Prow weapon

Sanctified Bombardment Cannon

Fixed like a divine spearhead to the prow of the Ignis Aeternus, the ancient bombardment cannon known as Big Barnabas is both a relic of Imperial warcraft and a holy terror to the traitors of Mankind. Clad in sanctified plating and bolted into the very bones of the voidship’s forward frame, Barnabas is not merely a weapon — it is the Emperor’s wrath made manifest, aimed eternally at the unworthy.

Designed for planetary bombardment, Big Barnabas is terrifying in its purpose: a single orbital salvo can reduce an entire square kilometer to ruin, scouring fortifications, incinerating armored columns, and turning cities into burning wreckage. Against entrenched ground forces, it is nothing short of apocalyptic.

Mounted into a reinforced siege cradle, the cannon stretches down the length of the prow’s spine, supported by recoil-dampening pistons the size of hab-blocks and stabilizer arms locked to the hull’s internal framework. It is tended by labor cults and machine-priests alike, who toil and chant maintenance hymns in the shadow of its barrel and anoint its reload arms with sacred oils.

Surrounding Big Barnabas is an intricate web of support systems:

• Cogitator-controlled aiming arrays are positioned just below the forward viewports, calibrated to strike planetary coordinates as ordered from the bridge.
• Massive cranes arc overhead, swinging shell casings into position like solemn censers at a high liturgy.
• A conveyor network threads through the gun deck, carrying components from lower holds to the prow’s sacred arming shrine.

Munitions are assembled beside the gun itself, as their parts are stored across the vessel to prevent catastrophic detonation. Shell bodies from the armored cargo bays. Explosive fillers from pressure-sealed chambers. Detonators and caps from shielded sanctums behind the bridge.

A specialized order of priests oversees the sanctification of every shell. In their scriptorium alcove, they inscribe miniature parchment prayers, cut them into slivers, and mix them with the explosive charges — infusing each round with the Emperor’s fury. This process reduces the weapon’s range slightly, but when the shells detonate, they erupt in radiant hues: golden flame, violet storm-light, crimson arcs — divine signatures of righteous devastation.

A community of menials lives in structure of the cannon, their lives shaped by the beat of reload cycles and ignition chants. They dwell in bolted hab-clusters welded to the inner prow, sleeping beneath its shadow, working along its machinery, and devoting their lives to the operation of Barnabas. Each bound to their task — whether oiling the loading arms, stirring charge sludge, or guiding lift-servitors into place.