Arabar sat, on his knees, and prayed. From his quiet voice fell vile prayers and litanies, beseeching the dark gods to bless his plans, and grant boons to him and his flock. He stopped a moment, and surveyed his surroundings, he was in the cargo hold of the battle barge Killer's Heaven surrounded by the stolen equipment that his flock had smuggled on board. Ammunition, bolters, grenades and other gear were piled up around him, but most important were the gene seeds, hidden away behind stacks of weapons and ammo, they were the building blocks of his flock's future. The strangest item in the hold was one not stolen by the flock, a great, empty Night lords Dreadnought sarcophagus stood ominously above Arabar as he prayed in its shadow.

Arabar looked back to his front, his gear layed out before his kneeling form. His Defiled crozius, placed laying horizontally on the floor before him, his helmet, which he had not worn in a long time, was turned to face him. The helmet had been shaped to that of a snarling Daemon colored in midnight blue, the helmets top knot stuck up with crimson red hair, and the most recent addition were the large bat like wings affixed to the sides, placed to further endear himself to those still skeptical within his flock. Next to his Crozius sat his most prized possession, "Araghast" a bolt pistol that quietly growled, wishing to be fed one of Arabar's belt clips of pistol ammunition, wishing again to kill. Arabar's armor had only just dried from his repainting of it, in the color scheme of his new Warband. The symbol, a black hand with open palm, the Eye of Horus glaring from the center, sat outlined by a white line to show out from his midnight blue shoulder. The semi sentient gun purred as Arabar prayed, going over the plan in his head.

Nearly every marine on board was a member of his flock, save 30 marines. The largest concentration of the infidels, just under half of them, were in the bridge, so a fair number of his disciples were their as well, the ones on the bridge had to die first. The plan was for Arabar to send a vox bleat over the general channel, all the marines would here but the loyalist night lords would believe it was interference, but his faithful knew it was the signal. Those in the bridge would die first to stop any distress signal or ship announcement from being made, and the rest of the loyalists would then be hunted down. If all went according to plan the Battle barge would be gone before the rest of the fleet could react.

Invoking a final prayer to Tzeentch, Arabar finished his prayers, and smiled. He sent the vox bleat, mag locked his helmet to his hip, retrieved his Crozius and "Araghast" and moved to the door, prepared to kill any Night lord who got in his way.

Turning his bolter around for the umpteenth time in his gauntleted hands, Sorthraal busied himself with frequent weapons checks before the signal came.

"This is madness," he intoned, for also the umpteenth time. "He wants us to kill our brothers."

"Because they do not believe, Sorthraal," replied Malgadon, standing across the aftcastle armorium with a self-satisfied smirk.

"I couldn't care less," Sorthraal said, as he pulled the handle and chambered a bolt round, "about their faith to the ruinous powers. I do care, however, that we will be committing fratricide." The traitor marine stood up from his throne, surrounded by munitions crates at his boots. "Malgadon, we fought with some of those warriors in the Great Heresy. You must understand my reluctance to murder them."

"I don't like it either," Malgadon said, as he stepped forward. The Killer's Heaven, in compliance with Eighth Legion tradition, was pitch-black in a complete lack of illumination, and only dimly lit in the decks reserved for the mortal crew. Yet even through this palpable darkness, neither astartes had any trouble seeing each other, owing to their gene-enhanced nature. "But we have no choice in the matter. I will not allow myself to go mad over these whispers."

Malgadon's helm was painted to imitate a skull. The ruby armourcrys of its lenses were the empty eye sockets while the vox-grille was the rictus snarl. Two long horns from a great beast of some sort curved into the air from its temples just shy of making scratches on the ceiling. Skulls were fastened by bronze chains across his cuirass and left pauldron, while two Mark VII helms -- one white, the other blue -- were impaled on the spikes that jutted out from his back-mounted power pack. Deed-scrolls and other panegyrics draped and hung from his deep blue ceramite, aggrandizing its wearer even further.

In contrast, the slightly older Sorthraal had little in the way of decoration. Or at least, it wasn't immediately noticeable at first glance, especially from afar: myriad runes covered the ceramite of his armor, in the flowing, serpentine tongue of Nostraman. Each sigil a concept unto itself, the script was ubiquitous all over his form. Others wore papyrus to record their deeds, but Sorthraal took the less obvious route and stenciled cuneiform on his equipment.

"He presumes to command us only because of the damnably incessant palaver of the Neverborn. If we did not have this affliction, then I would have killed him myself long ago. His existence is a cancer."

"I know, Sorthraal. You've told me plenty of times. Now, brother, please replace your helm. I think we are about to start soon."

He did so, grabbing his Mark VII helm and donning it. His powered armor hissed and whirred as the collar locks engaged, and teardrop-shaped eye lenses began to glow in activation. His vision, once unadulterated and true, was now tinged with a hint of red. Ammuntion counters blinked into existence while a targeting reticule scrutinized Malgadon's form. A cross mark hung above his head. Friendly, invalid target.

"Fine," Sorthraal said, as he followed his brother towards the doorway, muting the abrasive vox bleat with a blink-click at the channel's icon. "Let us get this crime over with as quickly as it is possible."

[REDACTED]

"It is nearly time, my children. The unbelievers die this day, and the Apostle shall lead us on the path of the gods." The hissing voice toned from behind the golden helm. Amphion felt a surge of pride as he scanned the small crowd of mutants and heretics he had brought with him to this legion. Leering abominations of twisted, buldging, cracked or rotting flesh more at home in the sewers of a hive world, and the desperate gangers and beggars willing to sell their very souls for the smallest trace of power and acceptance, their bodies marked with crude carvings of the eight-pointed star.

Thirty in all, sure to perish at the hands of the loyal Night Lords when the time came. He expected it to be within the hour, when his own flock would join his master's in the slaughter, falling on the for with autoguns and crude hand weapons. Khorne would be pleased by their blood, and Slaanesh their souls, and Tzeench their sacrifice in their betrayal. It brought satisfaction to the sorcerer. He raised his staff as he spoke again.

"When the Apostle summons us, you will storm the bridge. Leave none of the unbelievers with breath, offer up their blood for Khorne, and their skulls for his throne. Feed their souls to Slaanesh, and bask in his blessing when the time comes. You will need it when we set apon the path."

The mob chittered, bleeted and roared in adoration and exaltation. It would not be paid any special mind. The Night Lords cared little for these beasts and traitors, and paid them no heed. It would prove a costly mistake.

"I await your call eagerly, Apostle."

[REDACTED]

Quel marched along the metallic halls of the beautiful vessel called Killer's Heaven he'd wondered to her most intimate parts thinking of the ways he love to force himself onto her, but he was in no position to disobey Arabar. The peace he enjoyed now was due to Quel's loyalty and it was not something he was willing to give up so easily. His long tainted servo-arms sat at rest coiled around his power pack as an eager smile fell on the Warpsmith's face as he wondered what damage he'd repair after the coming battle. He knew that there was no major threat to the ship if the plan went by smoothly, but if there was anything he could take from his centuries and centuries of battle experience it was to expect the unexpected.

His nights under Arabar's lead had been long and unusual to the Warpsmith as the quieting of the voices allowed him a clarity of mind he was not used to. They were still there, still calling in a tongue unfamiliar to him, but they were quiet and to Quel, this seemed almost unnatural. He had always assumed the moment when he'd hear the voices start to fade, he'd be upon the blade of his enemies. Taking note of the heat signatures near by fading into the vision of his bionic left eye, Quel felt he was at a disadvantage in the coming battle, his forte was siege and the idea of purposely missing a machines most intimate parts seemed foreign to him, he did not like that the battle barges importance imposed a respect demanded from his but it was his only choice.

Despite his slight disadvantage Quel planned his attack, he'd focus on damage assessment and ensure the ship was ready to leave just as Arabar planned. The idea excited him, for a time the Killer's Heaven seemed as a forbidden fruit, he was not used to restraining himself, as he'd often express his perverse desires on other machinery but he had no time for that recently, he had to focus and come to learn what made the Killer's Heaven tick, to learn her architecture and past patch ups, so that he could prove his usefulness in the coming coup.

"Malgadon," said Sorthraal, as he made way through the dark corridors of the Heaven. "You carry a heavy bolter."

"Yes," the marine behind him grunted, the belt feed of the weapon swaying with every one of his heavy steps. "What of it?"

"It will be close-quarters fighting."

"And as Fourth Claw's devastator, I'll leave that up to you, Udan, Vorax and Bas while I help to achieve fire superiority from afar. What of it?"

"Nothing. Nevermind."

"If you say so," Malgadon let it drop, ignoring the uncertainty in his brother's voice.

One of the Legion slaves bowed as they passed, dimming the light of his lamp pack in respect. "Greetings, my lords," he whispered humbly, although he was callously disregarded.

Chanting, bellowing and laughing, Lentus had prepared himself for what was to come, half his mind abhorred the uprising while the other half roared in anticipation of violence. This new beginning was starting to give him hope once again, hope of what?! HOPE OF WHAT?!!!

Lentus shook his head, the whispering was beginning again, thankfully father Arabar was near him. He heard the agreed signal, and he would comply. This would make him traitor twice, or maybe balance his account? Vengeance for his lost brothers who still clung to false emperor? Vengeance for who?!

Hastily Lentus donned his armor and readied his weaponry as he strode from his cell to the hallways, towards the bridge.
On the way he met a former battle brother, he was not one of their new order, they had stood side by side in many battles indeed but now his name eluded the mind of Lentus. Good, he did not desire another name on his list. As the marine was about to salute his sergeant, Lentus activated his powersword. With an flash and roar the tainted blade filled with disruptive energies and flashed trough the air
HA! It still felt good to cut power armor in two. But its your brother?! Is it? Was it?
Lentus left the carcass where it fell, continuing forwards, in short time this barge would belong to father Arabar, and in turn serve as wings for Lentuses "salvation."

"Brother," voiced Udan over the vox, as the two marines in midnight clad took one of the four paths at the juncture. "Sorthraal, I have news."

"Speak."

"I have found the mangled body of a Legionary at deck eighteen, near the tertiary apothecarion. Almost neatly cut in half crosswise by a power weapon."

"Lentus again," Sorthraal grunted in realization. "He has gotten worse."

"Would be fine if he didn't have a gods-damned power weapon," thought Malgadon aloud.

"Worry not. It was merely Xextus, one of our targets. The apothecary is harvesting his gene-seed as we speak," Udan continued.

"Where are you?" voiced Sorthraal.

"Deck nineteen now. I shall be at the bridge in ten minutes. I will see you there, brother," intoned the distant marine, and then the vox-link clicked closed.

The duo went for three minutes in silence till they happened upon another Legionary. Staring through the thin, knightly eye lenses of his Mark III war plate, Bas raised his chin in greeting, although he didn't say a word. As was common practice across the VIII Legion, the skulls of his foes hung across his armor, and the striking forms of forked lightning were painted in stark-white contrast to his blue ceramite. At his hip lay idle his bolter, but in his occasionally clenching fist was a whirring chain-axe.

"Hail, Bas," said Malgadon, as his brother joined him and Sorthraal in their steps. "Have you seen Vorax, by any chance?"

The reply was a simple "No." It was a rumble, almost a growl, that was given a tinny vibrato through vox distortion. Bas did not say anything more, but that was normal.

"I see," said the havoc, wondering why ever he thought his bloodthirsty brother would make for good conversation.

As Lentus made his way trough the dark corridors he happened to hear an hushed voice, Night Lords had always been adept at tracking things under the guise of darkness. The momentary lack of some senses pushed their other ones to their limits and the ever roiling, adaptive powers of chaos had made these gifts ever stronger. Lentus strode up an level and approached stealthily towards the voice (He however knew this was an futile act towards an fellow Night Lord) Ah, he recognized the lone tactical marine as one of their new revolt. Part of him screamed loudly in his head when the prospect of another kill was momentarily lost. Maybe in time? NO! No more dead brothers! Unless they stood in the way of father Arabar? Surely not, all of them rejoiced in the absence of whispering.

"Legionnaire, you are one of Sorthraal´s men are you not?"

He barely got to finish his sentence when he heard more noises, these ones louder, not even trying to hide their presence. It seemed there was an clamor few decks below made by atleast an dozen pairs of naked, clawed and hooved feet. Lentus had no idea if the downtrodden wretches within battle barges bowels had an role to play in their uprising but it seemed they were uncharacteristically bold in their movements trough the upper decks.

Staring through the scarlet eye lenses of a faceplate forged into a perpetual, rictus snarl, the legionnaire in question halted his thumping bootfalls and regarded Lentus' power sword with complete and unabashed envy. Clad in a power-armored mishmash of multiple Marks, the marine stood, like the rest of the Legion, as a living nightmare. Dirty white skulls with outstretched, ugly, maroon pinions screamed in silent fury through the hollowed ceramite that served as their eye sockets as the spikes on his back-mounted powerplant bristled with the cracked helms of Novamarines. On the trimming of one pauldron, stenciled in the serpentine cuneiform of Nostraman read, 'Udan, who is without mercy.'

"I," he pronounced slowly, in a low, deceptively cool voice; his body language guarded and his trigger finger itching, "am one of Fourth Claw, and Sorthraal is my sergeant; but I am not his man, Lentus."

Arabar strode through the dark halls with purpose, but had yet to see another marine which was unfortunate. He had put his helmet on shortly after leaving the hold, unlike his flock the dark was harder to pierce for him, so he had to rely on his helmet's vision in the dark corridors. Of course he imagined most of his flock would likewise be wearing their own helms to tell friend from foe, so they needn't discover his reliance on it.

As he moved to the bridge, he saw two of his disciples conversing, no doubt on their way to the bridge. The first, carrying a power sword was Lentus, a loyal marine, largely due to his insanity brought on by his guilt, and service to Arabar seemed to Lentus as a way to "redeem" himself, and would follow Arabar without question. The other was Udan, a member of the "Fourth claw" as the night lords called their squads, one of Sorthraal's men. Like Sorthraal Udan was implacable in his lack of faith, and would be difficult to sway to worship just like his sergeant. But a third figure rounded the corner, one less friendly.

Arabar took the opportunity, and charged the loyalist night lord, crozius raised. Before the surprised marine could react the crozius had crashed into his helmet, and the marine fell. Arabar finished the job with a quick shot from Araghast, who's lone eye situated on the left side of the pistols body, writhed with the pleasure of the kill. Arabar approached his faithful then, "Lentus, Udan, my children. We make our way now to the bridge, and soon shall begin our final pilgrimage. Come, you two shall be my personal retinue"

It was not long now, the rest of the flock would be working their way through the ship, soon to arrive at the bridge. Without breaking stride, Arabar continued to the bridge, expecting Lentus and Udan to fall in behind him. There was no time for idle talk, the gods called for the blood of infidels.

Udan gave Lentus one final look before joining Arabar in his step. As he thudded down the dark corridor, he regarded the pulp that Jantaer had become, and he was impressed. What great power, he thought. His twin hearts beat faster as he regarded the foreign space marine, playing with the thought of rushing in and burying his chain-axe inside the Word Bearer's head, then taking his potent weaponry. But that wouldn't be good, for only his presence fettered the maddening advances of the voices.

The Word Bearer was wearing different regalia for some reason. Were these the colors of the warband that would be born after this slaughter? Udan thought it was ugly.

"Sorthraal, good news," he voxed. "That fool Jantaer is dead and I have linked up with Arabar and Lentus. We are proceeding swiftly."

"Copy," came back the modulated reply, then the distant Sorthraal blinked at an icon in his retinal display to allow Arabar to hear. "Vorax has joined us along with Second Claw. We are in the main concourse leading to the bridge, and await only the Apostle's command."

Lentus barely had time to fall on one knee to greet father Arabar when the queller of voices already brought swift death to another nonbeliever. He quietly recited.

"May the might of Horus follow you always apostle!"

He hastily followed his new master on his victorious way towards the ships bridge. As they moved, Lentus checked his stormbolter, this trophy from an Dark Angels lieutenant was still partly refusing its new service in Lentuses hands. AM I NOT WORTHY?! How dare this machine spirit deny the superiority of Lentus Caestus! No, no it was not this glorious guns fault... As Lentus strode along and continued his mumblings, the lights of control consoles were growing more dominant in the distance. They were very close to the bridge now, Lentus felt he would contribute many skulls today for the fiery king who appeared at times in his dreams.

Arabar approached the door to the bridge, beyond it was nearly every other Night lord not in his flock. Seeing as all of his chosen were yet to arrive, he waited, quietly praying.

As the rest of fourth claw arrived, along with Quel, Amphion and his cabal of mutants and cultists were close behind. As they stopped before him, Arabar gave a slight nod, and clicked the control panel, opening the door. As it slid open Arabar stepped through the threshold, raising Araghast, before him stood a helmet less Night lord, caught of guard by the sudden arrival. He was the first to fie as a bolt flew from the ecstatic barrel of Araghast and embedded itself in his skull, exploding within his skull and turning most of it to red mist. Arabar squeezed off another to bolts into the chest of an unfortunate Night lord who had stood next to his first victim.

Arabar moved to the side to allow his flock to stream into the bridge, and shouted, "Infidels! Your reckoning arrives now at the hands of the enlightened! Your blood will spill, your bodies shall break! AND I SHALL FEED YOUR SOULS TO THE DARK GODS!

Sorthraal was first in, followed by Vorax and Udan, and all three fired their bolters on full auto, wreaking havoc inside the expanse that was the bridge. Their bolts hammered against unyielding bulkheads and fragile control lecterns when they did not impact ceramite. Glass and armourcrys detonated, and damaged consoles spat out sparks and small flares like a deadly fireworks display. Malgadon was already setting up at a low wall when return fire belatedly barked back.

"BROTHERS," the havoc yelled, excitement bare in his modulated voice as he considered the targets bracketed in his retinal display. "EVERYBODY IN THIS ROOM IS GOING TO DIE!"

Then roared his heavy bolter, sending bolt after bolt in rapid and feverish succession. Some foes in the distance, by the great hololith table, were forced back into cover by the explosive spray when one of their numbers suddenly lacked a head. The decrease in return fire allowed the rest of Fourth Claw to take aim with greater impunity. Sorthraal, at that point, had already killed two.

"Damnable betrayers!" yelled one enemy legionnaire, as he raised his gladius and began to charge at Malgadon. A blur at the side of his vision halted his charge, however, and soon he was staring at Bas' unfeeling eye lenses. In the next moment, he found himself bereft of a hand. And before he could curse, he found himself deprived of his windpipe.

"Blood for the blood god, skulls for the Eighth Legion!" intoned Bas, as he wrenched his chainaxe away from the dying, gurgling marine and allowed the bloody fountain to rain all over him. Then he rushed across the nave of the chamber anew and crossed axes with another legionnaire. A few swipes, punches and dodges and his foe was already spilling ichor and intestines all over the floor.

"Do not kill any of the mortal crew," Sorthraal reminded, as he fed his weapon a fresh magazine. "They are too valuable to lose."

"I will try," said Vorax, as he took a farther position, his advance covered by Udan. Steadying his bolter on the breastwork as he rose, he aimed for the marine hiding near the Master of Auspex's control shrine. Firing a quick burst, he noted how its cowering operator winced against the noise. "But no promises, brother."

"That is not good enough. Navy personnel are not easy to replenish, fool. You will not harm these mortals, Vorax."

The youngest member of the squad conceded. "Yes, sergeant."

"Sorthraal," Udan said. "I intend to join Vorax. Cover me."

"Affirmative. Go, brother."

In the opening stages of the firefight, Fourth Claw fought with tactical mastery that would not have been out of place in a loyalist chapter. Excepting Bas, they all moved as one and communicated where it was necessary. With the help of the rest of Arabar's flock, this was bound to be an easy victory.

The roar of gunfire and clash of blades!! This is what our kind was created for! Lentus took off from doorway in a furious charge and let out an bestial roar as he ran. His armors servo motors whirred at full capacity and his steps shook the ground. His aim was clear, to blatantly flank the enemies taking cover behind holotables and grotesque carvings that were an mocking imitation of protectional gargoyles found on loyalist ships. He considered using his grenades but taking into account all the fragile control mechanisms and presence of ships flying crew, that was out of question here.

As Lentus forsook cover, several bolter rounds hit and ricocheted off his armors more curved surfaces, the impact didnt break his charge. He answered with an blind spray of destructive fire from his storm bolter, caring little for what he hit. It seemed the weapon was for once cooperating with Lentus, maybe because his targets were traitor marines also?

"Lentus, have you gone insane! It is I Dimas!"
Another old battle brother it seems was present here.
"I truly am sorry old friend, that you cannot see the light father Arabar has shown us!!"

"Damned traitor! Tear him apart!"

"I am not the traitor here! I am VENGEANCE MADE FLESH!"

With this he was upon his foes. They had barely the time to ready their weapons when Lentus had already coated the holotable and floor with Dimases blood. Three foes were one by one cut to several pieces by the ominously humming blade.
Damnation! It seems his earlier gunfire had cut down one of the fly crew. This was not acceptable, father Arabar had trusted Lentus to carry out this task without collateral damage! At this moment he prayed to whatever dark entities might be listening, that the bloody mess on the ground was not the barges navigator.

At that point, the tactical marines of Fourth Claw were no longer hiding behind cover. Sporting cracked pauldrons and shattered ceramite plates wherefrom quickly clotting blood slowly oozed out, they walked forwards slowly in the open, confident with the supporting fire Malgadon's heavy bolter provided, as well as that of other Night Lords, as they sent precise bursts of three bolts towards targets of opportunity. With the chaos Lentus and Bas were inflicting amongst the enemy ranks, return fire was sporadic and inaccurate at best.

"Ensure neither Bas nor Lentus get blindsided. Keep up the fire and cover their flanks," ordered Sorthraal over the intra-squad channel.

The massacre was rapidly coming to a close. The number had been just under 15 marines, and with the kills on the way to the bridge just over half within the entire ship were dead. The last two Night lords in the bridge would be dead in moments. Arabar, with assistance from Araghast's eye, squeezed off two accurate shots, one finding it's mark in the neck of one marine, but the other slammed into the shoulder of the other, Arabar cursed his aim, but the marine was cut down in a fury by Lentus and Bas. For a few moments near silence rained, only the mewling whimpers of a few slaves were heard. Then Arabar was again in motion, approaching the helmsman, "Tell me slave, with the damage done here can you still get this ship into warp travel now?" the terrified man shook his head madly, letting Arabar know that yes, it could still travel, exactly as planned. "Then get underway, we should be gone within a few hours, gone before the rest of the fleet discovers what is happening." minimal damage to the crew and bridge... good. Arabar moved back towards the command throne, and stood on the platform, facing his disciples.

"My children, the bridge is ours! The Killer's Heaven is now under our control, any Night lords left are being hunted down by the rest of the flock and we are victorious! he paused as he felt the ship move, felt the warp drive of the ancient ship firing up. "But I feel... as if something is missing... you may now have noticed my armor, no longer colored as a Word Bearer, this," Arabar lifted his arms to better show his armor, Is the Regalia of our new Warband! No longer must you bear the mantle of so impious a Brotherhood ad the Night lords, now we are bound in blood to a new name, now you are Night lords no longer, we are the Black Hands! We are the chosen of the Gods! The whispers of chaos will deliver us to great power, and I shall be the one to guide you to it! he moved down from the platform now, and motioned for a strange retinue to enter. Several slaves walked timidly into the room, some carried a dark robe of purple to Arabar, who pulled it from them and draped it over his form. The others carried something far stranger, a large wooden bowl in which sloshed a thick, viscous black liquid. The bowl itself was covered in runes and sigils of the gods and daemons. Arabar looked to his chosen, "Some of you hear the voices louder and stronger than any other. It is you, you who so loudly hear the calling that show great promise. Step forward now, oh servants of chaos, Sorthraal, Quel, Amphion and Lentus." he allowed them to step forward, out from the group and stand. Arabar motioned the slaves with the bowl to his side, "Today, I shall mark you each with the hand of the Gods. But... the holy mixture with which I may mark you with is missing a final, vital component" from his robe Arabar produced a long ritual dagger, covered in the symbols if the gods and chaos. He moved rapidly to the first marine he shot, who yet drew breath. His second shot had grazed the marines spine in just the right place, with help from Araghast, to paralyze him from the neck down. Arabar dragged him before his chosen, and ripped his helmet off, exposing the snarling marine's face and neck. Using the ritual blade rather Adeptly Arabar carved the symbols of each of the chaos gods and the circle of chaos onto his face. Perhaps his men knew the marine Arabar carved up, he hoped so, better to sever their bonds.

Arabar bid the slaves lower the bowl to just under the paralyzed marine's neck. Arabar then used the knife in a sawing motion on the marines neck, keeping it from closing and healing. The blood spilled into the bowl, mixing with the strange black substance within. When finally it was full, Arabar ceased, and dropped the Night lords head to the floor, his lifeless snarl still on his face. As he dropped the ritual dagger to the floor Arabar removed his left gauntlet, and dipped his now bare hand into the black substance, "On each of you I shall place the hand on a different piece of your armor, showing how the gods favor you," he walked first to face Sorthraal, You, Sorthraal, still you are skeptical of the Gods power, unsure of their nature. Upon you, their lay on your arm, where your own strength mirrors theirs, and where they will lend far greater strength, " he took is left hand and gripped the upper right arm of Sorthraal's armor, then dipped his hand again into the mixture and approached Lentus, "Lentus, your faith in me is absolute, your trust unquestioning, and faith in me is faith in the gods. Upon you their hand falls on your chest, where your hearts beat and pulse with their power. firmly Arabar placed his hand on Lentus's chest. Again he dipped his hand into the bowl, covering it in the liquid and facing Amphion, "Sorcerer, upon you the Gods granted the gift of the warp, you can manipulate the very power that the gods call their own. On you, their hand falls on the head, from where your power springs Arabar placed his hand over Amphion's helm, and the palm print left had Amphion's right eye in its center, much like the hand and eye of Horus on Arabar's own shoulder, finally he came to Quel, hand dripping in dark liquid, "And you Quel, in Grand-papa Nurgle you discovered faith, in his great decaying garden you saw beauty. In honor of your devotion, I place the hand upon your guts, the favored organs of Grand-papa Nurgle" With that Arabar placed the print on Quel's abdomen. He wiped the remaining liquid on his robe, and replaced his gauntlet. Then he returned to the platform, and turned up his hands, revealing the black under of his hands, and the white eyes if Horus painted onto their centers. "Upon me, tge gods place their hands on mine, as I am their deliverer, and guide to their chosen. Now, before you leave to hunt those who remain, tell me your grievances, and ask any questions of me. Though, if you truly wish you may wait, and speak to me in private. However, I suggest you speak now." Arabar waited, allowing his flock time to respond.

Quel was never one for ceremonies, he usually preferred the company of those whose words came from twisting engines and circuitry rather than the will of a mind. However, something about the corpses that decorated the bridge and farther Arabar's words pleaded to an unfamiliar side within Quel. His conversion as well as his peace, his humming whispering peace, they motioned the start of a change within the Warpsmith that he felt he was not prepared to accept. Regardless, as he stared down at the new brand that adorned his stomach and with farther Arabar's words still fresh in his mind, he felt closer to the one named Nurgle and whether this was a mere illusion of his chaos tainted mind or not, he found calming in this feeling. The Warpsmith has many questions for the farther, however, the Warpsmith had still yet to properly prove himself to Arabar, or so he felt. During the previous battle his gaze was more finely locked on the damage that spread throughout the bridge rather than being locked on his shifting enemies. "I beg my leave Farther Arabar, my questions are ones for another time." Quel reasoned as he knelt down in Arabar's direction.

Stepping back to his feet Quel turned around and bathed in the scene before him, blood, flesh, guts, damaged armour, pieced steel, torn cables, sparking servos and damaged consoles. It were as if Nurgle himself has delivered a gift to the Warpsmith, a toy he could occupy himself with to further cease the light whispers that remained, even in Arabar's presence. Taking a deep breathe as his twisted and tainted servo-arms uncoiled from their position on Quel's back, they darted around in the air eagerly, each in the direction of a different type of damage that had been done to the bridge of the battle barge.

First walking to the consoles that remained lit Quel forced his presence past any slaves that attempted to continue their duty, with a deft hand and learned touch Quel pressed various buttons triggering a series of dummy commands, none that would interrupt the flight mind you, that would return different results depending on what was damaged. With his goals in mind Quel weighed the severity of the damage around him before he turned to a damaged console deemed quite important from his assessment, a grin ran across his face as his inner monologue thundered over the whispers, 'Killer's Heaven I shall quell your sparks and errors, patience.' Viciously Quel's servo arms sprang into action with fiery hisses and sparked buzzes as they heated metal to metal and stripped damaged wiring.