The admin. Lady said I should post it on here... So I did.

[The Last Lamenter]

Hey guys, please give me criticism that I can use. Biggest thing is that I want to make sure I'm not contradicting canon.


His Dread Guardians

1

The Companions

I wake in darkness. There is no servitor to rouse me; I know when it is time.
My armor stands ready. It is polished and clean, the dim light from the ocuglobes in the stone chamber reflected from the plates.
There are worn markings etched upon the inside of every part. I feel them across my skin as I pull the gauntlets over my hands and arms. I feel them upon my back and shoulders, the words wearing away more and more into a smooth nothing- a memory of names long forgotten.
Vanities.
We have put away such things.
I have no huscarl to care for my war plate, no lowly adept to dress me for battle. I gather my weapons alone.
I strap the cuirass over my chest. I fasten the greaves about my legs, and set the thick paldrons over my shoulders. I fix the arm coverings to the gauntlets and lock them into place. I place the high-crested helm over my head and brush the plume back. The armour is heavy. It is heavier than that of our cousins in the stars. There is no assistance from Mars or power source within the joints to aid us in our vigil, no respite from the unforgiving metal.
The cloak is black. Though once the color of victories on worlds beyond number, it is the deepest shade of sorrow. It is the mourning garment, the sack-cloth. It is stained with the ashes of 10,000 years.
I carry my spear with me, I see tattered banners on either side of the path, depicting pale visages of heroes. I see symbols of the Guard, the Astartes, the Sororitas, the Inquisition, the Mechanicus, and the Collegia Titanica. The air is heavy with the incense from the swinging braziers of the vat-grown Cherubs darting overhead, singing hymns in an unending cacophony of praise. Servo-skulls bearing our seal, swarm around my head, scanning my eyes, tasting my scent, comparing my biological signature even my atomic structure against trillions of references compiled over thousands of years.
This great hall is so vast that the vaulted ceiling is shrouded in mist, a gray cloud, hiding the great scenes from the crusade and the conquest of Terra painted by generations of artisans. Every scene requiring a lifetime, painted by hand lying upon anti-grav platforms, so intricate and detailed as to require bionics to truly appreciate.
But then, this place was not meant for mortal eyes.
I stand at the gate.
I stand in the place where a Primarch stood alone against a legion of Chaos.
Where an Angel fought an army of Daemons.
Layer upon layer of hardened adamantium and ceramite, all covered in gold engraved with the image of the Emporer standing victorious over a mountain of broken enemies. There are two titans on either side of the gate, and although their weapons have not fired since the days of Horus, I know that the princeps within are ready. I know that they will fight when called.
The great gate will not open. The hidden mechanisms require one more test before it allows me to enter. My brothers carry him out. They lead him beneath each arm, for he is blind. I cannot see their faces for their helms, but I know who they are. They bring the wretch before me. They take his hand and place it upon the crest of my helm. Of the millions brought to the palace each day from the black ships and soul-bound, there is one who is taken before he can be conscripted into service or consumed by the Astronomicon. He is inspected and brought here. He places his hand upon my helm and I begin to feel freezing needles about my head. I feel him searching, I feel him seeing. When he finds what he is looking for, he removes his hand, and nods to my brothers, his service to the Imperium complete.
I hear his head fall to the ground as I step through the open gate. I hear the servo-skulls descend to carry his body away. No man may touch His guardians, no man may know the mind of His will and live. No mortal man may know the memories of ten thousand years.
His death will be honored.
The gate closes behind me, the ancient hinges groaning in protest, echoing through the great hall.
It is suspended over mighty doors made of gold. They are large enough for a Warhound to walk through.
I see him. I see him upon his golden throne. The emperor corporelis, the anathema, savior of humanity, Lord of mankind, God of the Imperium, Ruler of the Galaxy… Father…
I take my post by his throne, at his right hand, where I belong.

2

Mechanicus Cathedra

Every Terran standard year we come.
Their red robes cover their metal and brass bodies, their hoods cover faces that are no longer human, mechandrites flutter and twist with the influx of data from memory spools, and servo harnesses flex clawed hydraulic arms in anticipation. The buzzing sound of Techna Lingua can be heard over the growl of the shuttle’s ancient engine, each burst of static a litany of knowledge, a praise to the Omnissiah.
Green lights flicker inside the darkness of their hoods, rotating lenses focus in and out on the things invisible to the unaltered range of vision. Each carries with him the digital information of entire star systems in a single data crystal. Each can recite the design of a Leman Russ battle tank, perform the Hymns of Commencement for a Plasma Reactor, or craft armor worthy of a Chapter Master. Each has overseen the construction of a billion bolters and chainswords; each has bled a forge world dry. Every one of them carries secrets that the Inquisition would burn planets to know. They are the finest that Mars has to offer. They are without peer in their fidelity to the Deus Mechanicus.
They are the Mechanicus Cathedra.
They have come for communion with the Machine God.
They carry scented holy oils, and consecrated soldering metals. They carry vials of red liquid, and leather scrolls bearing the seal of the Mechanicus and the Adeptus Custodes.
Their Mechandrites and servo-arms end in silver, wire-thin appendages, and delicate instruments more suited for the chirogens than a Tech-Priest.
The shuttle lands. A platform of the Imperial palace, There are three
warriors waiting, their black cloaks whipping in the wind. Each is taller than an Astartes. They carry their long guardian spears.
They do not speak as they lead us into the heart of the palace.

3

Damascus

We lead them down, so far down into the Earth. Even with Gravity lifts, and Railways flying at the speed of sound from the surface of the palace, it is still a day’s journey to the Sanctum Imperialis.
Our wards are silent. They neither chatter in their harsh binary nor speak in low Gothic. Their only communication is the scroll handed to me by their chief Magos, bearing the mark of the Fabricator General. The sensors and servo skulls beneath them and swarming around them are satisfied they are free of taint and pure of intent. The mark is familiar to me, and I know who they are. I have known them for centuries.
We keep our spears trained on them.
20 blind Psykers are sacrificed at the eternity gate as the remaining organic pieces of the priests are scrutinized.
The gate opens.
We keep our spears trained upon each of them.

4

Communion

I inspect Every sacred cable. Every valve I anoint with holy oil. Every link and coupling I scrub clean with purified mechandrites. I pray the omnissiah's blessing over every fuse and switch. I sing hymns of comfort to frayed wires and clogged pipes, I whisper passages of repair to the ancient machine spirit. I offer thanksgiving to commune with the work of His hands, praise to the heights of His ingenuity the power of His intellect the greatness of His mind, the source of the fire that guides us in the night.

I dare not touch Him.

I see anger in the red light, the red eye of the machine-spirit glares. I hear it groan in offense. Have I proffered offense? Data spools heat showing the work of my hands and servo arms, I look for sacrilege within the memory crystal, I look for signs to submit myself to the Custodes. There is nothing. I see snapping sparks as the great circuit writhes in violent protest, its legs blackened from heat, it hangs loose from its housing, misplaced energy arcing across the melted ends. What function is this? What revered organ has failed and how may its spirit be appeased? I transmit my oculus feed to my brothers around me, they do not understand. They offer no incite, they are silent. There must be a malfunction within my mechanisms. Surely the failure lies with me, for I am imperfect, still bound by flesh. It is heresy to think otherwise. My selective memory implant deletes the thought and I withdraw from my station. I must inform the dominos magus of my failure. A failure worthy only of death.

5

Heresy

I receive his imaging. I see from his vision. I see the angered circuit and the arcing energy. I hear the hateful spitting of its spirit. I look with a hundred eyes over ten thousand years of records and decayed data crystals for precedence. I process information with the clarity of a legion of mortal minds at the speed of light. I search for the rite of repair. I search the memory coils for similar errors and find none for this construction is perfect. What then of this damage done?

They are all before me. They have confessed their heresy. They have doubted the work of His hands.

I link my mind to them. I look for their grave error. I search for their heretical cleansing or profane metallurgy.

I find none.

There is only one answer.

6

999.M41

"The fault lies not with you, most venerable priests...."

I hear his words. They think that we do not understand binary.

"We will return to Mars. And we will find a means to restore this damage. We will sing a new song to the Deus Mechanicus..."

They do not know their fate, centuries of service to my father... To die for this, in His service.

"The answer lies within the standard template which we shall find..."

Their leader came to me, his burden heavy, His tongue a grilled vox, speaking low gothic. They must all die. There is no hope for repair. There is no hope for restoration. There is no hope for an answer. There is no hope...

I hear his lies as he draws them in. I wish there was a better place to slaughter them than at my fathers feet.

" fear not, and let the Omnissiah guide you..."

7

Taggarath

They are, indeed, swift.

Their blades move at velocities great enough to produce flashes of light on certain spectrums. I must receive a more thorough knowledge of Custode physiology upon return to Mars.

My brothers lie in pieces upon the floor, their innards leaking black and red, logic demanded this way. Out of twenty sentient beings the probability of transmission of data was outside of acceptable limits. One, however...

There is no answer.

I must return, I must acquire more data before this malfunction creates ruin and the compendiums are exhausted... Before they come...

8

His Dread Guardians

The magus informs me that he will return to Mars to seek council for a malfunction within His supporting systems.

I know that he lies. I know that he seeks knowledge above all else. I know that he does not know shame. He does not know sorrow. He does not know love.

I know that worlds would burn and our gates would be hounded by xenos if they knew. I know. I have known for ten thousand years. I felt Him waning long before the Cathedra was even formed. I've seen the number of wytches to be leeched increase every year. I've seen His face rot and His arms waste.

But these things are not for mortals to know...

9

At His Right Hand

I remove my spear from his steel skull, the force field liquifying his brass casing, falling like molten tears down his mechanized face.

There will be others. There will have to be new laws written and ratified by the high lords. There will be questions and there will be angry words. There will be new Priests sent from Mars, and what their fate will be is not the concern of mortals.

We will remain his Praetorians, and we will protect Him.