A somber atmosphere hung over the Temple that housed the Dreadnoughts. Blue lighting strips cast a cold glow across the vaulted ceiling, reflecting off the dark gray power armor of the Word Bearers Space Marines standing solemnly on either side in a wash of icy metallic light.
The air carried a distinctive blend of incense, machine oil, and coolant.
At the center of the hall, the ancient and imposing Saturn-pattern Dreadnought—Brother Skranchi's final shell—stood silently on its designated hibernation cradle. Thick power conduits and nutrient lines coiled around it like great pythons, not yet activated.
Led by Apothecary Norskar, Hercules, Company Captain Menoetius, and a group of officers and elite warriors who had fought alongside Skranchi stood solemnly before the cradle, holding a simple but dignified farewell Ritual for him.
For a veteran Dreadnought about to enter another long hibernation, this was the highest honor the Legion could offer.
As a Tech-Priest tightened the final safety lock with a blessed wrench, Skranchi's mechanically synthesized voice broke the silence, its distinctive buzz laden with impatience:
"All right, all right, stop looking like you're at a funeral!" His external speakers buzzed.
"I'm just going back for a long nap, not getting fucking scrapped for good! Who are you trying to impress with those grim faces?"
Apothecary Norskar stepped forward, his calm gaze passing over the Dreadnought's heavy armor. His voice was steady, though it carried an almost imperceptible weight. "Battle-Brother Skranchi..."
"Based on your physiological readings and our assessment of fatigue in the chassis core, this hibernation and maintenance cycle will be extremely long. We expect it to last several decades, perhaps longer."
"That means many of those here today may no longer be around when you next awaken. Is there anything else you wish to tell us?"
A low hydraulic sound