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.