Loreposting

>A blaze of light and energy makes Khemet’s oculars dim, as the wormhole in the Night Scythe’s hull forms a bridge between its orbiting flagship and the desert floor. From the jade beam comes the familiar sound of metal feet marching in lockstep on hard-packed sand.

>At the head of a phalanx of warriors strides their overlord, a vision of necron majesty. For all their duplicity, the C’tan had honoured the caste structure of the necrontyr when they fashioned their cages of living metal, giving the grandest and most powerful forms to the phaerons and their heirs.

>The overlord towers over Khemet, his body literally built to a grander scale than even that of the Silent King’s most favoured servants. His breadth and stature are emphasised by the crest that rises transverse from his head, a crown that Khemet might consider disloyal if it were anything more than a simple bronze crescent. Her concerns are allayed by the ankh of the Triarch, the brand of allegiance that unites the grandest warlord with the lowest warrior, proudly emblazoned at the centre of his chestplate, alight with the same cerulean glow that is barely contained within his thoracic cage. A skirt of heavy bronze plates sweeps the sand at his feet, and a warscythe’s butt hisses through the black grains as he approaches her.

>‘Well met, praetorian,’ says Anrakyr, called the Traveller by admiring allies and embittered foes alike.