Brother Fellwalker was practically vibrating with barely contained excitement and zeal at the prospect of doing battle with the traitor Astartes, an elusive foe that Fellwalker had yet to add to his list of kill honours – to slay them would be akin to the highest award. 

Clutching his sword in an armoured fist, he moved forwards with all the grace of a half-drunken butcher, but there were deliberations in his movements, as each move was carefully calculated despite the lack of grace or poise. Turning back to his battle brothers, he watched as they argued tactics and formations. Little of that mattered to Kaerell however, he just wanted to feel hot xenos' blood upon his bare skin once more. That was all he sought from life at this point. 

Swinging his, inactivated, sword around in murderous arcs about himself – he was far enough away from the kill team to where the monstrous weapon could deal them no harm, While he appeared to simply be stretching and moving the musculature of his arms and torso, he was mentally bringing steely death to those enemies of the Emperor that sought to fight against them on this world and on any other. 

“The enemy will not abide by any sort of tactics akin to our own brothers! Surely we should just focus on pure extermination of their miserable lot?!” His voice, while exceedingly loud, was in a jovial perhaps light-hearted tone. Though since his helmet was on, no one got to see the murderous smile he was giving. 

Upon hearing where he was to be stood in this so-called formation, Kaerell marched with some slight negativity to where he was to be placed. It was grudgingly at best, as years of chapter tactics clashed against one another, the conservative nature of the Iron Hands versus the blood thirsting assaults of the Space Sharks. “It is with honour and duty that I serve.” He kept repeating to himself at a sibilant whisper. “Brothers! We shall move with haste, yes?!” This last part was, not nearly as quiet, however...