Starboard weapon

Macro-Cannons — The Emperor’s Knuckles

Lining the port flank of the Ignis Aeternus like a row of clenched iron fists, the ship’s macro-cannons form the beating heart of its offensive strength — brutal, reliable, and relentless. Though they lack the grandiosity of Big Barnabas at the prow, these deck-mounted war-cannons are the true backbone of Imperial naval firepower, delivering judgment not in isolated devastation, but in sustained, crushing volleys.

Each macro-cannon is a fortress unto itself — a reinforced turret and barrel assembly the size of a manufactorum tower, braced against the inner hull by magnetic anchors and recoil arches. Their barrels, blackened from centuries of discharge, extend like blunt spears into the void, ready to deliver high-yield munitions into enemy hulls at any moment.

Dozen of these guns line the ship’s port side, arranged in tiered batteries, each with overlapping firing arcs designed to saturate targets with iron and fire. Unlike the singular, holy wrath of the bombardment cannon, the macro-cannons embody the Imperium’s philosophy of war: overwhelm, hammer, and annihilate.

Their operation is a feat of grim efficiency:

• Chain-fed magazines deliver macro-shells the size of small transports to the breeches, where servo-cranes load them under the direction of red-robed ordnance techs.
• Each gun is operated by a team of gun crews, overseen by a deck officer and monitored by one or more Tech-Adept.
• Ignition charges are packed by hand into the breech chambers, their chemical stink lingering in the gun pits long after a salvo is fired.

These weapons are not elegant, nor are they designed to inspire awe. They are meant to deliver void superiority, tearing open bulkheads, collapsing plasma coils, and crippling enemy systems in brutal repetition. When fired in full broadside, the entire port side shudders, and the ship’s vox relays the ancient chant: “Steel on target. For the Throne.”

The macro-cannon decks are home to entrenched crews of menials and gunners, many of whom live and die within shouting distance of the guns they serve. They sleep in alcoves, sharpen tools on shell casings, and paint the names of fallen comrades into the walls with machine grease. Their lives are dirty, loud, and dangerous — but every one of them knows: these guns win wars.