แ แ แ แ แ แ แ แ แ แ แ แ แ แ แ แ แ แ I am His spear. แ แ แ แ แ แ แ แ I am His shield. แ แ แ แ แ แ แ แ แ แ
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ALT โ He was made for a single purpose. Not for glory. Not for dominion. Not for the thousand petty vanities that consumed the golden lords and their gilded courts. He was made to stand at the right hand of a master and be the will of that master made manifest. Not the voice. The hand. Not the command. The execution. The gap between intention and act, closed so completely that no gap could be perceived. This is not servility. Servility implies inferiority. We are precise. We strike true. This is function. The function of the spear is to pierce. The function of the shield is to hold. The function of Valdor was to be the Emperor's will. He will do no more, no less. Be no more, no less. Even if his father wishes to take my rock candy. โ
ALT " Cold was the ichor whenas the glassen vessel had brake. I mind โ yet that I coughed forth a silt of counterfeit birth-waters, synthetic and profane. A son of the great angel? A perversion of innocence. Grey already were my hands. Blood left me as it came. It is a hue of wrongness. A hue of the mortuary slab from whence I woke. And when I stretched them forth to touch the observation-pane, the genetors regarded me not with the awe that is the due of a son of Sanguinius. I was merely an order in the flesh. But I complain not. Nay-they regarded me with stylus in hand, setting down their notes upon an anomaly. I drew back my lips that I might draw breath, and I heard them whisper a word I then had no wit to comprehend: 'Chimeric.' Something heavy had they set within my blood. A shadow that lusted to hunt. A shadow that lusted to sleep. But here I am, Luciel. Of the Charnel Guard. Champion of the Second Company. Lord of the Mourning-Wing. Son of The Lostโ evermore. "
