A shift in the warp betrayed the approaching spell, the malice of the chaos sorcerer made manifest. A burst of psychic energy and a twist of my physical body nearly carried me out of harm's way as the spell tore into the border between the warp and realspace. But I was too slow, and the spell was birthed in a flash of sickly yellow light that cried out with gluttonous abandon, stretching out, reaching for everything it could have in it's brief existence. It found my arm, and held it tightly.
In the space of a second I saw it happen, pain elevating my senses beyond what I'd thought capable, rendering the sight of one of my own limbs being flayed apart in exquisite detail. My armor was torn away, fragments of ceramite flying through the air towards the center of the hungry light, a tiny maw that tried to squirm even further into this reality.
My skin was next, puffing out and bloated almost comically. The strain was soon too much, and a cast-off rag, pale on one side, bright and red on the other floated away from me. I tried to reach out and take it back, but my arm was held fast and I could do nothing as it was taken.
My veins quickly felt the pull, raising into the air and waving about, slender crimson weeds being pulled from the ground. Their roots ran deep, however, and they only released a spray of sanguine pollen to nourish wherever it fell.
But even the ground was quickly torn up, proud strands of muscles angered at the sudden exposure to the air, bunching and twisting around each other to resist the pull, protect the nerves wrapped up within. The witch-light was tenacious in return, pulling from one direction and then another, hammering on one bundle before pulling at the tip of a single fiber. Defeated, the muscles that I had long cultivated and been protected by were slowly unwoven thread by thread.
With nothing to support, their purpose ended, the disconnected bones of my hand and arm simply drifted away. The material of my arm was pulled to the center of the light, drawn through the tear in reality to whatever lay beyond. The light finally receded, the shrieking of the warp cut off as realspace reasserted itself, washing back over from where it had been displaced.
And with that, the moment was over.
Though I had dedicated myself to the service of the Machine God, I must confess I have always been unnerved by those tools the priesthood called cherubim. Stunted, vat-cultured bodies flitted around me with silver wings and antigrav suspensors, clinging to the supports overhead or whispering sharp bursts of lingua technis to those senior adepts whose shoulders they fluttered around. The round face and plump body of a newborn was sharply distorted by skin drawn and weathered by exposure to the acrid chemicals that permeated the air of the forge world, and even further yet by rough bionic tools and sensor-nodes protruding from hands and eye sockets that chirped and beeped as they carried tools and dataslates to and fro.
Once again I was held frozen, but this time by pain-numbing elixirs and muscle relaxants that kept my body from crying out in protest and accidentally tearing sutures that held skin and muscle together over the reinforcements made to my ribcage and spinal column. But an unresponsive body would not accept the signals from the bionic replacement, and a dulled brain could not reconcile sudden impulses from a limb thought lost, and so other ministrations were given to keep my mind bright and clear.
I heard the hum of servo-arms, and the ancient process-litany that accompanied each step of the procedure sung by the withered cherubim high above me. A glisten of fresh oil on the dull metal of one of the arms bespoke the recent blessing of the equipment, and the scent of the mixture indicated the touch of a senior magos. I was surprised and perhaps a little embarrassed that such attention was being given for such a simple matter, and I gave due thanks in return both to the machine spirits of the humble maintenance bay and the Machine God himself for directing one of His most honored servants to oversee my care.
A slow whirring announced the beginning of the procedure, and I looked out of the corner of my eye to see the first support section of my new arm lowering into position. There was a bone-wrenching jerk as the first piece clamped on to what was left of the Humerus bone in my upper arm. A second and third servo-arm came into sight, and I felt another sharp pull on my bones as the support was pulled into the precise position to await the forearm and hand components.
With the main supports waiting in place, a clump of mechadendrites was lowered from the ceiling. I saw the largest servo to be installed, a squat grey cylinder that would replace my elbow, a rounded ball-joint not unlike that of an antique doll that was directed to my wrist, and an array of small, delicate disks that could only be my new finger joints. The mechadendrites paused for a moment as the chant raised around me, begging precision and stability from the Machine God before they lowered and I blinked away tears at the flashes of tiny spot-welds and micro-rivets driven into place.
Their duty complete, a legless servitor came into view, a torso gliding along on a rail set solidly into the wall, and I saw it had six arms, none of them limbs of flesh, and each reached into a compartment inside the servitor's own chest to pull out many different strands of wires and cables. Hoisted above me, the six arms were now a blur, stretching wires between servos and micro-cogenitors, weaving the system that would give me a full range of control, both mechanical and electrical.
As the servitor vanished, the table I laid on shifted, the new arm shifted so I could see it clearly. As instructed, I focused my will with prayer, moving the phantom feelings of my old limb to overlay the new one as closely as possible.
A lance of pain nailed my hand in place as induced sensory feedback connected the old feelings with the new. I would have screamed but for the restraints as each finger vanished into the metal, fingertips flooded with a million different sensations to tie the concept of fingertips inside my mind to the soft, artificial tactile pads. Embedded systems pulled my elbow into its proper place, despite the phantom limb's attempt to pull away.
The pain vanished immediately, sensation reduced to those tactile pads, temperature sensors and stress monitors that were installed. The arm was pulled away once again, and I felt it go, but not feeling the finishing touches, protective covers from the vulnerable circuitry under a sleeve of padded material formed to approximate the shape of my old arm. The chemicals in my flesh had no hold over my new limb, and I flexed it, tested its motion.
A final verse was spoke in praise of the Machine god's craft, and the procedure was over.
As I said, this is a writing experiment, so nitpick lots on every aspect of this you can think of!