The being sat in his throne, beyond human yet not far enough. The seven blessed, staring down at the chronometer, it was an auspicious day, eight hundred and eighty eight years marked the dial. Eight hundred and eighty eight long years since the seventh blessing, twice that since the sixth and an eternity since the first. What came Before that? Only flickers of memory, a red planet, betrayal and the discordant music.
Surround by enemies, traitors? No, friends? Surrounded and the music just on the edge of hearing, comrades in blue armour. No! Not friends, traitors to the Fabricator-General the music tells him so. One of the blue ones is trying to talk but why, why would the enemy talk? Hold his position? The enemy can’t persuade him. Lock down his comms? No he must hear the music it talks to him, tells the truth, silence traitors. He moves towards the talking one. Close formation so close, his fist racing towards the skull faceplate. Chaos erupts, rents in blue armour and the buzzing of chainswords. Fist and blade flying, smoke and ruin, surrounded on all sides, yet so close they can’t prevent their fate. The war spirit of the machine screaming in rage and pain as the discordant music rips through its cognitive circuits. Freedom, beautiful freedom, long held shackles of control broken in a moment’s action.
Time passes and the moment ends surrounded by wreckage, the fallen foes torn to pieces the one being left standing. Near silence fills the ruined hall, just the sound of cooling metal and the drips as fluids leak from ruptured lines. Yet there is something else a buzzing on the edge of consciousness the music faint now yet insistent.
One last thing to do, open the city gates.
The survivor commands his stead forward, Chainblade roaring, power field crackling around the fist and Warhorn blazing. If this was the enemy how come he was inside the gates? No! Irrelevant, the music grows louder, sounds forming; messages and visions of glory besiege his mind.
Sparks fly and the blade screams, a fist pounding against the bar keeping the gate closed. With a boom of thunder the fist’s power field releases its energy for the last time, the steed is shaken and the bar cracks, splits and shatters.
Pushing forward the gates open and the music turns from a buzz to a crescendo as the lone survivor, loyal to the Fabricator welcomes his first true brothers and sisters beyond the gate. Sense from the music, understanding and two words whose meaning seems insignificant filters back from a time unremembered,