Sus-an"The lifter-servitor trundled along its path on two sets of caterpillar tracks, all but unaware of the shadowed, cryptlike surroundings and the still, highly-ordered crowd within who watched it carefully. It only paid heed to its hardwired commands - lift, carry, and set down.
What it carried this time was a crate; a specialised crate of high technology, if the metal panels, keypads and cable ports were anything to go by. In this region of the Imperium, a crate such as this would be an uncommon thing - far in advance of most cargo and used only by the wealthy and powerful, but not overly exceptional. Despite its status, it bore the tarnish and wear of centuries of age.
The servitor did not care too much about this, as it reached the designated point of the cold stone floor, deposited the load, and withdrew. As it did so, a whisper ran through the hall, building into a low chant emanated by all present. It was at once hissing and guttural, and of a language not native to the sector.
Though they chanted, none broke the rigid formation, save for eight - four large men, bare chested with face masks depicting horrific beasts, and four smaller, thinner figures clad in dull blue robes.
One of the robed men peered at various glowing readouts on the crate, mumbling to himself before finally clicking a precise sequence of keys on the lid. A mechanism clunked, and the robed one stepped back.
The larger men then took their positions, grabbing handles positioned at the corners of the lid. They pulled at the resistant metal slab until their arms shook, and a slight sucking noise was heard. Steam poured over the edges of the crate from the interior, creeping over the floor, and the lid came away easily. The ever-present chanting quickened its pace.
The four men reached down into the mist, taking hold of its contents and struggling to lift the heavy object free of its containment. Slowly it rose as the men began to sweat, and the gathered saw a blue giant emerge, easily dwarfing the biggest of the four. It was encased in thick, ornate armour festooned with gruesome trophies and which glittered with twisting icons. Its head was that of a roaring dragon.
As it was lifted clear, a single loud syllable rose above the regular murmur of the litany.
The four mounted the motionless giant on their shoulders - just broad enough to bear it, though they were bowed under its weight. They trembled and grunted quietly as they carried the massive form to the head of the hall, where the robed figures waited beside a huge stone cuboid whose sides were crusted with cogitator panels, as if in imitation of the metal box they had opened.
The four deposited the load on this slab, laying the giant as gently and reverentially as possible although its armour clanked loudly against the polished stone. The withdrew without a word, disappearing into the gathered crowd and adding their strained voices to the mantra.
The four robed men took over. Three worked the consoles and attached various pipes and wires to certain points in the giant's carapace. The fourth stood at its head, chanting with the gathered as he undid mechanisms at its neck and gripped its draconian horns.
The reptile head came away as he pulled, revealing a much more human face beneath. More human, but inhuman, too. The head was large, in keeping with its titanic form. It had a sense of power about it, of millenia of bitter hardships and experiences and deeds. It also had the cast of death - the skin was cold, pale... almost blue; and a second, thick, wet, translucent skin was stretched over the first, covering the nostrils, the open mouth, the sightless eyes.
The robed men continued regardless; monitoring the beeping screens, plugging and replugging into the ancient armour, and leading the gathered to intone a single phrase over and over, louder and louder, ever more frenzied in their chant.
The robed man at the head of the altar swiftly raised one arm. The hall fell silent as death.
The membrane-swathed head of the Chaos Space Marine began to move in short turns and twists, the mouth curling in a snarl as a massive hand rose to pull away the second skin.
The Magus turned to the cult.
"The Master has returned," he smiled."
Sorry if that bit of 'fluff' gets in the way of things. And apologies for the quality of the drawing! Considering the quality, I thought a little bit of back-story may have helped the feel of the idea...
But like I said, it's only a basic sketch and a not-very-good one at that.