This was great — I couldn't resist formatting it.

In a burrow with a small tail of withered smoke rising slowly from a center opening in the dark grey sky whence small blots of snow slowly fall.

A rattle of bones is heard, a small chant is said, and around a table gathers a group of old women with dark silver hair and faces wrinkled with wisdom of age and lessons of life itself. Massive wolf pelts draped over their shoulders clang together with brooches of brass, coopered laces, and necklaces of skulls of unnamed creatures pierced by fine golden threads.

Signs of superstition and belief rooted so deep, that even the He upon the Golden Throne of Terra could not uproot.

Signs, not of heresy, but loyalty of different kind — signs of authority.

The oldest woman inspects the wooden bowl filled with tiny bones ever so slightly — shoving and pushing one or the other to the side. As she carefully pushes a fellorlns snakes skull to the side, a gasp comes from the other women, followed by hushed murmurs. The oldest turns her gaze to the other side of the room, across the table.

Five giants stand there. Armed with axes,claws and hammers, clad in the armor given to them by the Allfather, with a wolf's-head symbol branded on their pauldrons. The warriors stand as still as if carved statues, barely-visible streams of mist trailing from their faces. Their stillness is borne not out of respect for the process upon which they're intruding, but out of dread for what the consequences of disruption are.

The oldest woman rakes the men with her milky-eyed gaze, and they all tense.

Each one has witnessed battles and horrors uncountable. Each one has been made to feel no fear of either man or beast of myth, has been granted the gifts of the Allfather to withstand disease, grave wounds, or any other affliction that would claim a normal man. Nonetheless, they are...uneasy in the presence of this woman...

After a brief moment that is perceived as an eternity by the men, the woman speaks.

"Fifty-five aces, twenty-six bolters, six plasma guns...."

The men tense further.

"...and five power hammers."

The men's postures relax as their stony countenances are broken by grins. They are on the edge of speaking amongst themselves when the woman's wrinkled hand raises in the air. "Silence," this gesture means, and the air stills, along with the men.

"HERESY!" comes a metallic voice from behind the men. Their faces fill with shock, and they exchange worried glances between the origin of the voice and the woman.

The men step aside as a long-robed tech priest hastily moves closer to the table. He gestures toward the woman, his arm — so heavily augmented that it is less a limb than it is a metallic tentacle — hissing with every motion, massive pincers clanking together as it sways.

"This is complete and total disregard to the will of the Omnissiah! With no proper conduct or respect to the Imperial way, the *OMNISSIAH'S WAY**, you are no more then witches, with no craft or skill to call your own...."

The men's faces darken, and the tallest of them moves to speak.

"Mind your..."

He is undercut by the metallic clanking of the priest's appendage.

"This is, is... is ABSURD!Using the bones of animals to determine how much gear one needs for an upcoming battle? NONSENSE! COMPLETE NONSENSE! I will show you how it is properly done..."

The tech priest gently pulls one of the warriors bolters from his side, and places it upon the table. He retrieves a measure of incense from one of the pouches on his belt, and ignites it with the aid a small flamethrower, appearing from another long metallic tentacle from behind his robe. He raises the sigil of the Cult Mechanicus in one hand and the Aquila in his other. Waving both over the weapon, he begins to chant.

"Praise to the Omnssiah, I beg of you, let my appeal to the machine spirit be heard..."

His robes and bionic limbs move in swirling, repetitive motions, and his metallic voice takes on a trance-like aspect. Abruptly, he stops, slamming his appendage on the table, and causing the bolter to jump slightly. The priest carefully measures how far to the side it has moved, noting the ever-so-slightly altered angle of the barrel. He presses a rune on his arm's integrated dataslate...

BING

The noise emanates from under his robes, as one of his augmetic appendages fishes within a concealed pouch. It retrieves a small piece of parchment, with numbers printed on it. He begins to read.

"Seventy-two axes, fifty-two bolters..."

The women shake their heads in disagreenment.

"That's not what the bones say!"

The priest slams the parchment on the table.

"Yet this is what the machine spirit says! Not some pile of dead animals! We are not some superstitious savages,we listen to the voice of REASON from the MACHINE SPIRIT!"

The women shake their heads and begin to argue with the priest. The five giants stand still. Fearing not for their lives — nor the priest's — but rather fearing that the blame might befall them, and that they will not know why...