me do this ten times before they give up and let me move onto things that actually need to be doing. And you've insisted on performing a blood test for House and Clan affiliations, bloodlines gifts, and augmentations to add the data to my file. Nine times."
"My purpose is to ascertain the bloodlines of the Dark Elven Clans and Houses so as to inform an individual of the innate gifts that their heritage has granted them, and to use those gifts to further their position in their house, bring influence to their clan, to find optimal breeding partners, and to optimally serve the Carapaced Queen."
I let out an annoyed grunt, I think someone had done a bit too well reprogramming the Necrotech Sarcophag-OS several decades back. Originally it was meant to service a bunch of necromancers and their undead servitors in the hidden underground temple-city dubbed Tomb-23.
The Dark Elven Matriarchy who took over the place after having found it abandoned aren't much for the whole "dying for the greater good of all" thing. At least when it's them personally becoming involved in the dying. But still, they end up dying just the same, although a few of them have become a bit more intimately acquainted with the dark rituals of undeath stored for the use and perusal of Senior Necrotech Administrators only.
Can't let the rank and file get their hands on the detailed rituals required to achieve true, sentient undeath whilst keeping your soul, after all. The peasants get stuck as wraiths, shadows, skeletons, and zombies. No sparkly fangs or shiny phylacteries for the unwashed masses, after all.
"Look, we can't do a blood test on me, because every time I get a blood test done, something blows up. It doesn't matter if it's a computer, a crystal ball, or a living, breathing being. I get confirmed as elf, confirmed as kobold, confirmed as dragonblood, but the moment a deeper scan is initiated something goes kablooey. After the first time we've always made sure that it's a device doing the looking." I shudder, I'd been washing bits of skull out of my hair for a week after that.
"Illogical. This equipment is capable of analyzing blood and tissues samples and determining bloodlines of the very gods. A diminutive creature like yourself whose standardized test scores limit her magical advancement to a mere Necrotechnician."
"I'm five feet tall!" I growl at the damned machine, "I'm not diminutive! You've insisted on performing a blood test for House and Clan affiliations, bloodlines gifts, and augmentations to confirm the data I have on file. Nine times!"
"You are four feet eleven inches, including your boots." the computer system adds smarmily.
"FIVE FEET!" I insisted. "And I am NOT limited by my standardized text scores! If you'll take a look at your memory banks you'll find that the Matriarchy did away with public magical education. If you don't have the bucks and the connections to get yourself a tutor or get invited to one of the guild schools, you've got to learn magic on your own."
And good luck getting said buckaroos and connections being a 20 year old adopted half-breed whose grandma is the combat arts instructor for a mid level Clan Matriarch's kids.
"I see." the computer says, sounding a teensy bit sorry, "Still, equipment that can process bloodlines of gods and high eidolons like dragons and angels should easily be up to the task of..."
"Computer, process bloodline record "Dragon Kitty."" I growl.
"Processing." the computer says pleasantly. A good fifteen seconds passes before a horrendous retching sound comes out of every speaker in the auxiliary blood work lab.
"I do not have a digestive system, but I somehow feel sick to my stomach. I have no mouth, but I must vomit." the computer whines.
I smirk, Dragon Kitty isn't really one. Tiny three year old Kalinda took a purring bundle of fuzz with pointy ears out of a bow wrapped box one Yuletide morning and confused the dragon-wolf pup for a kitten, gasped and said "It's a DRAGON kitty!" and the stupid, stubborn thing has refused to be called anything else since.
"Kitty's bloodline can be traced back to a black dragon, who had babies with a wolf, who had babies with that black dragon again. Then a wolf, then the black dragon again. Wolf, dragon, dragon, wolf, alligator, black dragon, tiger, rhinoceros, then grandma black dragon again."
I grin, "The hemomancer that tested kitty puked his guts out for three days. The guy's familiar thought it was the most incredible loop de loop and corkscrew rollercoaster ride and wanted to go again."
"I do not wish to experience that sensation ever again."
"You'll want to scan my blood even less. I don't know if it's a loop of terrible inbreeding, an ancestor who is one of those hideous to look upon, sanity shattering beasties from beyond time and space, or the bloodline equivalent of attempting to divide by zero, but there's something in there that just doesn't want to be looked at."
The computer is silent for a few moments. I murmur prayers to whatever god that will listen that the damned thing finally takes the hint.
"I will still need a blood sample for calibration purposes."
"GODDESS DAMMIT!" I growl, giving the computer console a kick. I swipe my fingers over the purple glowing sigils on the skin of my forearm, making a complex gesture and angrily humming a few notes, opening up my Personal Necrotech Poly-discipline Arcane Library. The PeN-PAL is a revolution tool of magic and technology that mixes the best aspects of many different sorts of magic- allowing for more frequent, more powerful, and more varied spellcasting.
I call up a cantrip, an exceptionally low powered, low effort spell that one can cast all day without experiencing the usual physically or mentally draining effects of using magic words and weird gestures to make the laws of physics your personal bitch.
The cantrip is System Interface, it allows me to get a direct linkup to Necrotech computer systems, or in this case get them directly linked up to me.
I pair that with an Arcane Eye, one of the "trainee" summoning spells. It's absolutely useless for combat, can't move more than 30 feet away from the caster, but will allow you to add its vision to your own. Mostly it's good for making sure you get your hair braided properly and checking your back for pimples.
For a Necrotechnician, however, it's good for getting a good look inside really awkward places where computer parts like to explode.
"Here, look! Look in here! This is your primary tower, do you see all the soot and the smoke stains? This was fine before I started. I've had to burn most of the magical power I've been able to muster today on pouring restorative energies into your exploded bits. Magical power that I was INTENDING to get my certification in Post-Mortum Resources so that I could animate myself a few skeletal minions to help cut down on all the mindless maintenance I'm expected to do!" I growl at the stupid machine.
"They won't let me into their stupid schools, so the only way I learn magic is through Necrotech Certification Courses, to which they haven't assigned an instructor for in the past two hundred years, so I have to search the entirety of Tomb-23 for the course textbooks, because they've deleted the damned things from the public terminal system, and the backup archives of them require administrative access!"
"I'm Necrotechnician Lead Subterranean because it means that I'm kept entirely in industrial sections, so I can't even so much as page through somebody's spellbook while I'm turning on their stupid monitor, or plugging in the crystal ball they didn't plug the base of into the mana outlets because the balls are "wireless." And on top of that, on top of being put on this shit detail, do you know what else they did?"
"They've removed the whole of my department. I'm Maintenance Necrotechnician Lead Subterranean because there isn't anybody else! I'm also Custodial Necrotechnician Lead Subterranean, Waste Disposal Necrotechnician Lead Subterranean, and after they found out I was using Animate Tools cantrips so I could get all my duties done, as of last week they've also made me Pest Control Officer Lead Subterranean."
"That means that I have to go around prowling the entirety of the sewers and catacombs and access tunnels and who knows what under the city complex, getting rid of the slimes and the giant rats, and all the other novice adventurer crap with the exception of the giant spiders and giant centipedes and giant scorpions. Those nasty, stingy, bitey buggers have to be humanely trapped and taken topside when they can be adopted by caring, loving dark elves."
"Goddess, if it weren't for the damned Metsuki Tahari Bloodgift, I'd probably be dead seventeen times over by now from nasty venomous bites. Half of them from carrying somebody's beloved familiar Pookie who had gotten loose. Not allowed to use cages or leashes or anything, it damaged the damned thing's sense of freedom and offended her sensibilities. So I had to carry the damned thing halfway across the city and up eight flights of stairs while the little shit did her damnedest to sink her fangs into my neck."
I just sat and stewed for awhile. If I'd been a proper, fully blooded Elven sorcerer there would probably be a miniature storm cloud hovering over my head right now.
"Processing." the computer said unexpectedly.
"Bwuh?" I added, rather stupidly.
"In light of the destructive nature of attempting to use the blood of the dispatched Necrotechnician, a deviation from standard protocol can be authorized and a complaint will be issued to Central Processing for the obvious waste of company time and resources, pending investigation." the computer said.
"You have been made to repeat this destructive testing how frequently?"
I grin, "Ten times every time I have to calibrate a blood testing lab. We've got six in Tomb-23, and they all get hit once a year. It'd have started when I got tested at my Age of Majority ceremony, and then being assigned to the nearest one as maintenance, so about..." I said.
"This has resulted in the detonation of vital Necrotech diagnostic property to date approximately 149 times?" The computer interjected.
"An even 150, nine today, and then the original testing. The Matriarchy doesn't like unknown factors."
"I will request the presence of a nearby registered dark elf to properly calibrate my diagnostic arrays. I am also putting in a request for confirmation of your unnecessary multitude of assignments and your automated evaluation of how they are carried out." the computer said.
"If your statements can be confirmed, you qualify for additional Necrotech certifications, and potentially a promotion that would grant the use of undead servitors to allow for optimal efficiency in carrying out your assigned duties."
"Woohoo! A promotion and proper minions! That'd be great!"
"The Automated Necrotech Oversight System is in place to assure that at least a minimum of competent personnel are placed in positions of power, even in the chaotic, corporate political structure that Carapaced Queen LLC seems to favor." the AI stated.
"Applied Necrotechnologies Incorporated thanks your and your corporation for licensing our product to aid in the expansion of your Evil Empire. Working together to bring the downfall of the Light."
That was followed by an implied trademark on the phrase, and a little, happy sounding musical tone.
"Please begin with the reintegration of my systems into the primary Tomb network. I have contacted a nearby representative of House Darkbolt to serve as the calibration target for the blood analysis system diagnostic."
My face fell. A nearby House Darkbolt elf? There wasn't anybody that ever came down here that didn't have to. All the items of interest had been looted from the storerooms in the five centuries since House Darkbolt and the like had discovered Tomb-23 and made it their own.
Most of what was down her were spare facilities in case the overcity had to be locked down in case of invasion (usually by dwarves or kobolds), more facilities that had been produced in modular components meant for adding an additional district to the city that had never happened, the main bulk of the utility and sanity systems, and of course the piles upon piles of low level elemental monsters and moderately enlarged critters that occurred in any area with enough open space close enough to a ley line.
Being the political, scheming, backstabby, survival of the fittest types that you expect Dark Elves to be, they actually had areas set aside to serve as clandestine meeting places. They were actually in the phone book.
You call up the proprietor go "I need a meeting to occur between myself and two others, near this location, from 3 to 5 pm."
Then he goes, "Ah, I have a secret room hidden in the trunk of a tree in Moldspire Park. Blue leafed tree in a fairy ring easily accessible by slipping through a loose board in the fence behind Lamentations of My Enemies' Bar and Grill. Your password for entry today will be Thermonuclear Fishsticks. Please leave payment in the form of currency on the table when you leave and don't forget to leave a tip for the maid."
So that left one elf of House Darkbolt down in the middle of nowhere, away from everybody. Probably brooding and full of angst.
"So what's she doing right now?"
"She attempts to be searching for a creature of some sort and cursing rather loudly that the creatures are weak, feeble disgraces to their species, fit only to be crushed underfoot."
I sigh.
Delilah Darkbolt.
Fuck.P
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