Tribute to ElectricWizard - Your Tired Lord

The dropship Bloody Thorn cuts through the storm-choked skies of Kovarn IX, its hull groaning under the strain. Inside, the cabin is dim, lit by flickering lumen-strips that cast long shadows across sanctified steel walls etched with scripture. The air is heavy with incense and machine oil, a bitter perfume that clings to the throat. The constant thrum of engines mixes with the hiss of respirators and the faint rattle of chains bearing relics swaying with the turbulence.

Lord Seraphyne Veyra sits rigid on the iron bench, her crimson and white armor dulled by ash and scarred from countless campaigns. Her robes, frayed and stitched with the names of the fallen, hang heavy across her shoulders. A cracked miter rests beside her, its once-proud crest now marred by soot. Her pale face is drawn, lips pressed thin, one eye glowing faintly red from relic exposure—a reminder of visions she cannot escape. She stares at the floor, where oil stains mingle with dried blood, and her thoughts drift to the endless procession of soldiers she has commanded into death.

The dropship shudders, and she exhales slowly, as though the weight of every order she has ever given presses down on her chest. For a moment, her discipline falters. She leans sideways, resting her head against the cold, unyielding shoulder of the Vesper Guard seated beside her. The armor is hard, impersonal, yet steady—an anchor in the storm.

Seraphyne whispers almost to herself.

“I’m tired...”

Her voice is fragile, stripped of command, carrying the exhaustion of a thousand campaigns. She closes her eyes, letting the hum of the engines drown her thoughts. The Guard remains silent, unmoving, a sentinel of faith and duty. Outside, the ruined city waits, its broken spires rising like gravestones against the storm.

The dropship known as Sancitifed Blade was descending through the toxic atmosphere of Kovarn IX. The vessel groaning with age and honoured violence. Its walls lined with holy vigils and scorched scripture panels. Chains hang from the ceiling, some bearing relics, others the helmets of fallen Servants. The air is thick with incense and hydraulic oil, a scent that clings to the lungs like guilt. Outside the narrow viewport, the world below is a graveyard of steel and ash. The city once known as Virell is now a ruin—its spires shattered, its streets flooded with black mud and broken machines. Lightning crackles across the sky, illuminating the skeletal remains of cathedrals and war engines. Inside, Lord Seraphyne Veyra sits on a reinforced bench, her crimson and white armor dulled by soot and blood. Her miter rests on her lap, cracked and scorched. Her face is pale, one eye glowing faintly red from relic exposure. Her fingers trace the edge of her blade, not in readiness—but in remembrance.

Across from her sits a Vesper Guard. His armor is obsidian black with veins of gold, etched with holy symbols and battle scars. His helmet is tall and cylindrical, a single pulsing glowing blue slit for eyes that stretched along the length of his faceplate, and a plume of ethereal smoke hisses from the mouth vent. He does not move. He does not speak. He watches. Lord Seraphyne Veyra spoke distantly, a mind plagued with weary servitude. "I've seen too many worlds die, cities into bloody mud swallowing legions whole, muffled by their own armour. Servants sinking into trenches. Holy death... More like murder." A half broken servo skull drifts pass, bumping and bouncing off the sides of the drop ship. Its broken voice mindlessly whispering some fractured verses of scripture as the dropship shudders and groans. The storm picking up. "Each servant is just a fucking corpse waiting to fall. And we just let it happen, because the Pontiff wills it, the Bishops and Cardinals demand it.. Because a servant is as expendable as the rifle shell. Tell me, Vesper... When you look down at this ruin... do you still believe?”