He turned and stalked back towards the scorched earth of the small encampment. His black armour shining weirdly in the weak sun, the chased gold Crux Terminatus on his shoulder lined briefly in bale fire. Four massive figures stood at parade rest before him, silhouetted before a vast bonfire, their eyes glowing with an eldritch light.
“Weeeee aaaarrree rreeetuurrnnnnned…” He lisped “DEATHHHH TO THEEE FALSSSSSSSE EMPEEERORRRR! IN THEEEE NAAAAME OFFFFFF THEEEE MOUTTTTHHHHH OFFFFF ABADDONNNNNNNN!!” He cried. The words ringing out into the coming storm. “WEEE AAARRRE THHEE BLLAAAAACCKKKKKKK LLEEEEEEEGGIONNNNNNNN!!”
An inchoherant roar erupted from the twisted, armoured forms in front of the Mouth of Abaddon. Only to be almost drowned out in a wall of screeching feedback as the gigantic metal form of Ancient Hastuur stepped forth from the roaring flames on burning legs of black iron.