Was going to incude some Dwarf stuff then didn't as I was writing some plot stuff.
Kasr Interlude 2
D'leh descended on the heavy, rattling lift, his eyes drawn to the statues embedded into the towering walls of the kasr. These were not mere decorations; they were the embodiment of the Chapter's legacy, their defiance set in stone and steel. One statue of Rogal Dorn loomed particularly large in D'leh's view. It was carved into the likeness of 'Defiance,' the Primarch's aspect during the Siege of Terra, his expression unyielding, his stance a bulwark against the heretics of that dark age. In its shoulders were slotted spaces for anti-air batteries and rocket pods, defensive weaponry hidden within the guise of art, much like Dorn himself.
As the wind swept through the lift's metal cage, D'leh thought of the criticisms he had heard. Some menials and overseers had murmured that the statues were frivolous, constructed too early, before all the defences were fully complete. Fools. They did not understand the purpose of such grandeur. Such were the concerns of kine, the mortal mind too small to contemplate the glory of faith. The statues were not just icons for display but rather a reminder and a testament to the Emperor's vision. The statues were as much a part of the defense as the guns, for they inspired loyalty and terror alike. The soul was the strongest weapon of a human, that unconquerable bulwark against the darkness, and D'leh looked up into his genefather's aquiline face and dreamed of the sights his Primarch had seen.
When a minor Greenskin raid had breached the walls last year, many labourers had perished before reinforcements could arrive. Their deaths, however, had only hastened the kasr's completion. The survivors had been properly disciplined, and the blood of their comrades had been added to the mortar that now fortified the walls. D'leh smiled at that, he had though it fitting and the Confessors from Pharos had heartily agreed, for was not the old adage true, that "The blood of martyrs was the seed of the Imperium." What more fitting a sacrifice for a menial than to be part of the construction they had laboured to create?
The lift ground to a halt at the base of the kasr, its heavy doors clanging open to reveal a bustling courtyard below. Menials and overseers, dirt-streaked and exhausted, gathered in small groups to witness the descent of an Astartes. D'leh permitted it graciously. These mortals thrived on such moments, their morale boosted merely by seeing one of the Emperor's chosen warriors among them. He stood tall, his golden armor gleaming in the low light, casting long shadows over the crowd.
"A most holy relic comes to this place today," he proclaimed, his voice amplified by his helmet's vox. "Prepare the way."
The workers scurried, casting furtive glances at the Space Marine, some murmuring hurried prayers. D'leh felt a swell of pride. This, after decades of war and service, was his reward. He had fought in a dozen campaigns, seen cities burn and foes broken, and now he was entrusted with a position of command. These mortals, insignificant as they were, looked to him for guidance, for protection. It was an honour to lead them toward the light of the Imperial Truth.
And yet, D'leh thought of his ambitions. He had risen to the rank of sergeant, nominated by Sergeant Sido when Sido ascended to the 1st Company. It had been a great honour, one he had accepted with humility, though inwardly he knew this was only the beginning. The Celestial Lions were not yet at full strength, there were still several Companies in holding formations, waiting for the time when they could be fully structured and specialized. One day, D'leh thought, if he fought with honour and upheld the traditions of his Chapter, he would rise further. Perhaps one day, the mantle of captaincy would be his. But for now, his duty was here, overseeing the settlement of this sector, rooting out the corruption that still lingered from the planet's darker days.
Moving through the sprawling, half-constructed halls of the kasr, D'leh approached the main plaza where the procession of the Electropriests was gathering, already finished unloading their holy cargo from the grav-rail they'd come in on. The sound of mechanical hymns echoed through the air as the priests advanced in perfect synchrony, their red hammer-and-fist sigils standing stark against their white robes. Many of them were heavily augmented, with enormous capacitors on their backs that crackled with barely-contained static energy. As they moved, the air itself seemed to hum, the atmosphere charged with an electric tension.
Among the procession were battery-bearers, servitors carrying power packs like the armigers of ancient knights, their mechanical limbs shuffling under the weight of the load. Towering above them, the lead Magos strode forward, his augmentations more ornate than the others, his body was a living conduit of electricity, his hands occasionally flickering with sparks as if the power of the Omnissiah coursed through his very veins.
D'leh stepped forward, greeting them with the ritual phrases he had memorized. "Blessings of the Omnissiah upon you, honored Magos. May the currents of the machine guide your path."
The Magos inclined his head, a soft whirring sound emanating from his neck augments. "The Omnissiah's will is ever-present, Astartes. We are but conduits."
Pleasantries were exchanged with the decorum expected of such an event, but D'leh could not help but notice the contrast between the ceremony and the reality surrounding them. The settlement was still largely a building site, scaffolds and unfinished walls framing the procession. And yet, the spectacle continued, the procession moving with all the grandeur one would expect when escorting a holy relic.
He would have to reduce the breaks for the menials, D'leh decided. Such a state of affairs was shameful for an Astartes of Dorn's genestock to oversee.
Among the crowd, D'leh noticed the distinctive figures of the Dwarves, their electric-blue crests standing out amidst the sea of Imperial uniforms and workers. These were the Star Slayers of Kraka Drak, a far northern stronghold, and they carried with them an air of bitterness and shame. D'leh thought their attitude strange, given that they had been included in the glory of Imperial Compliance, but he understood it was part of their culture. They carried oaths of vengeance, bound to seek restitution for past wrongs that had befallen their people during the Long Night.
D'leh had fought alongside them before and had heard their war-cry many times: "Zonukhan Kazakhit-ha!" It echoed now in his memory, the fervent call for the restoration of their Star Realm, a domain they claimed had been stolen from them by time and darkness. D'leh thought their fanaticism was admirable, if misplaced. Still, they had proven themselves in battle and were now compelled to work alongside the Imperium, their pride unwilling to accept the loss of their ancestral glory without seeking redemption.
As D'leh approached the towering doors of the citadel, he was struck by the magnificent fresco that adorned their colossal surface. It was a masterpiece, spanning the full height of the doors, crafted with such precision and care that every figure, every detail, seemed to pulse with life.
At the centre of the mural stood the Emperor of Mankind, his radiant form towering above all. His armour gleamed with a golden light, as though the sun itself were trapped within the intricacies of his warplate. The Emperor's face, though calm, exuded a power that seemed almost unbearable, a godly force held in check by sheer will. In his hands, he held a massive hammer, symbolic of his role as the Great Architect of Humanity. He was captured mid-swing, as though the force of his blow was shaping the very universe itself.
Beside him, Rogal Dorn, the Praetorian of Terra, stood firm, his stance that of the eternal sentinel. D'leh thought the sculptors had captured his stoic resolve perfectly—the gaze of a man who had never faltered in the face of hardship, who had given all for the Imperium. Dorn held aloft a massive slab of stone, a symbol of the walls he had built, the defences he had designed to protect the Emperor's vision. Around him, the Primarch's Astartes worked tirelessly, laying brick and forging steel, helping to bring the Emperor's dream to life.
Beneath the feet of these demigods, the masses of humanity grovelled and watched in awe, their expressions a mixture of adoration and terror. Some raised their hands in reverence, others cowered in fear at the sight of such divine power. Their faces were etched with fine detail, capturing the pathetic, awe-struck nature of mortal man in the presence of the Emperor and his angels. Such was the size of the fresco that a Baneblade tank could fit through the doors, but also so could a menial go and stand before the doors and find themselves the same size as the kine depicted at the work's base. A human could look up at their god and know they were small, insignificant, barely worthy of notice in the grand tapestry of the Imperium's creation. D'leh sneered inwardly at their pitiful awe.
A swarm of Imperial citizens laboured in the shadow of the Emperor and Dorn, their toil mirroring the efforts of the Astartes above. Unlike their masters, the humans appeared frail, huddled together in their weakness, dragging stones and crude materials as if trying to emulate the divine construction above. To D'leh, the fresco was a fitting metaphor for the Imperium itself: the Emperor and his chosen building the future, while mere mortals looked on, unable to truly comprehend the scale of the work being done.
The fresco's lower levels also depicted lesser Astartes, their hands lifting the stones that would become the walls of the Imperium, their forms aglow with the righteousness of their labor. They worked alongside the Emperor and Dorn, but it was clear from the arrangement of the scene that they were subservient to the grand vision. Their labor was holy, guided by the Emperor's will. D'leh found this part particularly heartening. Even amidst his own ambitions, he understood his place in the great machine of the Imperium. To serve was to ascend, and to ascend was to become like those depicted in this grand work.
Finally, at the very base of the fresco, the foundation of the entire mural, was a river of blood. It flowed from the broken bodies of humanity, martyrs who had given their lives in the Emperor's name. Their sacrifice fed the construction above, the crimson tide pooling at the feet of the Astartes, as if nourishing the very stones of the Imperium's fortress.
Every time he passed beneath these doors, D'leh felt the weight of his duty settle heavier on his shoulders, but it was a weight he carried with pride. Though pride was a sin indeed, D'leh hoped that one day, perhaps, his own deeds would be immortalized in such a way, alongside the Emperor, Dorn, and the great heroes of the Imperium.
The massive doors of the citadel slid open with a low hiss, revealing the grand hall beyond. D'leh stepped into the cavernous interior, his polished ceramite boots clicking sharply against the stone floors. The walls were adorned with banners and iconography, each representing the might of the Imperium and the Chapter's sacred duty.
Behind him the Metallican procession followed. At the center of it all was the Goldskein Ordinator, a revered relic, escorted on a vehicle resembling a long insect with countless legs. D'leh watched as the massive carrier, surrounded by Onager Dunecrawlers, spider-like war machines, slowly advanced toward the heart of the citadel. The Ordinator's carrier was as much a machine as it was a shrine, covered in layered metal plates which buzzed as the tesla coils which ran over the vehicle like a metal spine discharged into the atmosphere. Little cherubim hovvered through the air, waving censers.
D'leh had memorized the required rituals for this too. "Blessings of the Omnissiah upon this sacred moment," he intoned, his voice a deep rumble, beginnnign the cant. The priests responded with their own replies, clicking their mechanical tongues in rhythm with the humming machinery. It was all a part of the grand spectacle, one that D'leh found both tedious and gratifying. He knew his place, and he knew what was expected of him, even if he'd rather be tearing an Ork's face off.
They proceeded further into the citadel, the sound of machinery and footsteps mixing with the scent of incense and sacred oils. Down they went on another elevator, then through into the depths of the tower. The carrier stopped with a shudder, and the priests began their elaborate rites to prepare the holy relic.
The box was vast, large enough to dwarf the surrounding figures, and covered in arcane sigils. As it was opened, a dense cloud of incense rose into the air, accompanied by a mechanical hiss. Inside, the Goldskein Ordinator was revealed, a grotesquery of divinity.
The servitor within was no ordinary machine; it was the remains of the first priest to receive the Bosian Revelation, his flesh twisted and augmented until little of his humanity remained. The upper half of his body was still recognizable, though his head was covered by a golden mask, and wires and data-cables snaked from his temples to the surrounding machinery. His torso was embedded in a complex array of systems, with glowing nodes and processors that blinked with life.
The Magi of Metallica worked quickly, connecting cables and installing the servitor into its place. D'leh watched with his squad in silence. It was a holy thing, but certainly it was holier ot the techpriests than it was to him, the secrets of Mars unknown to him.
Nothing seemed to happen at first, but then suddenly, the servitor's lifeless form twitched. Then came a whisper, a faint, electric murmur from its lips."Amidst the tempest's fury..." the Ordinator whispered, its voice fluctuating unnervingly between flesh and machine, "...I beheld an electric revelation..." The priests halted their work, eyes wide as the servitor began to spout passages from the scriptures. "The Omnissiah's voice thundered... igniting the fervour of revelation in circuits and flesh alike."
The watchers, an assembly of the notables of the settlement from the Adminsitratum and Serf-Militarum, among others, held themselves at attention as the Ordinator whispered to itself. The Marshall of the Kasr, standing nearby, paled at the sight, his dark skin growing blotchy as the Saint-Servitor twitched and muttered, its body convulsing under the weight of its revelations.
Finally, the lead Magos stepped forward, his voice ringing out as he proclaimed the installation complete. Ritual words were spoken, and the tension in the room lifted somewhat, but not entirely, the Ordinator still twitching, eyes rolling and currents of data crackling through the jars that held the distributed nodes of its brain.
The lead Magos of the Metallican Brotherhood stepped forward, his red and white robes crackling with latent energy, the sigils of the Omnissiah etched onto his mechanical frame. His voice, augmented by a vox-grille embedded in his throat, resonated through the chamber with a rhythmic cadence, each word like a machine piston firing in precise sequence. "By the grace of the Omnissiah, the Sainted Gold has come to this place! Ar-Au!" he called, and the priests exclaimed as he spoke, "Behold, in His wisdom, the Machine God has guided our hands by the revelation of lattices and molarity, by two, by eight, by eight-ten, by two-and-thirty, by eight-ten, and by the sacred one!"
D'leh's attention wandered as the Magos launched into a long series of ritual proclamations, reciting passages from the Lictum Lamingus and invoking the sanctity of their labour. His mind drifted momentarily to the great hall they stood in, to the hum of machinery and the quiet, buzzing tension in the air.
Ceremony had its place, certainly, but three hours seemed excessive. One of his brother's let out a sigh, only slightly audible from across the room and D'leh saw his suit sag slightly, taking advantage of the armour's locking function to relax. D'leh didn't approve, Sergeant Sido would have had him sent for pain-reception for such a thing if he'd seen it.
But then, something in the Magos' tone shifted, drawing his attention back."...to ensure the protection of the Goldskein Ordinator, it is decreed that a warrior of great honor and strength shall be chosen. One who will guard this relic with their life and their faith."
D'leh's ears perked up. He stood straighter, his interest fully piqued now. "To that end," continued the Magos, "we, the Brotherhood of Metallica, have forged a gift, a weapon, blessed and sanctified by the Omnissiah himself, to be wielded by this chosen protector."
A servitor approached, holding a box of copper and electrum, decorated with intricate Mechanicus symbols and sacred inscriptions. It hissed open as gasses vented from its seals, and incense smoke swirled into the air. D'leh could feel the attention of the room shift toward him, the collective gaze of priests, menials, and Astartes alike focused as the contents of the box were revealed.
Inside was a lightning claw, retractable talons fashioned in the shape of a lion's paw. The metal gleamed in the dim light of the hall, and intricate filigree along its surface depicted scenes of the ascension of Amra, the Chapter Master of the Celestial Lions. D'leh's pulse quickened at the sight of the weapon, this was more than a simple tool of war, it was an honor, a sign of his rising prestige within the Chapter.
As the Magi completed the ritual, chanting hymns to the Omnissiah and making the sign of the cogwheel over the box, D'leh felt the weight of the moment settling over him. He imagined the tales he would tell when he returned to his brothers, how this relic would bring him fame and, perhaps, push him closer to the captaincy he so longed for. With a sharp gesture, he called for the armorium-serfs to come forward. "Equip me," he ordered, his voice carrying an edge of excitement.
They moved swiftly, preparing the new lightning claw for him, attaching it to his gauntlet with deft hands. As the final connections were made, D'leh flexed his hand, feeling the power surge through the weapon as the talons extended and retracted with a satisfying snap.
The room erupted in polite applause, and D'leh allowed himself a moment of pride. Around him, the attendees were starting to relax, to talk and mingle, their focus turning away from the ceremonial installation now that it was complete. Magos and Astartes alike shared nods of approval, satisfied with the day's success.
And then, from the shadows of the chamber, a rasping voice pierced the air. The Ordinator's voice surged again, louder and more cogent than the whispers. "Astartes!" it rasped, the word vibrating with a distorted hum. All eyes turned to the servitor.
D'leh felt a chill crawl up his spine as the Ordinator began to thrash within its restraints, its voice rising in an almost painful crescendo.
"Beware the Messenger and the Herald!" the Ordinator screamed, its mechanical lungs forcing the words out like a torrent. "He comes, the Lightbearer, yet his radiance casts a long shadow. He has taken the Moon for his bride."
The air around them seemed to crackle with energy as the servitor's body convulsed, its final prophecy seeping into the minds of all present.
"When Gods fall... who is their witness?"
With a final static-laden shriek, the Ordinator slumped back into stillness, its last breath echoing like a crack of thunder. A pulse of electricity surged through the chamber, blowing out lightstrips and sending several observers stumbling backward.
D'leh stared, transfixed by the dim glow in the servitor's eyes as silence finally descended upon the room.
Relics Gained:
Arc Claw - Crafted by the Tech-Priests of Forge World Metalica, the Arc Claw is a lightning-charged weapon forged for Sergeant D'leh of the Celestial Lions. Its talons, etched with intricate depictions of Chapter Master Amra's ascension, unleash high-voltage discharges with each strike, tearing through armor and flesh alike. Powered by embedded capacitors, the claw embodies the wrath of the Omnissiah, integrating both the disruptor field common to Power Weapons, as well as the Arc Weapon technology of the Mechanicus.
Goldskein Ordinator - The Goldskein Ordinator is a revered servitor relic, formed from the remains of the Bosian Saint after his divine visions on Mallus. Encased in circuitry and adorned with a golden mask, it communes with the Machine God, offering cryptic prophecies through its distorted voice. Guarded by companies of Skitarii and monitored by volt-scribes and mechinatrixes, the Ordinator is both a saint and a machine, capable of calculating future threats with its holy cogitators.
