The Inquisitor strode past the immobile Space Marines like they were Imperial Guard menials, green-metal plating and a mantle made from the fur of a wolfish thing contrastig with the plain black plate of the Astartes.
'You will yield', he said through clenched teeth, "Your bloated pride will not save you from the judgement of Terra, Talonspyre".
Chapter Master Talonspyre sat on a Throne, as immobile as his Space Marines, his armour black with pale gold trim, an ash-grey mantle spilling onto the floor from the Astarte's back.
"Relenquish the neuro-conditioning mechanism to me. NOW!" the Inquisitor yelled, eyes bloodshot, then in a much lower but even more menacing tone, "And your Sons of Silence might yet live."
Slowly...so very slowly, Chapter Master Talonspyre shook his head. He was midway through the process of facing the Inquisitor once again when his head was engulfed by a ball of blue plasma.
The Inquisitor holstered his plasma pistol and turned to face the other Marines, who stood there as decorative armours. Normal for soldiers subjected to such heavy neuro-conditioning, of course, they'd never raise a hand against an Inquisitor, Imperial hierarchy embedded in their minds.
The Inquisitor heard one of the Marines chuckle, the helmet making it more of a growl. Then another. Then two more. In a few seconds, he was surrounded by laughing statues.
"Cease this immediately!" he yelled, but barely heard his voice among the thunderous roar of the assembled warriors.
The next voice, though, he heard perfectly clear, though it sounded like a whisper.
"One can only laugh at you, pitiful traitor."
Talonspyre's ghost had come for him.
The figure hovered above the headless corpse on the throne. The same profusely decorated armour, but so damaged it was a miracle how it held together. The ashen cloak wasn't a cloak now hung from below the waist, ragged, hiding the...Marine's...feet - if it had any. Instead of the Chapter Master's power sword, this wraith sported a pair of Lightning Claws.
No face was visible with the hood pulled up, a single red glowing orb defying the utter darkness.
But the wings...the wings were the most revolting part. Pinions of jagged metal slowly rose and fell, a rusted parody of real wings. Oath parchments hung from the wings, resembling strips of flayed flesh.
The Inquisitor knew this was a Space Marine, flesh and bone, but something within his gene-enhanced mind, something primal, remained doubtful of what this ghost was. It looked exactly like it meant to: a wraith wearing the wargear of a fallen warrior, a dark parody of it. And yet it was majestic, as imposing and awe-inspiring as any aquila-wearing Chapter Master.
It spoke again, and its voice, the Inquisitor noted, wasn't so much whispered as it seemed spoken through clouds of ash.
"Your vessels have been found. Your operatives have been terminated." It leaned closer, and the Inquisitor noted, with racing hearts, that he still couldn't see the wraith's face, , inches as it was from his own eyes. Its voice came coarser this time, "Your life...Alpha Legionnaire...is mine."
The Lightning claws flared purple. The wraith moved. For all his millennia of experience, Rainthe Vascus, a master plotter in a Legion of plotters, screamed.
He barely had time to notice the Marines were still laughing.
Chapter Master Rafen Talonspyre, of the Sons of Silence (they're brainwashed marines, hence why the Alpha Legionnaire didn't find it strange that they didn't shoot him). Another prize for a Bolter and Chainsword contest. It's not perfect, certainly, but it achieves the goal of mixing imperial majesty with a sort of wraith tone. I chose the latter because I found it the only way of incorporating the creepy winged jetpack requested by the character's creator.
It's back to Primarchs, next.