The slaughter was glorious. Amphion couldn't contain the chuckle as the unbelievers fell under the Apostle's croizaz and his comrades' bolters. The mutants and heretics had stormed the bridge, as commanded, a howling tide of abominations and unholy devotees. Most had fallen, only thirteen still standing. At the moment, they were hunting down the last of the loyalists, autoguns, lasguns and crude hand weapons bared and ready in a pitiful attempt a proper military formation. The sorcerer was still reveling in the Apostle's blessing, feeling the power of his master flowing through his twisted, corrupted body.

It was glorious, and he laughed as he unleashed a psychic blast that tore a gaping hole the size of a child's head in the Night Lord's chest. His host fell apon another, drowing him in a tide of bullets and blades. The largest of the remaining mutants, a hulking brute that stood tall enough to look the Apostle in the eye, one arm twice as large as the other and baring dagger-like claws, his face a featureless mass of flesh covered by a blindfold, held up the marine's severed head in triumph as his axe dripped with his victim's blood.

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!" They all cried out. A fresh wave of pride swept through the sorcerer, a sure sign of Slaanesh's favor. With a wave of his staff, he bid seven of his followers continue the hunt, a task they set to gladly, while the rest remained behind.

"Gather the corpses, my children. Bring them to the bridge. The ritual should be witnessed by the Apostle." Of course, Amphion was not content with a simple slaughter, much as it pleased Khorne. No, he meant to honor all of the Dark Gods today. Nurgle would be pleased with his offering of the dead, a boon for the new legion of the Black Hands. He looked with pride at the newely-painted armor, a physicial expression of his devotion to his master and the gods.

"Soon we shall add Grandfather Nurgle's blessing to our legion, my children. Glory to the Dark Gods! We shall let the galaxy BURN!"

Lentus felt exalted and uplifted by father Arabars honored words. They made the guilt of this butchery bearable, as he looked around he saw the others were feeling pretty similar save from Sorthraal and some of his claw. They would come around, hopefully. It seemed they had started something grand here today, would they rise to grip history itself by the throat or be brought down by wills of daemons, never knowing naught but persecution. Lentus had now betrayed two great masters, firstly emperor, his creator father of them all however hard other traitor marines were trying to forget the fact, and secondly Konrad, or his will anyway. How could father Arabar say he trusted them? Vicious traitors whose divine punishment could lurk around behind every corner!!! Calm, Lentus, calm...

When Arabar asked if his new flock had any questions, only one popped in the mind of Lentus, he wondered if questioning his new master and giver of solid purpose so soon would be considered crude but the soldier in Lentus just had to ascertain something.

"If I may give voice to one concern I believe several of us are occupied with at the moment. What is our next course of action father?"

Arabar smiled widely, nearly all of his chosen inner circle were on the bridge, and he had now blessed them, shown them the way. Unsurprisingly Quel began work repairing the damage to the bridge as soon as Arabar was finished, good, his industrious attitude and loyalty would serve the Black Hands well. Amphion had quickly departed, leading the remainder of his mutants to purge those Night Lord's who had not been present upon the bridge and still drew breath. Sorthraal... remained strangely silent along with the rest of his squad. Arabar assumed that they were coming to terms with their fratricide. It was Lentus of all of his chosen that gave voice to his concerns.

"If I may give voice to one concern I believe several of us are occupied with at the moment. What is our next course of action father?"

Arabar stepped down again from the throne, "Why, I am delighted you asked good Lentus! As you all know by now we are currently on our way to the Eye of Terror, gateway to the home of the Gods. But, that is not specific enough for you is it? No, specifically we search for a planet within the eye, and Eldar crone world I only know as the "Forbidden Grimorie". I know neither it's location nor form, so how are we to find it you ask? Simple, the whispers in your heads shall direct us. Arabar smiled, hands open to his msn, "once within the eye they will become more clear to me. I shall use them as a guide. Once the world is reached, I shall explain the next stage, if our unholy pilgrimage! Now, you are dismissed! Repaint your armor before again you see me, should you wish to speak privately I shall grant any of you an audience." With that Arabar moved to the command throne and sat, content. In s matter if days the eye would be within sight.

What an odyssey they would have! Tails of the pilgrimage if the Black Hands would be recited by mad poets of chaos for centuries to come! Soon... very soon the gods would know their names...

Lentus nodded at father Arabars answer, bowed and took his leave. He did not want anyone to sense his quite visible excitement and an dumb grin that spread across his pale face. An pilgrimage, maybe even an crusade of sorts, just the thing I need to cleanse my soul. Or plunge it deeper into depravity? NO! Definitely this is an good thing. Even if it meant the whispering was going to continue, even strengthen. This time it was with purpose however, from their traitorous minds an map was going to be forged. An map to greatness or doom.

On his way to his cell, Lentus found the legionnaire he had slaughtered on his way to the bridge, this time he had more of his wits about him and he remembered this corpses name, Xextus he was. Flashing memory from time of heresy crossed his mind, how in a crater from melta explosion they had been surrounded by loyalists, only him and Xextus, rest of their claw naught but mangled bodies. How they had shared ammo for the last time and charged their enemies in a glorious counter-assault.

Lentus expected his guilt to wreck his mind again but it did not come this time, for some reason he was fine, even content with this murder. He was sure that divine vengeance would find him soon enough and that whispers would once again cloud his mind when they entered the eye but now he was at peace and he was going to enjoy it while it lasted. He took Xextuses blood spattered helmet from his corpse and looked into its lenses for a while. Hmmmm. To show his devotion to their new crusade he would graft an trophy of this finely made Night Lords helmet, what kind, he was not sure yet.

Farther Arabar's words pierced Quel's concentration like a bolter pierces flesh. His work slowed and quieted as he listened to Arabar's words, the very thought of what was to come filled his tainted body with vigour and excitement. When Arabar's words ceased, so did the silence of Quel's work, in a relatively quick fashion he managed to get some of the basic functions on several consoles restored. Not wanting to spoil his fun too quickly, he heeded father Arabar's words in reference to the repainting of his armour, additionally Quel had also become curious as to the possibility of further ship damage coming from the Night Lords who had fled the bridge. Fingering a few buttons on the consoles he retrieved what information he could regarding any damage to the ship, besides a few errors from the consoles yet to be fixed the diagnostic returned only very minor pressure imbalances, indicating some very minor interior damage.

Quel moved from the bridge to the halls, assessing the carnage left behind from the coup. As he drifted through the halls Quel took particular interest in one bit of damage on a metallic wall, it was a scratch mark, he pondered it's origin, it seemed too rough to have come from a power sword, yet not rough enough to have been carved by a chainsword. Suddenly it dawned on him, Amphion's creatures might have caused such damage, removing his padded glove Quel ran his bare fingers over to mark. Something about it excited him, in his six thousand years of existence Quel had repaired and destroyed a lot of machines, however, those twisted by the warp, that seemed more beast than machine had always left a guilty feeling in Quel's bowls. He now recognises this guilt as the product of a hidden excitement and urge to want to work on such machines and aid in their manufacture, his previous dedications to the Night Lords spawned such a guilt in him, but no more. Now Quel only felt excitement as he wondered what abominable machines he'd father in his future service to Arabar and Nurgle.

Malgadon brandished his hunting knife and removed war plate from his fallen brothers while the rest of Fourth Claw, having managed to stop Bas from eating any of their gene-seed, more or less quietly retreated from the bridge, intending to tend to their wounds and equipment. The battle, though one-sided, still gave them quite a few injuries, and while the pain was dulled by the combat stimulants automatically administered by their armor's drug dispensers, it was still an incessant, if distant, source of irritation.

"Brother-apothecary," Sorthraal said, his voice ever saturnine, as he, Vorax, Bas and Udan entered the dark hall of the aftcastle apothecarion, "we are wounded."

Quel's march came to an end when he once again reached the bridge, by now some of the consoles had been cleaned up and repaired by the slaves who worked the ship. They were like parasites who served the barge and managed her to prove their worth to their tormentors, it sickened Quel to think that some of these parasites were tasked with looking after Killer's Heaven. He pushed those thoughts aside as he marched through the bridge with his newly painted armour, his rounds sore to the state of a fraction of the large battle barge, damage was minimal and only the aesthetic of the ship had really changed. It forced a sour frown on Quel's face as he had hoped for a reason to open Killers Heaven and fiddle with her more intimate parts.

The desire had begun to pass as time ticked by, Quel's meltagun was cold and he'd wondered what type of machines he'd turn its gaze to in the coming future.