Victar was quick to exit the pod holding the team and board the ship they had been ordered to purge. Finding the helm would be difficult, given that he was particularly unfamiliar with the ships design and layout, but those were things you learned by experiencing them firsthand. Stormshield in his left, boltor pistol in his right, he took up positon in front of the nearest doorway as the other members of the squad exited. In tight quarters, his jump pack would be detrimental, but perhaps there would be a proper time and place for it. For now it was simply a reassuring weight strapped to his back.

Glancing over at Draksal as the order was given for the two to take point, Victar nodded and kept his shield up and at the ready.

"Understood." Was all he said. When the others were ready, he would march forward. The glory of first blood would be his.

Sorrow had taken place in his solitary seat without comment or complaint. It was his burden to be a Blackshield and he would carry it silently, even if it hurt to be deliberately separated from his new companions. Memories of previous boarding actions and scenes of combat with his former Chapter flitted through his mind's eye and Sorrow grasped the grip of his bolter tightly. It was an ancient specimen, the least advanced and prestigious of such weapons he had been able to find in the Deathwatch's armory. It would not do to fulfill his journey of penance with artificer gear.

As the boarding ramp opened and his battle-brothers disembarked, Sorrow turned to heed Aldaric's orders immediately. The FFI systems inside his helmet identified his fellows with small nametags that popped up on his HUD, and Sorrow positioned himself to be behind Victar and Draksal, bolter at the ready. He found himself standing next to the Chaplain, Zaphiel. The religious fervor of the Black Templars was a little alien to Sorrow, but he had begun to understand lately that it was comforting to place one's trust in the higher power of the God-Emperor... and, perhaps, a chance for salvation in whatever waited for him beyond the veil of death.

"Acknowledged and in position. The Emperor protects," Sorrow whispered over the squad's vox-comms.

Suddenly, one of the pipes along the damaged wall burst and started shooting fumes into the corridor. Powerarmor cogitators immediately identified the vapors spectroscopicly as steam, but it could have been anything noxious on a xeno vessel. It was a sign to gtfo before this corridor caught fire for whatever reason.

"Killteam advance!" Everyone was in position, and with eyes on Drascal and Victor, Aldaric gave the order to move. Sounds were already moving toward them from in front, and now the view in back was obscured by white clouds. There was little time before the Dark Eldar realized that they had been boarded. A stormshield and bolterfire would be the first and possibly only thing the xenos would witness before hitting the floor.

Brother Felbane of the Angels of Absolution had apparently decided they were in charge and ordered the rest of the kill team to form up alongside him in the direction he had arbitrarily chosen when dismounting. Due to the lack of information about the external space combat, due to the lack of camera feed on the boarding craft, it was not at all clear where they had hit the enemy vessel and thus where the objective was. It could very well be that they were heading the wrong way. Still, Felbane‘s swift commands did give them unit cohesion and a purpose as well as getting them away from the impact site before they could be surrounded. He followed their direction for now, beginning to advance along side Brother Ironmarch, having returned the individuals nod and hoping the Harbingers did not run in front of his line of fire in their eagerness for glory.

They flicked off the safety on their shotgun, readying the Wyrmsbreath round loaded weapon to fill the corridor in front of them with a burring wall of death. While he advanced he made sure the skull probe continued to keep an eye on their rear in case the cocky Ultramarine's eyeballs failed him, the way behind having been obscured by steam that the probe may have a better chance of seeing through. Draksal Corbite then open communication with the Watch-captain, intending to resolve the direction issue.

“Watch-captain Roa, is it known where in the enemy vessel the Assault Ram has impacted? Such information would improve our ability to find the bridge. In a similar vein, where is the shadowfeild located on this type of vessel?”

“Watch-captain Roa, is it known where in the enemy vessel the Assault Ram has impacted? Such information would improve our ability to find the bridge. In a similar vein, where is the shadowfield located on this type of vessel?”

There was a crackle over the Kill-teams helm-voxes, a squad wide signal being broadcast, a slight crackle showing that something was clearly trying to jam them nevertheless.

“Kill-team Epsilon, you have emerged in the lower levels of the ship and will need to fight your way toward the top. The layout of Dark Eldar vessels are something of a mystery to Imperial authorities, but we are the Deathwatch...” there was a pause and another crackle of comms “...take the corridor forward until you reach a junction, there should be several passages, the left hand passage should lead to the shadowfield generator; this section of the ship will be particularly well-guarded, make no mistake! The right-hand corridor will help you gain ground toward the bridge of the vessel, but as with the generator there will be fierce resistance.”

Perhaps the oddest thing about the teams current location were not the screams and shrieks that seemed to surround them, nor the faint sounds of projectiles impacting on the cruisers hull...no...it was the complete lack of anyone. There were no warriors storming toward them, no Druchii striking from the shadows at them, from the dimly lit corridors formed of almost purple metals there came no nearby sounds at all.

“You are currently approaching the slave-pens and torture chambers, if our intelligence is correct, be advised th-”

The signal went dead, only static replacing it, signalling either a successful jamming attempt by the enemy..or the destruction of the Imperial cruiser from whence they had arrived.

Each step took them closer to something, the tension in the air almost palpable, and if a sense of dread was something that an Astartes could feel – like any normal mortal – then they assuredly would have drowned in it.

Draksal obediently took note of all of this information till the signal broke up

“Watch-captain, could you repeat that last, this is Kill-team Epsilon please respond.”

After the attempted re-hail failed and the sacred ritual of fiddling with the frequency to check if you could get through on a different band garnered no results he gave up. The team where now approaching a large sealed door that presumably lead to the slave pens and afterwards to the two objectives. Draksal, with his brain containing larger amounts of metal that might be considered necessary, felt nothing in response to the atmosphere but the standard barely contained rage shared by all the Sons of Ferrus. While he was approaching the door Draksal unloaded the current flack missile and loaded a different one.

“looks like we are on our own for now, I recommend we take the bridge first and then the shadow field generator in the following confusion the enemy will suffer at the loss of their commander”

He then holstered the launcher and drew his inferno pistol burning through the locks sealing the door. These were on this side, meant to keep the slaves in, rather than keep anyone out.

“The destruction of the field will be a clear indication that we have completed our mission and will allow our vessels to target this one. Doing it the other way round may not lead to there being enough time for us to get off the ship before it’s destruction. Such an event would result in the loss of the Caestus Assault Ram that we would need to use for extraction and all the powers swords our kill team is carrying”

Having successfully broken the seals the pistol was holstered, then gripping the launcher in their right hand and the shotgun in the other Draksal took one power armor coated mechanical leg and booted the door down. Before the kicking leg had touched the ground he fired off the shotgun, a rolling wave of fire clearing the area just on the other side. Landing solidly with both feet on the ground he fired the missile launcher into the room. The Missile steamed inside the room and impacted the ceiling somewhere near the center with a loud crash. The Photon Flash Missile detonated like a miniature sun, blinding anyone inside who was not wearing a protective visor (like those found in the lenses of a space marine's helmet). With this done Draksal advanced into the room, letting the now empty launcher rest over his shoulder as he swept his gaze and shotgun across the room for targets.

Viktor stayed close to Darksal, nearly shoulder the shoulder in case of an ambush, but took a hasty step back as the marine went into action. Melting the lock off the door was a good start but the rocket into the room was a beauty. As an assault marine, he thoroughly enjoyed a solid entrance. But something so flashy and loud always brought attention. Unsure of what weapons the enemy would possess or how they would engage after such an initiation to combat, Viktor was quick to take position. Shield up and quick to crouch in front of Draksal, he used his own shield to its fullest in case of retaliation. The only part his teammate was showing from behind the stormshield was a portion of his upper body.
Harbinger sword in hand, he was ready to meet threats head on and press. The more space his team had to fire, the better. With the jump pack in extremely short bursts he could readily shove back stronger hostiles into firing range without endangering himself. Worst case scenario he got friendly fire. He'd seen worse cases.

"I agree with you, brother Draskal." The old habit of referring to one's battle brothers as 'brother' slipped into Aldaric's speach subconsciously. It may have seemed odd to other chapters, but it strengthened the sense of kinship and ultimately cohesion in battle. As promised, the descendant of the Iron Hands made an explosive entrance and undoubtedly cleared the first room. They probably wouldn't be opening every blocked door that way, but the first one was an excellent announcement of their intentions, to rend these xeno fools.

The team moved forward swiftly, weapons ready, keeping to their light sense of formation. First room cleared, they took a right and proceeded until they came to what could only be described as Dark Eldar hell. A grand atrium opened up above them. The room was dark and massive and full of wailing. Chambers along either wall housed pathetic animals that had once been human. Centrally, there were numerous torture stations, each stationed by one of the pale, long-limbed fiends. The humans, for the most part, were alive. The xenos wanted them that way. Many however were on the brink of death for various reasons, be it that they were being repetitively electrocuted, hung by nails in their skin, or slowly flayed so badly that their limb had to be removed. Any kind of suffering was a source of power to the Dark Eldar. All their ships had slave chambers like this one, designed for the pure pleasure of torture.

Perhaps this was what Captain Roa had tried to warn them about before the vox had died. Aldaric hesitated briefly before swiftly lifting his bolter rifle and putting a slug into a surprised Eldar skull. "Contact!"

Why had the vox communications died? That question lingered in the back of his mind like a stalker as he walked forward killing Dark Eldar tormentors with each shot. He needed to reach Roa, immediately, because he needed to ask... Beneath his helm, Aldaric's brow furrowed in... pain? These people were suffering, and the very thought of it was anathema against his breeding for sympathy. Yet his eyes were forced to witness the forced agony and mutilation of his own species before him, females, males, the young and old. All in the Deathwatch knew Dark Eldar drew strength from the pain of their slaves. In fact they needed it to survive. But was it his duty to cull these innocent humans right here and now? Aldaric needed orders for this situation, but damned if he was going to get them.

As the unspoken leader of the kill team, he would be expected to make a call, and he knew he would personally be held responsible for whatever choice he made. If he ordered his brothers to kill these people, the enemy would be deprived of their strength, and the people would finally be relieved of their suffering. Yet, to kill his own was... abhorrent to such a degree it might as well have been impossible. Freeing them, or any attempt to ease their agony would take time they didn't have to give. Leaving them however, not only grated against his morals like a dull razor but would leave the enemy with an intact source of psychic energy, making the bridge above all the harder to take.

When the Vox communications cut out, Zaphiel offered a silent prayer for the safety of those on the Imperial vessel. Progressing deeper into the ship, Zaphiel kept formation, carefully awaiting enemy contact.

"Agreed. Taking the bridge and then the shadow generator would be the most wise course of action." Zaphiel spoke. As they stepped through the melted door, the blast from the Flash Missile reflecting off of the tinted helmet visors. However, the scene awaiting them in the slave pens was one that even Zaphiel had a brief moment of faltering faith seeing.

"By the Emperor!" Zaphiel spoke as they stepped into the slave pens, carefully scanning the horrifying torture room. Each sight left Zaphiel offering a prayer, before he ultimately decided to just pray for the complete destruction of the Dark Eldar. As they progressed, Zaphiel pierced the armor of several Dark Eldar with his bolter, their forms exploding as the rounds detonated within them. Witnessing the Eldar seeming to draw strength from the slaves, Zaphiel knew a choice had to be made. Freeing the slaves would take precious time, time that both they and their home vessel likely did not have, but leaving the slaves here for the Eldar vessel's crew to feed off of would prove a serious issue, especially when the time came to take the bridge. To Zaphiel, it seemed the only logical, and humane, choice was to put these slaves out of their misery.

Speaking over the Vox channel to the squad, Zaphiel stated "Brothers, as much as it pains me to advise this, I believe the only way to ensure our own safety, and still aid these tormented souls, is to provide them with the Emperor's Benediction...I advise we do it quickly, and as painlessly as possible, before moving on."

The Angel of Absolution lowered his gun and looked obviously unsettled with this damnable decision. He frantically shifted his eyes around the room in contained horror as he scanned the inhabitants. Human beings they were, and they had already seen the space marines, their survivors. Those that could were pressed up against the bars of their cages, reaching out for salvation toward the black-clad warriors they believed had come to deliver them. It was gut-wrenching. This decision was Emperor-damned horrid!

Within the span of heartbeats, Aldaric considered his choice as if he were truly captain. Zaphiel's logic was sound, and no one would have faulted the kill-team for delivering mercy.... But Aldaric didn't give the order. Another heartbeat ticked by, and Aldaric felt something change deep inside himself. The sight of so much human suffering had sparked a flame of fury within the man that flickered and burned and grew within milliseconds, until it increased into a raging inferno, one he fully intended to unleash like a cannon against his enemies.

Shock and pity gave way to resolute rage and vengeance in Aldaric's heart. "Hold your fire." He suddenly commanded, halting every one of his squadmates. They obeyed, not because they owed any deference to Aldaric, not because they even agreed with him, but because not a single one of them actually wanted to pull the trigger. "We can't do that, Zaphiel." The delay was secretly a relief. Aldaric had little time to sway his men, but he gave a damn good argument. "We're heroes, brothers! We're not executioners. These people can be saved, and that is what we are expected to do. Don't forget that that is our duty! Brother Kurt..."

Aldaric swung his helmt in the scout's direction. He was the perfect man for the job, but accomplishing it was going to put his life in danger. "I want you to stay behind and get these cells open. Use grenades if you have to, and save all you can." Aldaric spoke quickly. "If you encounter any enemies, hide, I'm ordering you to do this alone." He looked at Kurt for a moment that indicated his respect for the man, despite his lack of powerarmor. This would be Kurt's moment of glory.

"Kill-team, we press on for the bridge. Let the xenos have their psychic energy, for it will be nothing against our rage!"

@Wraithblade6@DepressedSoviet@Zelosse@DracoLunaris@Andreyich

Too much time had been spent debating the whys and wherefores of morality and the cost of human life, not that the Kill-team would have known this, but when the slave pens began to get colder – so cold that even the formerly pawing slaves, if they still had any sense of mental faculties at all – moved away from the doors of the cells and backed away into corners; it had given the Dark Eldar, not known for slow mental calculations, to work out where the Astartes had impacted upon the vessel and now to devise a counter to this boarding.

What happened next was but a taste...

It began when the darkness around them got only darker, not possible by natural means but certainly so when the light was sucked from the room by something entirely unnatural; they came from the shadows as shadows, bearing curved blades and with oil-black bodies illuminated only by flowing sigils of Eldar script, their bone-white hair loose and flowing and their hands and jaws possessed of talon-tipped fingers and pointed teeth.

From everywhere they seemed to come, from the ceiling above the group, from the dark corners of the slave chambers, even from within some of the slave pens – these latter forms pausing only long enough to consume the terror and fear of the shuddering flesh-bags, leaving only empty husks behind them.

Mandrakes, the semi-daemonic denizens of the webway, their origins unknown but their fighting abilities not to be trifled with.

How many were there? No-one could be sure, their forms shifting and melding with the shadows even as they moved. Were they a threat? Most certainly. Would the Kill-team be whittled down before they could clear the chambers? Very likely.

Viktar watched the shadows grow darker and felt his blood run cold, as it always did when confronted by filthy xenos. Their existence was a blight to the universe and the imperium of Man that would not be tolerated. Armed with his shield and boltor pistol, he gave a shout praising the emperor and opened fire. His first shot took the nearest of these abominations in the throat that sent it to the afterlife with a gurgle of blood, a second shot square in the forehead would assure it never returned.

"Let none survive! To death, my enemies!"

Firing off the rest of his clip, Viktar quickly holstered his pistol and drew the Harbinger sword. The pride of his chapter. The storm shield and power sword thrummed to life in his hands as he met the nearest dark Eldar. A quick little ignition from his jump pack, barely half a seconds worth of thrust, turned his shield rush into a shield bash. The Dark Eldar he rammed into was thrown back bodily into its companions as Viktar quickly backpedaled so as to stay with the group. Enemies were taken on his shield and summarily thrown back or cut down as they came.

By the will of the Emperor and the steel in his hand they would not be broken by filth.

(sorry double post)

Somehow, the light level of the slave chambers began to fade. It might have seemed like a sunned drain had occurred to the Dark Eldar ship's power, but something else strange happened as well. The crying and shouting of the slaves began to cease, and Aldaric watched them all pull away from the bars, retreating into the backs of their cells. A numerical value in the corner of his interface display suddenly began ticking down. The air temperature was sharply dropping.

"They've found us." Aldaric began, just as the shadows before them took to life. He had not been expecting Mandrakes, but it was pretty clear to see what they were: Dark Eldar, demonically enhanced, and designed with one purpose.

With the speed and accuracy of a biological machine, Adlaric swung his weapon and targeted a flicker of green eyes and patterned glowing runes in the darkness at the other end of the chamber. With deadly confidence, he immediately pulled the trigger only to have his weapon unexpectedly sundered by a blade that appeared out of nowhere beside him. The severed barrel exploded in a bright muzzle flash and the discharged round was send wildly off course. Just as Aldaric realized it, the other creature was already on him, white hair flowing behind its black face as it moved in close. A glowing blade was raised in its one hand, driving downward toward his face.

Utterly devoid of the fear that the mandrake needed for fuel, Aldaric turned his shoulders and stepped inside the oncoming followup attack. With perfect timing, gauntleted fist met face as the descending blade skidded off Aldaric's armor. The mandrake was knocked back in shock, yet not knocked prone. In this room, the mandrakes were surrounded by terrified and suffering slaves, probably hundreds of them, and their power was peaked. It recovered hastily while Aldaric dropped his damaged weapon in exchange for his powersword.

It surprised him then, as he had thought his allies had been covering behind him, that a blade lodged itself into the back of his armor. The enemy was all around them, in every shadow, in every suggestion. Attempting to take advantage of the opportunity, he swung his hot, humming powerblade at the still slightly staggered mandrake in front of him, only to miss and be hit again from the enemy behind. Aldaric changed direction out of necessity to better defend his blindside, mandrake blade stuck in his back, but now the battle was a mess of melee mayhem, and they were outnumbered.

Filled with rage and pride, Aldaric fought, his ferocity a match for the assassins' skill, but it was no walk in the park. Every instant, he was informed of a new attack coming from a new direction and was forced to deal with it. His super-human mind accelerated to match pace until his entire consciousness was devoted to nothing but fighting. Even the mandrakes were surprised by his sudden, well timed attacks. Their blood burned off the edge of the powersword as they surrounded him, jumping in and out through the darkness to try to whittle him down.

Aldaric had no idea how his brothers fared, but it seemed like the brunt of the attack had descended upon himself, or so he hoped. Due to their constant teleportation, he had no idea how many there were, but he knew his team needed to progress to the bridge as quickly as possible. The Deathwatch battlecruiser was at stake in the naval battle outside.

Draksal barely noticed the slaves as he stalked through the room looking for actual targets as the others prattled about what to do about their fate. In Draksal’s opinion they were wasting precious time already, if they stopped to kill them it was a waste of ammunition, if they freed them there was no way of getting them off the ship. the cowards who had allowed themselves to be captured would not even be of help in taking the ship as cannon fodder so it was best to simply leave them, they would have their torment ended when the mission was done and the battle cruiser destroyed this vile vessel. He had almost made it to the end of the pens, ready to breach the next door and move on when the creatures came from the darkness.

The fiends were less armored than the kroot they had been originally armed to fight and wielded only what looked like farming equipment, though the fact that they had somehow appeared from nowhere and jump from shadows to shadow was worrying. Particularly when one dropped from the ceiling on top of him and tried to stab him through the neck. Draksal reached up and grabbed the blade wielding creature by the wrist with his right metal arm and then hurled it off of him while he wheeled round. As the fiend smashed into one of the many torture devices he leveled his weapon in the direction of one of the pens through which some of the creatures were currently feasting on the salves fear and panic. He fired, the dragonfire banished the shadows as it’s burning shot swept through mandrake and slave alike, shrapnel rending them apart as the promethium ignited their flesh and garments.

“Your flesh is weak so burn from the fires of the Omnissiah you pathetic worms”

More mandrakes appeared around him from the dancing shadows created by the burning remains of the slaves and their kin, launching themselves at the machine man, their wicked blades reflecting the fire as they swung them, trying to find an opening in Draksal‘s armored form. He fought on, punching and blasting them, trying to keep them away from the rockets he was carrying as their blades were repealed either by his blows or his armor till he ran out of shot. When his gun clicked empty the mandrakes took the advantage to step back and release a torrent of freezing soul destroying fire upon him, his very core was torn and burned by the fowl witchcraft of the aliens.

It was not through willpower or inner strength that Draksal over came this sorcery most fowle, but by the gifts of the Omnissiah. His soulless metal arm reached down and drew the melta pistol and then sweated its burning ray across the casting mandrakes, slicing clean through them and most of the surrounding equipment, cages, slaves and walls. The caster's flesh boiled and they all collapsed in a burning heap of around him.

In the end Draksal stood in the center of a burning ring of corpses, human and alien alike and was safe from immediate attack, the entire area bathed in the orange glow of the flames, evenly lighting the area and providing no solid shadows for the mandrakes to manifest from. His armor was scratched and is some places dented, where he still had flesh the impacts had caused bruising or made him bleed from the strength of the blows.This he could hardly feel compared to the lingering cold of the void that had griped his beaning and tried to erase him from existence. It was not a sensation the marin was going to forget.

Draksal paused for a moment in his fiery sanctuary to collect the shotgun, then went back down ro the other end of the room to aid the others.

@Wraithblade6@DracoLunaris@Zelosse

It was clear that the Mandrakes, in spite of all their Warp-born powers and shadow play, would be not use against even this novice Kill-team in an extended engagement. They had come and they had fought, they had sucked the life and terror from over a dozen victims, and now they had no true reason to remain and obstruct the Astartes any longer. After all, Dracon S'rath now knew of the impertinent Mon-Keigh threat to his ship, no doubt he would send more ferocious adversaries for these petulant weaklings before long.

With quick hisses and last strokes at the Marines, the Mandrakes vanished as swiftly as they had arrived, even the corpses of their slain comrades simply dissolving into the shade and shadows used to cover the escape of the still living.

Moments of silence followed, only the rush of air and the constant wailing of broken minds shattering what would have been a perfect peace...

“You should not have come here, Mon'Keigh...” came a hissing and sibilant voice from beyond the doorway of the chamber “...you have interrupted my experiments with your arrival, and I do not suffer fools to live.”

There were several more slave pens to traverse before Kill-team Epsilon could reach the corridor and junction therein, but whether they could – or would – reach it or not was another matter entirely.

Aldaric's powersword seared through mandrake flesh and blades until eventually, as if sensing the futility, the half-demon abominations retreated back into the shadows from whence they came. A brief moment of quiet followed while the deathwatch killteam verified the area secure. Then , there was a rush of air and the return of the sounds of suffering.

“You should not have come here, Mon'Keigh...”

Aldaric the absolved angel was still fuming inside his armor. He replied in low tones, "Neither do the Deathwatch xeno, and you will learn what fools you were to attack the Imperium of Man."

They passed the next few slave pens with little event. There was still no signal from Captain Roa and the Deathwatch battlecruiser. With a silent nod, his black helm dripping with mandrake blood, Aldaric signaled Viktar to take the lead around the next corner at the junction.

Without hesitation, Viktar moved up and chucked two grenades into the next room/cooridor before him. Damage rocked the ship with their explosions, and the Harbinger strode forward through the resultant choas into the next room, with his shield up, wreathed in flame that parted in his wake. The rest of the team was right behind him: Sirren, Draskal, Sorrow, Zaphiel, and Aldaric. Kurt was no longer on Aldaric's radar since he had stayed behind. They fanned out into the room, eager with bloodlust, at least for one of them it was literal, to slay every last enemy.

What they found waiting for them int he next room was.... ???? (kill some characters?)

@Wraithblade6@DracoLunaris@Zelosse@DepressedSoviet@Hank@Andreyich

There were things that would make the minds of mere mortals snap – the chamber that the Astartes entered next, the chamber from which they believed at least that they had heard the voice, was one such chamber.

If a mad artist had been able to paint a butchers shop, a slave chamber, a torture chamber and a version of the Ancient Terran 'Hell' all in one then this would surely have been it; littered about the place were body parts (some still even alive) while onto the walls were grafted entire bodies and, perhaps feeling the change in resistance against their boots, if one of the Deathwatch should look down then they would see the entire carcasses of human and non-human corpses made into something of a floor covering as well.

Things twitched and moved in the gloom, others cried out for release in groans and slurping noises, but that was not all there was...and the Astartes were not alone.

With a keening screech of something not entirely of this plain of existence, something forged of the living and the dead, something that may once upon a time have been a Dark Eldar, lumbered forth from an open pen. It was swiftly followed by several of its towering companions, augmented and towering figures with faces covered by black iron masks, shuffling devils of war.

Three Grotesques lurched forth in a mass of muscle and toxic blood. If there was one certainty here, it was that not every Marine would live to see another mission.

Kurt followed behind, revolted at the sight of the drained bodies. He knew little of the spikier variant of Eldar, but they were nevertheless quite obviously using something that no Techmarine could explain without making the explanation so convoluted that only more questions were raised. He walked along, quietly despite all the weight to him and looked down as his foot went into a puddle of blood. They really were sadists. No matter, those were (admittedly marginally) typically easier to kill. As the mandrakes appeared, he turned his head swiftly, and a millisecond later brought his stalker bolter to his hip to let out nearly the whole of his clip before he realised they were not threatened by them. An indignant huff escaped from him as he reloaded and continued on.

When they entered the next room he did not even bother to look down as he heard the splashing of boots upon ichor, though the soudn now had a rubbery texture due to the rather interesting carpeting selected. It seemed however that their proverbial fun was not over, and there were still travesties ahead.

He looked at the approaching Grtoesques and looked at the self-crowned "leader" they had. "Got a clever plan, 'sire?'" Of course they would make it out, but not without several near death experiences. He hoped.
He waited for them to get just a little closer, so that if they were human he could see not only the whites of their eyes but the browns greens and blues of their eyes too. Finally, with using his sling to help he lifted his stalker bolter in one hand and bolt pistol in the other and simply shot as much as he could whilst moving backwards at slightly more than normal human walking speed.

The ship was every bit the feverish nightmare that only drugs and disease could induce. Now they entered a part of the ship where bodies of various beings were grafted into the walls. The Dark Eldar were still throwing their expendable first-line at them. Surely these sick killing machines would have been a merciless and quick end to any intruders, but these were space marines, and deathwatch at that.

The kill-team didn't need orders to open fire on the lurching grotesques. They did so even as Kurt snidely remarked to the Angel. The scout's frank disobedience and disrespect while on-assignment would have to be archived in their video feeds for proper address later, because Aldaric didn't have time to deal with it now. Brother Felbane gave no response to the Ultramarine as his powersword went live and he charged the closest enemy with his full focus. His bolter had been rendered useless by the Mandrakes in the previous room, so he was down to full frontal assault on the enemy from this point forward. His squadmates automatically switched their ranged targets to avoid hitting Aldaric as he eclipsed the first sinewy abomination.

He felt no sympathy for the warped creature that may have once been a sentient being. It was an enemy, a tool, and its suffering meant nothing to him. His blade moved with an unanticipated quickness fueled by decades of practice and a rage that rivalled anything Sirren could have put forth. Aldaric was an avenging knight in black armor. The words of Brother Rathanel came back to him as he heard Chaplain Zaphiel's voice rise. Aldaric was leading once again, but not with words this time. He was leading with the spray of toxic xeno blood in his wake. It singed off his electrically charged blade, the poisonous spray unable to reach him in his airlocked powerarmor. The lobotomized grotesque couldn't adapt to the onslaught except to fall back. Its talons and bone spines meant almost nothing to reinforced cerumite armor.

Victor and Sorrow were right there with him, attacking each one from multiple directions with an unspoken and innate sense of coordination. For all their size and strength, the grotesques were getting blasted and hacked to defenseless bags of writhing meat, yet the creatures had no choice but to keep fighting until their masters called them off. But it was already too late for that.

These Dark Eldar scum had been utter fools to attack beings who were immune to fear and blades and poison. They were more than deserving of death after all they have done, deserving nothing less than genocide of their entire race. The horrors Aldaric had witness blatantly begged for it, and he would deliver. The silence of his rage spoke for itself as he and his team dispensed with this latest set of enemies and moved inexorably to the command deck.