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The sky above the necropolis was in turmoil as he stared into the storm, a unnatural canopy that led weaker minds into all consuming madness, if their eyes lingered too long upon the kaleidoscopic chaos. For they would find the storm staring back, with a thousand hungering eyes of lurking warp entities, searching for new souls to torment, to devour.
Beneath the maelstrom Sir Gwyn stood tall upon the balcony of his sanctum, an immovable bastion clad In ancient plasteel the colour of corroded copper, once a symbol of chivalry now scarred from a life time of war, twisted by the fires of hatred reforged a new, brought from ignorance into the light. Where there was once grace and nobility, there was now only revenge. The madness stared at him and he stared back. “You cannot dominate me,” he spoke to the sky, his voice like a glacier as he looked upon his prize, a realm of his own. He smiled as the city screamed.
The once proud shrine world, who’s purpose was to pay reverence to the betrayer of mankind, the corpse who calls himself a god, was now bent to his and his will alone. The great shrines had been casted down, replaced with towering alters of the skulls of the slain, holy gardens became home to bloated trees, their roots feeding on the Emperors flock, the scriptoriums now dedicated to dark scriptures and the cathedrals, where hope was so abundant and faith were so readily found, repurposed to house those marked to die by his hand. His world, his to rule, all who found themselves within his domain would serve, one way or another.
Over the cacophony of the city, he heard the engines of a troop hauler making its decent to space port, its hull filled with new slaves, captured from imperial worlds by the warlords who had been in need of his services, of his machine. This was the tithe which was owed by all who sort him out, but there was something he prized more than slaves, information and the locations of those he would have his bloody revenged on.
Anger boiled inside his corrupted soul at the thought of the order he had called home, the order who had banished him, who forsaken him. In a rage he crushed the black stone upper rail of the balcony with unnatural strength, “vengeance will be mine, on my honour I swear it. I shall not rest,” he growled as he casted his cold gaze from the city as he went back into his lair, the chains that adorned his armour clanked as he walked, the heads of rivals and of those who wronged him swayed as he went.
The sanctum was lit with torches a blaze with blue flames, bathing the large ornate room in an otherworldly glow. Adoring the walls hung twenty skeletal forms, upon each of their chest was a plate of metal which he had taken from their knights and then fused onto their still living bodies. The heraldry of their war engines were different but they all belonged to the same order. On the obsidian dais Sir Gwyn sat on his throne made out of the engines he had felled in mortal combat, as he looked across the open room to the large metal doors as they began to open, his great deeds engraved on its silver surface, the sound of metal grating on stone filled the ozone rich air.
From the opening came a black roped figure, like a snake he slivered upon his serpentine tail, its mechanisms whirling and whining as he kept his humanoid body low to the ground. His tentacle like mechadendrites kept close, not wanting to make eye contact with his Lord was quick to anger. “Why do disturb me, Magos? Or is it that you wish for death?” Sir Gwyn said, his voice filled with threat, echoed around the sanctum as he lay his cold untrusting glare upon the prostrate body of the head of his Idolators, who were responsible for the maintenance of his war machine. “We have received an astropathic message from Lord Melkar, Warlord of the Sires of the Word. He humbly requests that you led him your aid in his goal of setting the imperial forge world Zerrath Primus ablaze for the glory of the dark gods and to secure munitions,” Magos Titus blurted, a mix of high gothic and binharic cant, his green optical lenses fixed on the dark stone floor.
“What does he offer Magos. Slaves? Resources? Speak worm!”
“Information my Lord,” Titus said, no hint of emotion in his machine voice. Silence filled the room. Sir Gwyn sat now intrigued. With a raise of an armoured hand he bid the Magos to continue.
“Lord Melkars reports that a number of imperial knights have made planet fall. Of the five engines reported, three are of the household Griffith.”
He stood from the throne with lighting speed, towering over the Idolator, rage coursed through his veins white hot, mind now deadly focused, “Contact this Melkar at once, we shall aid his cause. Assemble my guard and ready the ship for immediate departure. I shall ready my steed.” Without a word Titus scurried out of the hall to do his Masters binding.
Stepping with purpose the copper knight made his way into the depths of the holdfast now a hive of activity, soldiers clad in chain mail, their flak armour a dark green with a copper bell painted on the chest, hurriedly made their preparations as he went, all gave him a wide berth, bowing their heads as his position demanded.
After some time he had arrived at the once hallow site. Located in the bowels was the grand cathedral, the personal place of worship for those who ruled here long ago, all its finery desecrated and its contents gutted. In the corners lay make shift alters and shires of cultists who worshipped his engine, seeing it as harbinger of the dark gods. Censor smoke clung to the flagstone floor, its dark aroma filled his lungs as the cant of the Idolators rung out, their unholy prays of twisted code infected the air as they prepared his machine for the connection between pilot and knight.
Towering at a height of 30 Terran feet, its laser destructor cannon was marked with engine kills, its barrel scorched from a life time of war. It’s power claw stained black with the life blood of the knights it had slew. Atop the scarred green and copper shoulder plates, hung a great bell of tarnished silver, its timber frame fused to its metal body. Three times three the bell would ring for the Household Griffith. for those who heard Death Knells chimes were doomed to die. Sir Gwyn stared into the optics, its mask like that of a helmeted knight of old. They were the eulogy all traitors would hear made manifest.
He prepared his mind for the mental battle of control over the machine as he walked towards Death Knell.
“I will not be dominated, for I am your master,” he growled as he lifted his bulky form down into the cockpit, the walls made of writhing metal, tendrils of wire and metal came to greet him and wrapped around his form as he sat within the throne mechanicum. The umbilical interface cords plunged themselves into the sockets which had been surgically inserted into his skull when he was still young. With a shudder the connection was made between knight and pilot. The machine spirit roared as it tried to take control, to enslave Sir Gwyns mind to the wants and desires of the baleful engine. But despite its best efforts, the pilot remained strong, his iron mind pushed the spirit back into its rightful place as he too roared. With effort he bent the machines will to his. Two minds had now became one. The plasma reactor spiked in temperature.
“Now we shall have our vengeance,” he thought. The engine sounded it war horn, its deep booming tones filled the cathedral. Death Knell walked. The bell began to toll.

Feedback is most welcome If you like what you read all the pieces I have written so far can be found on my blog https://fromtheloam.wordpress.com/

I liked it, a good atmosphere and building up. Granted I would have very much liked to have more detail about the fall from grace of the main character, so keep it comming.