If the story that he had thought to relate were a tangled forest - and if each event in that story were a tree - then within moments all the leaves were stripped away from all of the trees, denuding them to bare wintry twigs, to a raw basic life without the foliage of memories. Jaq breathed deeply, slowly, stilling the panic that fluttered under his ribs like a trapped bird. RELAX, MORTAL MAN, OR YOU WILL SURELY DIE IN SUCH PAIN AS WE ALWAYS ENDURE." I may have uncovered a major conspiracy-" "I beg to report to you before I am destroyed. "WE HAVE FOLLOWED YOUR INTRUSION INTO OUR SANCTUARY, OUR ANTRUM AND ADYTUM." "WE ARE CURIOUS," came a mighty, anguished thought which itself transcended time. Who breathed not yet he lived more fiercely than any mortal, enduring a psychically supercharged life-in-death. Who looked not though he saw through eyes of the mind, saw far beyond his throne room and his palace and the solar system. This enormous, sacred prosthetic device -more precious by far than any gold - framed the wizened, mummy face of the God. The soaring, tube-ridged throne resembled some fossilized, metastasized sloth crafted by some mad master of the Adeptus Titanicus. Squads of Emperor's Companions who guarded that vast hall, a mob of tech-priests ministering to the machinery, a gaudy Cardinal Palatinate and his entourage, a red-robed High Lord of Terra and his staff - not to mention clusters of Astropaths, chirurgeons, scholastics, battlemasters: all were motionless. The holiest battle banners, icons, and golden fetishes flanked the arena of dedication where psykers were soul-bound. The air was spiked with crisp ozone and bitter myrrh, and ointmented with balmy, somewhat greasy fragrances. ![]() The muscles of the room were thick power cables feeding stegosaurian engines. Throbbing pipes ribbed the walls of the vast throne room.
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