The roiling mass of righteous fury that filled Saul Quintus' gut as he strolled towards the meeting place the Inquisitor had specified could only be described as all-consuming. It was bad enough to have to endure the corrupted and blasphemous gospels of the Mechanicus for this new assignment, but to learn he would have to endure serving side-by-side with a foul, tainted witch? The unspeakable, trembling rage within him was visible externally, veins on his forehead protruding as he approached the small crowd. Of course, he would never second guess one of the God-Emperor's faithful servants, especially not a member of the blessed Inquisition, so his objections would be kept silent for now... Still, it was clear that Saul was having a difficult time restraining himself from launching into a venomous sermon on the evils that he now stood alongside.

To distract himself from the foul, tainted blights on the Imperium that he was to call 'comrades', Saul decided to take inventory of the other, more faithful servants of the Emperor that stood with them. The medicae and the guardsman... The chirurgeon was old, frail looking, and wizened. A man of faith, perhaps, though that he had allowed the strength of his body to fail in such a way concerned Saul. The guardsman... Saul couldn't understand his own thoughts. This was a faithful servant of the God-Emperor, one of humanity's foremost protectors on the battlefield. He appeared to be in fine physical condition... By all accounts, Saul should have been filled with pride on seeing such a specimen of the Imperium's glory. Yet, and he knew not why, he instead felt sickened. More sickened than he was by the blasphemous magos or the unholy witch. By the Emperor, what nightmare had he been dragged into?

Brushing himself off and collecting his bearings as best he could, Saul stepped forth to join them in their preparations to depart. He cast a sidelong glance to the unmoving Servitor... He had, of course, seen Servitors before. Everyone had. But still, he could not help but shake his head and sigh. He found himself wondering if this was the result of a punishment meted out to a heretic long ago. Wasteful, that the flesh should be cut down so quickly. This traitor could have been made an Arco-flagellant, or a Penitent Engine, still fit to serve the God-Emperor in the line of duty, rather than... This failing, frail heap of metal and skin. His hand tightened it's grip on the Drusian chainsword that had served him so well for so many years and he began to quietly recite a prayer to the Saint the sword was named for, [color=fff200]"Saint Drusus, Victor of the Angevin Crusade, grant me the strength of the Emperor as He granted His strength to you, for I am surrounded by iniquity and sin, and it is only through Him that I can endure this trial. Praise the God-Emperor."[/color]