The corridor they were standing in was almost unbearably small. The ceiling hung so low that Gormog had to hunch over slightly, and even then the top of his bald head occassionally brushed against it. This was because the corridor had been designed for regular humans -- or human-sized beings, at any rate -- and Gormog was an Ogryn who reached well over nine feet at his tallest. Not only was he very tall, he was also very large; his bulk was comparable to that of a Space Marine's in Terminator armor. Gormog grunted in discomfort and rolled his round, ham-sized shoulders. "Much longer?" he asked his companion, squinting two beady eyes in the gloom.

"Almost there, old friend," said Salvius, fiddling with a servopad. After a moment a click announced the unlocking of the door in front of them. "The artefact should be close. Very close." Salvius' intense blue eyes, specked with gold, gleamed with an almost predatory hunger. His eyes had not always been this color. Nor where they this color all the time. But now he was so close, and he had waited such a very, very long time. "The artifact of this so called 'Lord of Change' should be here!" With chills of excitement icing through the spine of his smallish, lithe frame, Salvius stepped into the darkness of the next room.

Ah, yes, there was that word again. 'Artefact'. Over the course of the past few years, Gormog had almost managed to remember what it meant. He grunted appreciatively when the door sprung open. "Clever, little friend," he said and followed Salvius into the next chamber, ducking low to avoid the doorframe. This room was even darker than the corridor they had just left; it seemed that the ambient light of the ruined techno-library failed to penetrate here. Gormog reached a hand up and activated his shoulder-mounted glow-lamp, illuminating the way ahead. He gripped his ripper gun tightly and gently squeezed the trigger in anticipation. It was a solid, sturdy weapon, developed by the Imperial Guard specifically for Ogryns; an enormous semi-automatic shotgun that doubled as a club and a spear, by virtue of a footlong bayonet.

In the dim light, rows and rows of ancient data cogitators became visible. The space was not so much a room as an actual cathedral. A shrine to long lost knowledge and forbidden information on the workings of the universe. In the absolute silence one could hear the cracks and hums of ancient machinery and occasionally the fleeting silvery sounds of even older apparatusses, seemingly storing information on some kind of dark rotating spools. On regular intervals dark alcoves were hidden from the weak light. Salvius knew exactly where to go. Picking up a fast pace, Salvius started down the aisle, taking out his auspex scanner. "Remember that research station on Belmar? Don't wanna have a nasty radiation surprise again, right?"

Gormog's memory could usually be compared to a sieve without any fault, but it was hard for him to forget the Belmar station. Groaning, he shook his big head. The chemo had taken weeks. "No rads," he grunted, not even attempting a pronounciation of the entire word. He followed Salvius with slow, measured steps, easily keeping up with the smaller academicus. He swung his weapon slowly from left to right, scanning the vast chamber, but nothing jumped out at him. Yet. "How far?" he asked, feeling increasingly uneasy. Ogryns weren't famous for their intellect but growing up on a harsh, feral world had instilled Gormog with a deep, instinctual sense of danger. The hairs on his neck were starting to stand on end.

"Here we are." Salvius knelt down besides one of the small alcoves. Nothing marked this one from any other one among the hundreds hidden along the thick rockcrete walls. Wiping the dust away Slavius was faced with a vault of some kind. It was roughly rectangular in size with a turning knob in the center. It seemed that the knob could be turned on multiple levels, although it was as of yet unclear to Salvius how this constituted any kind of code or combination to open the vault. Rummaging in his backpack he quickly took out an old battered dataslate. It was heavily customized. Firstly, it was almost twice as thick as any other dataslate to allow for a bigger battery. Secondly, the screen could not only be adjusted in brightness but also had an automatically moving magnifier glass attached to it. Finally, and most importantly, its storage space was immense. Salvius doubted any other device in the sector had this much storage capacity. Not that that said much in this sector.

The slate contained everything that Salvius had ever encountered, everyone that Salvius ever met and everything Salvius had ever learned or read. Most of the time, Salvius didn't need it. Now, he merely looked up a book about ancient safekeeping to refresh his memory on this particular kind of safe. Placing his hands on the lowest dial of the knob, he started turning, listening for the ever so slight telltale auditory response indicating the dial locking in place. Entering a deep place of focus within himself, Salvius didn't even notice himself triggering about seven alarms.

Immediately, sirens started wailing somewhere deep inside the techno-library. "Uh oh," Gormog gawped, turning left and right, looking for the enemy. He did not have to wait long; several decrepit servitors detached themselves from hidden alcoves and shambled into view. They were old models, obviously abandoned here, but threats all the same; Gormog spotted a few sharp edges and shoulder-mounted ballistic weaponry among their ranks. Inhaling deeply, Gormog roared "BLOOD!", his abbreviated version of the infamous Khornate warcry, followed swiftly by "SKULLS!". He pulled the trigger of his ripper gun back entirely and let it.. well, rip, blasting multiple rounds of scattershot into the servitors. The size of the ripper gun allowed for casings with huge pellets, which easily tore through the flesh and metal bodies. Gormog had learned how to fight in the Imperial Guard and his training was embedded in his muscles, requiring no thought process whatsoever. Thankfully.

Bullets started coming his way, impacting harmlessly on his thick, matte black flack armor. Displaying a surpising amount of acrobatic finesse, Gormog performed a dodgeroll, seeking cover behind one of the cogitator racks. He unhooked one of the frak grenades from his belt, pulled the pin and flung it in the general direction of the servitors. A satisfying crump was followed by the sound of blood and metal pieces scattering across the floor. Gormog left his cover, strafing through the aisle, pumping more pellet hail into the remaining servitors. He sought cover behind another cogitator rack on the other side and reloaded.

Gormog had once served the Emperor of Mankind and loved him dearly, but he had been left for dead after an intense firefight between his regiment and the forces of Chaos. Waking up with almost total amnesia, Gormog found himself among a Chaos cult and learned to worship Khorne, whose sphere of influence -- carnage -- happened to align pretty well with Gormog's hobbies. Gormog himself remained completely unaware of the true nature of Chaos, too stupid to be corrupted. It was all the same to Khorne; blood was blood, skulls were skulls. Before Gormog had been transformed into an Ogryn Berseker and sent on some kind of suicide mission, which surely would have spelled his imminent death, his warband was defeated in combat by Imperial forces and Gormog once again found himself with the Imperium. This time, however, he was destined for a penal colony on account of not knowing who the Emperor was.

In the here and now, Gormog was unsure whether he had bellowed his warcry yet or not and decided to repeat it for good measure. "BLOOD!" The battlecry echoed away and was followed by silence for a few seconds. Alas, the battle was not yet won, and Gormog heard more shuffling, metallic sounds approaching.

The second dial clicked into place. It baffled Salvius that most people had found this task impossible, or only possible with specialised listening equipment. Three more dials to go. They surely hadn't skimped on their security back in the day. Working away at the third dial, Salvius let his concious thought flow outward, remembering bits and pieces of his past. His early days on a barely known agri-world, being fed useless drivel about the Emperor everyday both by his parents and the local preacher. Then his potential was finally noticed: his uncle came back from the latest campaign of his unit. "Quick wit and a practical mindset are appreciated in the guard," he said, throwing his commisar's cap onto the hat rack. From this Salvius learned how to recognize a lie. His career in the guard was short and painful, almost dying from a grazing bullet wound to the back of the head. It saved him from servitude and got him a small logic cogitator bionic implant, paid for by the guard. In the very back recesses of his mind, Salvius could almost hear gunfire. The third dial clicked into place.

After recuperation, Salvius joined the Adeptus Administratum. But here too his life would be aggravating in the worst way possible. How could they be so incredibly inefficient? How could it be that the Imperium was run by these imbeciles? Change would be needed. Applying his spectacular memory and ability to reason, he dug deep in ancient records, finding scraps and traces of an ancient power, an ancient being, also fighting for change. With the help of these ancient records Salvius developed new and better ways for the Administratum, and presented his findings to the Master Curator of the system. Being laughed at by this man, this decrepit, self-serving "adept" rotting away in his chair, was the final straw. Pulling his keepsake from the Guard, Salvius shot the man twice in the head from across his desk. The sound of gunfire defintiely seemed to keep popping up. Where was it coming from? The fourth dial clicked into place.

He needed to get out. Walking out of the mans office, Salvius explained to the servitor secretary that the highly esteemed master curator had requested to be left in peace for the foreseeable future and that nobody was allowed inside on pain of death. Picking up the nearest document awaiting storage and reading the first three sentences, Salvius decreed: "I have however been ordered to personally make sure that this matter is resolved with the utmost speed. I am to... chaperone this captured Ogryn off-world to a penal facility. Mark that down, will you?" And with that Salvius calmly walked out, boarded the nearest shuttle for orbit and went off to meet his new charge. He would later learn that the servitor secretary managed to kill three adepts before being overpowered. The last dial clicked into place and the vault sprang open. "Gormog! It's open! Come see what's in-- what in the name of change is going on?" said Salvius, pulling his old laspistol from a fold in his robe.

Lumbering into view, Gormog racked the slide of his ripper gun. "Fight," he explained, and turned his back to Salvius, ready to blast the first thing he saw back to the stone age. The metallic sounds kept coming closer and Gormog gently squeezed the trigger again.

Predictably, the first servitor to appear in sight received a fistful of pellets, splitting in half with the kinetic force of the impact. Gormog bellowed some more, incoherently this time, and charged into the fray, alternating between shooting servitors and impaling them on the ripper gun's bayonet. Salvius added a few carefully aimed las-shots to the carnage, making sure not to hit his Ogryn bodyguard.

The unlikely companionship between Gormog and Salvius was forged during the transfer to the penal colony. Salvius, looking for help, managed to convince Gormog to become his bodyguard by explaining in great detail what happened in a penal colony and that Salvius could arrange an avoidance of such a fate. Together, the two made a daring escape, and have been traversing the sector ever since.

When the last servitor hit the deck, Gormog looked around, wide-eyed and breathing heavily, but there was nothing left to kill. Hit with a pang of the now-familiar disappointment he always experienced at the end of a battle, Gormog reloaded his ripper gun one last time, stowing the empty magazines in one of his mesh-pouches. "All done," he said, turning back to Salvius, narrowing his eyes at the open vault. Inside was something small... for all the world to see, it looked like a blackened, avian skull the size of one of Gormog's knuckles, attached to a thin necklace.

Scratching his chin in confusion, Gormog managed to eloquently convey his thoughts: "What?"

With a slightly condecending look directed at Gormog, who completely failed to appreciate it, Salvius explained. "That, dear Gormog, is the item we have been looking for. The agents of change over roughly the last ten thousand years of documented history, and I am willing to bet for far longer, always seem to have a peculiar love for birds' skulls, much like your love for any skulls at all. This particular skull has been seen in the hands of prophets, saints, lord-generals, a high admiral, various tech priests and even a few inquisitors. All have made a great impact on history, though all seem to have ended rather badly in a very unpredictable manner. The skull must be extremely durable despite its fragile looks, and can be recognized by its intense black colour, the missing bonechip in the left eyesocket and the teeth: as you can see, each tooth is curved, but every one at a different angle. It makes the skull look rather ominous to some, leading to the reports of so called "nefarious auras". Complete bollocks of course." Salvius started to reach for the skull.

Gormog knew some of those words. "Skulls," he agreed.

Touching the tiny black skull, Salvius' world changed forever. The name of his lord was now known to him: Lord of Change, the Architect of Fate, Tzeentch. With the name, came the warp. A new world now stood open to Salvius, with new perceptions, perceived with new senses. A world of the insane, of the corrupt. Never would Salvius be a part of that world. After all, how can you be influenced when you know the insidious forces attempting to control you? No, his superior intellect and critical ability would save him from this fate.

Focussing his entire force of will, his entire being into a discarded bullet casing a few metres away, Salvius willed it to move. Was that a tremor? A breath of wind or breath of the warp? No matter. Soon, power would be his to change the world for the better. To spread the benevolent rule of Tzeen... The Emperor. And from the Warp came a place. A hint to this greater power. A place to nurture and feed this new potential of his. "Gormog. Ephron V is our destination. We will become gods there. Powerful gods!" Walking over some battle debris and across the threshold of the room back to civilization, a final whisper came to him from the warp: "As you stare into the warp, the warp stares back into you..."

Sanath Marko ingested his fifth dose of Kalma for the day, at 5:30pm, just like every other day. Nobody really knew why he did so, but then again nobody really spoke with him either. Only Sanath knew why he took chems, and he had no interest in sharing. He took them to stop the voices. They would creep into his mind, slowly at first, with barely a whisper between them. Then they would begin to speak. The first to speak was always the most relaxed, but its voice was like that of a plague-infested drunkard. It would drone on and on about how perfect Sanath was, how he should never change, never bathe, never move. As it spoke, Sanath would often find himself drifting off into a slumber, no matter the time of day. He had learned that smoking a lho-stick would please it enough to leave for the day. Then came the next voice. It shouted at him with the cry of a fierce hound, bellowing all the reasons why he should murder his neighbor, his brother, his father. Anyone and everyone he knew was brought up, with each reason more sensible and inviting than the last. Eventually this voice too with die down, in favor of one far more sinister and mysterious. This one contradicted the first, inviting him to change every aspect of himself, from dying his matte-brown hair to a bright shade of orange, and growing it out into a twisted knot, to giving up chems and joining the Guard. Each idea and suggestion grew more elaborate, twisted, and chaotic, until the voice faded into maniacal laughter and grew distant. The last voice was the worst. Vaguely feminine, but with enough masculinity to keep any potential gender ambiguous. It would howl and moan at him lustfully, taunting him with the names of chems, and inviting him to indulge in some of the most horrific pleasures imaginable. Only the chems, Kalma, lho-sticks, and others, would keep the voices pleased and relaxed. This would allow him to drift off into a dark sleep by about 8pm. This is when the nightmares would begin.

In his night terrors, he would see massive, bloated corpses lumbering towards him and attempting to pull him into a grotesque embrace. These would disappear, leaving him feeling ill and disgusted with himself, just in time for the next phantoms. He would be charged at by a horde of men armed with blades and axes, who would maim and beat each other, drinking and bathing in the spilled blood. These too would fade, leaving him covered in scars and gore, piles of viscera left around him. Next he would always find himself in a library, with shelves taller than even the tallest of the hive towers, the names on the spines written in a language long lost to mortal men like him. The books would then come flying off of their shelves, circling above his head, and chanting their arcane knowledge. This would continue until he found himself driven mad from the tomes’ cacophonous noise. As he lay in the darkness, a gibbering wreck of a man, he would hear the lustful cries of those embraced in intimacy, and of those ingesting chems of all varieties. They would invite him, call out to him by name, and even grasp at him to drag him into their world of unreachable pleasure. At the end of it all, he would see himself standing in an empty hall, the black stone floor embedded with an emblem lost to the ages. A single bronze eight-pointed star, with a circle encompassing it. Eventually he would wake the next morning, physically rested, but mentally horrified. Normally upon the morning, he would invite his lips in a short prayer to the God-Emperor, but for the past few months, he had been unable to find the words.

Dressing himself in the clothes of the Hive’s corrupt low-class citizens, arming himself with his slugthrower pistol and knife, and stuffing a pack full of various chems, he would set out for his job. Living in the slums of the slums, his only real employment was working as a package and message runner for one of the crime bosses. It paid rather generously for the company it invited, but Sanath spent most of it on chems to feed his various addictions, keeping enough to keep him barely fed, basically-clothed, and relatively safe, left over. This made him a thin, scrawny man, standing at only five feet seven inches, with a measly one hundred and fifty-three pounds of meat. He was, however, an expert at shooting, hiding, and running. This had saved him from more than a few close-calls, as the messages he delivered weren’t always pleasant. Today, he had been hired to deliver a warning to a bookstore that had refused the “protection” of his boss. Entering the store, Sanath Marko found it completely unoccupied. Seeing no harm in lingering about, he would eventually come across a book marred with a familiar symbol.

The book had no title, but upon the cover lied the same eight-pointed star, etched with black thread. Cautiously reaching out to the book, Sanath heard the same voices as before, calling out to him in an odd unison, as though each voice was trying to drown out the other three. Heed the Call, follow the Path. they recited, growing louder the closer his hand drew to the book. When he seized it by the spine, he heard the voices cry out almost joyfully, then grow silent. He hurriedly stuffed the book into his bag, shoving it against the myriad of chems stored within, then fled back to his dwelling, both scared and eager to see what awaited him.

“When the Imperium talks about decay and disease, they very often focus upon ailments of the body. They are always so base. Far worse is the decay in one’s mind that belittles existence to the point of forcing a candle to flicker, coaxing the wind and licking the wax in an attempt to fade away. A flame is meant to burn strong and ferocious, to ravage landscapes without bias, not to be trapped in a wax house.”

“I was that candle. Groomed and pampered, a pedigree pet put on a pedestal to suffocate in apathy. I’d been disgusting and wasteful; doing no good, bad, doing nothing. Like you. They would tell me how lucky I was to be coveted and protected, but a disease-like stagnation settled upon me. I know now that I was searching for something long before he found me.”

She spoke with resolve and a twisted sort of adoration. The way those words stretched her pale lips hinted at the charm and education groomed into upper class and if fear hadn’t clenched his reactions he would likely have found the girl attractive, in a sickly sort of way. Blonde hair continually curling underneath an oppressive heat that exuded from her and eyes as pale green as death that whispered paradoxical promises to what sanity the fever had not possessed.

“W..why are you telling me all of this?”

“Because how else would I save you?”

“Are...Aren’t you going to kill me?” She looked down at the hog tied man beneath her lithe form. His face was half pressed into the ash and grit of this burial tomb he had led her into and tears, clean and lost, fell from his eyes causing his voice to quiver. Her eyebrows quirked in what could only be shock, and maybe a little hurt. She had spent weeks tracking him down, hunting him specifically and he thought she was just going to kill him? She couldn’t let him ruin this moment.

“You haven’t been listening at all. I’m not some psychopath.” She remembered then that he was still confused. There was a pause before a laugh slipped from between her lips, joyous and, in other circumstances, infectious. Almost as much as her fever damp fingers that petted across his cheek while she spoke. “I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to send you home, a savior.”

Currently, he was no one but a connection to the Imperium, but she knew he could be so much more. The hunt had proved he was resourceful and strong willed, taking much longer than initially expected. She had become quite adept at tracking down the things she wanted. Originally it had all been about the book, but after such an elaborate chase she had seen the fighter inside of him. Nurgle would be so pleased.

It would be days before the Weeping Widow consumed him, weeks if he was as strong as she hoped. Men rarely survived the disease, hence its colloquial tag. She felt such pride that she could only beam down at him like a coveting mother, like she had with her own son years ago.

The baby had been quarantined as the Weeping Widow’s plague corrupted their country. The poverty stricken were embraced first as the wealthy locked themselves away and dismissed their servants. All of it was in vain, Nurgle does not care about status. The Imperium and their corpse god were not coming to the rescue as promised; and why would they? They had no might to reclaim the conquests of a stronger god. It had been two weeks and the taint had made it into every home. With the servants dismissed it wasn’t difficult to make it to her son’s side. She lay with him, petting the infant’s plagueless forehead and letting him grab and suck upon her fingers, damp with disease. A smile had claimed residence on her lips; such a lucky boy indeed, to never have to look back at wasted life. He would live forever with the knowledge of struggle and the vibrant joy that erupted from such.

“Of course, you may be angry at first. I was. There is an initial desperation and agony. My own was immense, consuming, a burning fire unchecked. I was dying; hateful and aghast at my own misfortune and my old god. Under the guise of fevered dreams they came to me. Nurgle. It was impossible to imagine a time this didn’t make sense. How had my reality been so tainted that I could not see such a blatant truth? The truth of everything. This was my freedom, the Weeping Widow plague that defiled my planet, devouring souls relentlessly for Nurgle. My husband would no longer force me to stay. They would no longer expect dutiful stagnation.” Her captured prize continued eking out pathetic whimpers while the hand extending from her flak jacket continued to caress his cheek. She was careful not to mar his appearance with her clawlike nails, even as she ignored his protests and continued on. “You’ll be free too, after the pain.”

“It is said that after Nurgle’s embrace the torment is no longer there; the ailment exists but the pain is replaced. I believe this. I believe my pain came from my pride and the deceit of the Imperium about the goals of existence. I saw clearly the waste and disgust I had rooted in for years. The pain ceased because I realized the futility of that life.”

“Please, please stop. Just let me go. I can pay you.” Her eyes rolled as another giggle chimed from her throat. The ash of the fallen stuck to the tears upon his face that she stroked away. The infection from her fingertips had long soaked into his pores and now she was simply trying to comfort the man.

“You’ll see.” Long lashes pinched in a wink as she removed her weight from on top of him, jingling the clip/drop harness that hugged her hips. She reached into his pocket and pulled out a communication device she knew contained a tracker. Spidery digits tapped on the controls and connected with his employer before she tossed the tech beside him.

“They’ll come for you and you can tell them about me, but they’ll kill you on the spot. Or you can fight the good fight.” She knew what he would choose. It was her absolute favorite part of humanity; that pesky drive to survive. She slipped the book, one that claimed to be the account of a psyker who had ventured to Nurgle’s plain, into a satchel at her side and turned towards the entrance of the cave. As her feet moved en route to the exit they began a skipping rhythm. In the decay behind her she dragged an open blade chassis chain sword, rusted and corroded. He continued to whimper and sob, hopefully on the path of desperation, as she slipped from his view. His muffled sobs were soon overwhelmed with her own humming; an enchanting diddy she’d picked up a trader’s station.

The surface was always a little too bright for his tastes. The air was too fresh, and the sounds too....normal. The men and women of the lower levels milling about and going about their lives, miserable and dark as they may have been. The surface was an alien thing to Harkin, and that above all things made his blood boil and his fists ache.

The mutant was an intruder on his own homeworld, cursed to resign in the lowest of places in the Hive City. And for what? Because he had been cursed by the toxins filling the air in the factories? The radiation and byproducts he and so many others had warned their masters of? That had twisted their bodies into the hideous abominations they were today, all because the Astra Militarum needed their guns and their bombs and their tanks, and damn the men who worked in those chemworks?

He looked down at his hand, growling as he took in the cost the Imperium's greed in his flesh. His body was little more than a skeleton with sickly green skin covering it, causing most on the surface to think him one of Grandfather Nurgle's zombies. His left eye was long gone, rotted away like so much of his body before the mutations had finally settled, and now half of his vision was dominated by the cheap cybernetics he had stolen years ago. His face, the skull with stretched skin as it was, one chunk of scalp missing at the left half of his head to reveal the white bone beneth, caused even some of his fellows in the shithole he lived in to cringe. He snarled with pent-up rage, resentment, and blood-thirst.

He had promised Harkin freedom. Promised him a life where he would no longer be forced to sleep on filthy rags in the sewers, permited to leave only long enough to complete his shift in the chemworks before he would be driven back into the filth and the stink. Where he would know the favor of the gods.

He looked around at his fellows; degenerate, tenebrous beasts like him, flesh mutiliated, twisted and regrown. Twenty of them were here in the cellar of the estate, crude blades and autoguns in hand. Harkin gripped his rifle with all the strength he had as the largest among them prepared to breach the door into the dining room.

Their work would be bloody. There were always guards posted here in the banquettes this house hosted. Khorne would be pleased when their throats and bellies were laid open. Slaanesh would be pleased when they took their trophies from the safes, and their satisfaction from the women. Grandfather Nurgle when they dragged the corpses of those slain back down to the shrine for the ritual. And Tzeentch, for he was always pleased by change.

Slowly, for the first time he could remember in years, Harkin felt his non-existant lips pull into a smile.

Ten seconds later, the door exploded wide open, and they began their work.

The Noble soup kitchen had always been something of an oddity since the day it was opened. Located in the levels of the hive city that acted as something of a gray area between the middle levels of the Hive and the dark and desperate lower depths it had been opened by Draco Alexander, the sixteenth in succession for the head of the Alexander family.

Those familiar with the politics of nobility and wished to be polite about it would refer to Draco as a dead horse as far as becoming the head of the house was concerned; The only way he was going to get there was if everyone else in the running were to creel over and die carrying him across the finish line. Such nobles tended to be lazy pricks due to having all the luxury of being born into nobility while having little in the way of actual responsibility but Draco proved to be something of an exception.

From a young age, Draco had liked to cook. While other noble families might have discourged such a skill as being 'beneath' them, House Alexander had always encouraged that its members learn at least the basics of cooking for themselves (If only to help reduce the chances of getting assassinated). This fancy for cooking quickly turned into a passion that gave the young noble a fire that few in his position could claim to have. As the years passed, he focused his efforts on becoming one of the best chefs on the planet, his dishes being the absolute talk of the nobility, making him a very wealthy man even for a noble.

The fact that he then started to channel that money into the creation and funding of The Noble soup kitchen surprised almost everyone, but as Draco liked to say 'I am a humanitarian. Besides, a taste of heaven might just be what those dwelling down in the lower floors of our fair hive need to light a fire in their hearts, strap up their bootstraps and make something of themselves with a hard days work.'

When the various cults came to try and convert the twenty two year old noble away from the God-Emperor of Mankind in order to sway him to their cause, they were turned away (In some cases with force when they didn't take no for an answer). They weren't turned away because Draco was a devote follower of the Emperor however; They were turned away because Draco was already a devote believer of Chaos Undivided and was in the process of setting up his own cult via his soup kitchen.

Born as a pskyer and ignorant of that fact for many years, it wasn't until Draco was around 15 that he started to hear the whispers of demons in his mind. Despite his passion for perfecting his cooking Draco avoided the allure of Slannesh, instead taking a stand point that each chaos god had something to offer and thus should be respected and worshiped equally. His humanitarian efforts are born out of a genuine desire to help the less fortunate, but he doesn't deny the fact that it puts him in a very good position to gain influence on all levels of social life; The nobility and middle class praise his charity and good will while the downtrodden lower class can look at him as someone who cares about their well being.

Of course, this is only just the beginning. Setting the ground work for future plans as it were.

I do not remember the final battle of the Ist Legion. The combat which pitted Angel against Angel, brother against brother. I was a part of it, fighting to support the cause of Luther over the Lion, but a darkness of the mind covers all but its final moments in my memory. The moments when, fortress-monastery shattered about them, our Primarch Lion El'Jonson failed to slay his second, Luther. The moment Luther shot back with some psionic blast, seemingly slaying the Lion, or at least harshly wounding the man.

The moment Luther's resolve failed, and he fell to his knees, broken in mind if not in body.

At the time, and with the luck to be near the final confrontation throughout the course of my own battles, I had wondered what he was playing at. Was it not the Lion who was at fault, who deserved this judgement? I called out to my leader, to try and rally his resolve and finish the Primarch off. I was soundly ignored.

It was not long after that that the Warp Storm surrounding the planet finally engulfed Caliban, and I was flung into the Empyrean as the ground beneath me broke off from the planet and flew through the barrier between dimensions. My power armour, plates of forged plasteel and adamantium, collapsed and disintegrated as though it were sand against the energies put against it, my helmet seeming to vanish from my head outright. In turn, my own body experienced pain unlike anything I had ever felt before, its enhanced physiology only serving to allow ever-greater intensification of the tortures set against it, wound upon wound upon wound, and the same in my very mind, until it seemed that every atom of my body and every inch of my soul burned with some unholy fire. Only when the pain couldn't get worse would I be healed, granted a half-second or so of relief, before the whole process started over again, and the torture was all the worse for it.

The passage of time in that fell place was forcibly seared into my very brain. This is the only method that I can think of that allowed the forces of Chaos to make me keep track of time through the agony. It would explain how I know that I began to beg for death after three years or so, and how I remained under torment for another seven after that. I am still angry and ashamed with myself for allowing my resolve to falter so soon.

Yet, ultimately, the torture did end. The pain, however, did not: in the final moments of my ordeal, a clawed hand descended upon me. It tore through my body like a wraith, agonising me to the point that anything which had come before would seem to have been a blessing by comparison. When it finally removed itself from me, it had taken that most valuable of assets from me: my memories of combat. This is why my part in the final battle has been lost to me, and why the same applies to all prior battles I engaged in. In the moment, it occurred to me that I was as a new Marine, newly interred as a Scout rather than a mere Neophyte, ready to be molded into whatever was needed of me. The thought vanished as space itself seemed to bend in my eyes, forming an indescribable yet monstrous face, which spoke to me thus in a voice that seemed to stretch to infinity:

As of now, you are ours, a thrall of Chaos. Do as we demand, and your memories of combat shall be returned to you as reward; deny us, and your suffering shall be eternal.

The face reforged itself into a titanic mouth, opening into intense and bright light, and widening ever-further until it seemed to encompass my entire range of vision, all but swallowing me whole.

And just like that, I was returned to Realspace, landing hard on the surface of a hive world I would later learn was known as Ephron V, in a patch of land that was still somewhat rural, a rarity for a planet like this. I was nude, without clothing or armour; seemingly to spite me, the helmet that had appeared to vanish ten years ago was ejected into the ground in front of me, recognisable but already crumbling to dust, utterly irrepairable. After this, I lay there for many minutes, drained by my ordeal and glad to be past it, but with the dread sensation of knowing I was snared, set to face yet worse even if I complied with the force known as Chaos. I considered my options, and might have allowed myself to simply starve to death where I had landed, if it had not been the case that an old woman, likely a low-level hive dweller in hiding to allow herself a decent retirement after her peak working age had passed, had shuffled over to my prone form, asking if I had fallen from the stars that night. A sinking feeling in my gut told me that she could not be allowed to know of my existence beyond a certain point in time; thus, I told her I had, and asked if she might be so kind as to let me live with her for a while. She agreed, and over the next few days set to sewing a new set of clothes for me, feeding me all the while, "to help you regain your strength" as she put it. My new garments were fitted to my body, and my strength was duly returned.

The very night of my final recovery, I shattered the poor lady's neck in her sleep, and set out to the nearest edge of the surrounding hive. I promised myself that, once the final lead of twine that was my memories had been restored to me, I would rid myself of the taint of Chaos and have no more to do with them. I knew in my hearts that by the time my memories were restored, it'd be far too late for such promises to be kept, but it was the final hope I had.

Success would be an Emperor-sent miracle; failure would mean I was beyond caring anyway.

---

Another ten years pass. Somewhere in the dreary lower levels of the hive, I skulk in an alleyway, considering my past and future, clothed in the same items sewn for me by the old lady so long ago, more hardy than the standard gear given to those in this level of the hive, yet still patched beyond recognition for the sake of changing my image. My sheer size is unmistakeable among those who know of me, as are my dark hair and grey-green eyes, but the reworking of clothing suffices to throw off less personal contacts as and when needed. I am no closer to regaining my memories than I had been after I was first spewed back on to this planet's surface, and I have not dared to try and gain more power than even the homeless unfortunates inhabiting the dregs of this place. All that'd draw to me is more attention from the Imperium, specifically whatever the Legions have evolved into in this day and age. On the other hand, the skills I have acquired have been quite useful for performing my tasks without too much hassle - manipulation, the art of remaining unseen and unheard, and- in the rare circumstances that anybody dares to try and fight me, as well as the more common instances where I must act in cold blood- how to kill quickly and cleanly. I've learned that quickly twisting a human's head in a certain way severs the nerves in their neck without breaking the spinal cord, instantly rendering them unconscious and stopping their breathing, and this is the method I prefer. It is rare that any mortal performs long enough against me that such a technique is inviable. I relish the moments when I am actually challenged.

A child passes the alleyway. A street rat, most likely orphaned, and probably pickpockets for a living. Perfect for my needs.

'Boy. Come here.'

His attention is drawn, his interest piqued by a slight jerk of my head, and he comes to me freely.

'Er, can I 'elp you, sir?' he asks.

'There's going to be a rich gentleman passing through this floor in a few minutes, through 17th and 5th,' I explain. 'He will be disguised as one of us, most likely in a black, worn-looking leather longcoat, and a brown wool cap. Steal his wallet, bring it to me, and I shall reward you with half its contents by value.'

The boy's eyes widen in anticipation, clearly interested in the deal. After a second, he agrees to it, shakes my hand, then runs off, having snuck his hand into my pocket and snatched my wallet whilst I was... "distracted". I know his type, the kind of person who'll take any opportunity they can get to improve their standing. My wallet is filled with thin rocks, weighted to imply a stack of paper bills. By contrast...

But before I discuss the man's possessions, I must discuss the man. He is Jeremiah Albrecht, a company owner usually living in the slightly higher areas of the hive. He commands several thousand workers, is exceptionally rich for his relatively small business, and dabbles in Chaos. Not deeply, not as a true convert... yet... but altogether too much, generally speaking. He does not interest me, save for his habits, learned by process of examination of the man himself and by talking to the few workers who have anything resembling a personal relationship with him, ranging from moderate acquaintances to "he once told me off personally" to having only ever heard a single sentence directed at them by him. As it happens, the low-level workers of Ephron V tend not to ask what a man my size is doing anywhere, and are more than willing to talk about a wide variety of subjects when cornered and/or sweet-talked appropriately.

He does not interest me, yet where he travels does. He keeps small trinkets indicating his dabbling on him, trinkets which allow him access to certain areas that the general public is best kept unaware of. I intend to relieve his burden from him, and use it to my own ends.

After a couple of minutes of waiting, I set out from the alley I'm in, heading through the crowded, grey environment of this place, from 15th and 8th, heading down to 17th and 5th as described, reaching the location just in time to see Mr. Jeremiah himself pass me by. Through all of this, I remain hunched, looking halfway toward the ground the same as every other downtrodden character, and so remaining unseen whilst myself taking in as much as I can. It does not takes me long to find the orphan from before, hidden on a wooden deck over a fair chasm that connects 17th and 5th indirectly to one of the other streets, rifling through a wallet belonging to somebody else and muttering to himself about how a rich bastard like that should have way more money on him than that. As I sneak up to him, moving at just below normal speed in a manner that minimises my footsteps, he pulls from Jeremiah's wallet a rectangle of card, advertising the man's business. Sneering at how useless it is, the card is flung toward the chasm, and it is only my own superhuman reflexes that allow me to snatch it before it is lost forever, tucking it into my front pocket even before the child fully processes than I am there.

'Aaah... uhhhh... 'e-ey there, sir... nice day fer sightseein' innit-'

'Give me the wallets. Both of them.'

'Ah, r-right,' he starts, scrambling to recover both wallets and holding them out to me. 'I, er, I wuz just lookin' 'em over, to see if they wuz fully capable of bein' valuable to us, an' that they are, aheheh...'

I take my wallet first, checking to see that all the rocks are intact. Not quite, but rocks like that are easily found in this place. I restore it to its home pocket. Then I take Jeremiah's wallet, rifling through to see several thousand credit's worth of money in play, and a couple of other cards describing his business and a few hobby clubs he is a part of, including one so-called Gentlemen's Boutique of Intriguing Antiques. Gotcha. I place this in my other pocket.

'Thank you, child.'

'Erm... right then, I'll be off no-'

I grasp his forehead and jaw in my hands, silencing him outright, then yank it to the side and up at once, performing the previously-mentioned nerve severing move. His chest ceases to move, and his eyelids droop, then shut permanently. He will not die instantly, but he may as well be considered dead. Nobody will mourn for him, and he will be forgotten by time. It's more than his sort deserves. His body, therefore, does not struggle as I rifle through his pockets, finding several thousand more credits (placed in Jeremiah's wallet), three or four of the rocks from my wallet (swiftly returned), and a single tiny stone, opalescent in colouration, shifting through a spectrum of red, green, blue, and purple as the light reflecting from it changes. This, too, is returned to Jeremiah's wallet, and after some consideration, so too is the business card in my pocket, which seems to give off the slightest glow of a hidden symbol as it comes near the stone.

I lift the child's body, observe the nearest doorway to see whether he could be placed against it to look as though he was sleeping, then decide against this and fling the corpse off the deck, into the chasm. This deck will unfortunately collapse shortly after I step off of it, and I'll be long gone by the time either body or deck lands in the streets below.

I have a gentlemen's club to attend.

The furthest back Vorgen can remember, his family had always been members of some strange church. It had an overly long and elaborate name, as many of them are wont to, but it in the end, it was basically equating the Emperor with the light of whatever strange star happened to shine on the hive world he'd grown up on. The only problem was, this church was practically in the underhive. This was the last level considered to be civilized by the arbites, at least in this hive, and as such, it really wasn't all that civil. But some pillars of the slightly shady community had banded together and put up a church, and put together something of a neighbourhood watch. Thale's father had been heavily involved in both projects, and often dragged his son around with him. Not wanting to be left behind, Vorgen's mother would usually be found trailing behind them, slightly exasperated, and wondering what chicanery was about to pop up next.

It went without saying that they attended every single service at the church. The Emperor's Light was far too important to skip, though Thale could have done without all the tip-toeing and arm raising. It seemed normal enough, as far as churches go, and things only got weird when the original pastor died, and a new one shoved his way into place. Always a rather brash fellow, the new pastor was very vocal, and it got to the point where he very nearly lost the entire flock when he declared himself the new man in charge. It was only with some very strange innovation that he kept everyone from abandoning what had once been a fairly important part of their daily lives.

The first thing he did was insist that all the children stay at the back, and after some serious pew re-arranging, he even organized a sort of play area, despite the fact that none of the children seemed terribly interested in playing. Frustrated by the apathy in the offspring of his flock, he handed out crayons and colouring books, and refused to let anyone not old enough to work further than a quarter of the way toward the front of the church. Vorgen was plenty old enough to work at this point, but his parents didn't seem to care, so he took advantage of his devilish cuteness and stayed back with the other children. The only problem he had there, was the only crayons they ever got were shades of red. It was a disappointing realization, but it did keep anyone from fighting over colours. To pass the time, he did his best to turn ordinary scenes into interesting ones with only shades of red. Every single image just turned into a hellscape, however. That didn't even slow down the pastor's enthusiasm though. He proclaimed every one of them to be brilliant, and hung them up on the altar. To say it was very strange would be to put it lightly. Vorgen was bewildered by the fact that anyone could think his "art" to be anything better than "decent". Especially since they were literally pages he'd ripped from a colouring book.

It might have made sense to Vorgen after "The Event". But he didn't care to think on it, and now it only bothered him in dreams. The new pastor's sermons were often riotous and it was rare than anyone left not bleeding. It wasn't clear what went on there, as no one would say, but it had to be something violent. Eventually, all that violence culminated in something horrifying. In his dreams it was always a Bloodthirster. The daemon would hack its way out through the pastor's abdomen, as if it were possible for something so massive to hide there in the first place, and then it would lay waste to the churchgoers, before chasing down Vorgen himself. In reality, it was a Bloodletter, but it resulted in roughly the same chain of events. Everyone except for Thale was slaughtered, their skulls added to Khorne's throne. Not that he understood what any of it meant at the time.

The only reason Vorgen survived at all was his quick wit, and natural agility. When fear gripped him, the boy turned into a ruthless machine. He callously tripped the youngest child there into the path of the bigger boys, creating an irresistible diversion for the daemon as he sprinted away. By the time he decided he was safe, the daemon had forgotten about him and spent about an hour rampaging about the underhive before a temporary alliance of gangers and arbites poured sufficient gunfire into the abomination to cause it to dissipate.

At first, he returned home, and carried on as normal. He hadn't actually seen anyone get killed. He'd only heard screaming and caught a glimpse of a brief fountain of blood. He held out hope. A week went by before that hope crumbled. Having decided his parents weren't coming home, he knew he had to do something. He'd seen this happen to others, and knew that the last thing he wanted was the arbites showing up and dragging him off to Emperor-knew-where, so Thale packed up what he could carry, and everything of value in the house. He tried to keep holding out hope that his parents were alive, but at this point, considering all the things he'd seen so far in his young life, the boy decided to pretend it wasn't going to happen. He cashed in everything of value he didn't mind parting with at a local pawnshop, but didn't get further than that before someone from an orphanage across the level offered him a ride. It wasn't the best idea, but orphanages weren't bad, and he was tired. By the time he arrived at an unknown destination, he had no idea what consciousness was any more.

Years passed. He's still not sure how many. But when he woke up, things felt very strange. A bout of crippling illness had laid low many of the orphanage staff, and afflicted more than a few of its guests as well. Vorgen was one of them, and crazily enough, he was one of the lucky ones. His caretakers had also fallen ill, and after one of them was found dead, and another stopped showing up, his wing of the orphanage was left understaffed long enough for him to suffer through the incredibly brutal withdrawal symptoms of a whole cocktail of experimental drugs. It was probably the strangest and most painful time in his life, trying to scrape his way through weeks of torment and hallucinations as his own body seemed to rearrange itself. Finally, though, the haze cleared long enough for him to get his head, and his shit, together. Then, while trying to make a decision about what he should do, he caught a glimpse of the horrific, haunting look hidden in the eyes of one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen, and he fled. She chased him, surprisingly quickly too, but thanks to all the drugs he'd been pumped full of, Vorgen had no trouble in his flight, and when his pursuer finally did catch up with him, he beat her to death with a length of rusty pipe before she could turn her wicked injector gun on him. This did mean, unfortunately, that he'd left all of his things behind. On top of that, he was lost. On the other hand, the the thing his would-be assailant had been toting looked terrifying, and he took it with him, assuming whatever it was loaded with had to be worth something. His next step was to stow away on a freighter bound for elsewhere. He couldn't think of anything left for him on the planet, except maybe the stuff he'd left at the "orphanage" and there was no way he was going back there. On top of that, he couldn't risk getting caught up in some other psychotic organization. With a year, the planet was cleansed of all life after a Slaaneshi cult started a war with the local Khornate clergy. These events triggered an investigation, which then uncovered a Tzeentch-Nurgle war that had been going on for at least a decade. Upon realizing the extent of the heresy present on the planet, the Grey Knights were called in to exterminate anything and everything ever associated with the doomed planet. Vorgen wasn't away of any of that, however. He was too busy dealing with his own problems.

Vorgen has only begun to realize exactly what had happened to him. After a second bout of what he assumed were withdrawal symptoms, he became the proud owner of the most attractive female figure he'd ever seen. And since he still had his original equipment, he found it didn't bother him all that much. Especially once his insane rack started netting him free stuff seemingly at random. All it took was the right tank-top or a plunging v-neck and suddenly there were people all over the place looking to help him with almost anything. Having decided that being a blonde bombshell was great fun, Thale didn't bother looking for a way to return to normal, which was where his problems really started. Not that he ever noticed.

The next few years were spent drifting, rather successfully, from place to place, while steadily stranger things began to follow in his wake. At first he just thought he was getting better at convincing people, but he knew something was wrong the first time he heard strange whispers while trying to talk down a trio of would-be rapists. They seemed more convinced than they should have been, this time, and while he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he did go out and buy a gun. Just in case. It wasn't long before he came to the decision that there was something seriously fucked up going on in his head, though. The sort of thing you couldn't solve with a gun unless you wanted to stop being alive. The first time he made someone bleed from their eyes and ears unintentionally, Vorgen freaked out. But he knew what he had to do. He called on the blessings of the Emperor's Light. This only confused his Slaaneshi patron, and simltaneously stirred up the local berzerker warband. He didn't even make it as far as the next step, either, as the first sight of the arbites' precinct had him terrified and running for the shadows with visions of blackships haunting his mind. The terror only seemed to make things worse, and soon he found his own emotions fading into the background as he began seeking out the emotions of others.

A half-cocked psyker roaming around chewing on people's auras got a few people riled up enough to point the outsider in the right direction, thankfully. Especially after he started lurking around where the screaming was coming from, until he spotted someone who looked like they could be trusted. Unfortunately, he was right. A fellow, albeit senior, Slaaneshi pskyer took the awakening Disciple of Chaos under his wing, and the two of them spent a significant amount of time researching the darker arts together. It was here, during his time learning with the unpleasantly haphazard Slaaneshi cult, that he earned the nickname "Rack". It stuck, and he never had the heart to argue. He didn't think it mattered, since as soon as Vorgen felt like he had a handle on his psychic powers, he emptied a suppressed autopistol to the back of the psyker who'd been grooming him, and hitched a ride on the next shuttle off-world. Some help from a few of the dumber cultists had taught him some important skills, like how to actually aim and shoot a solid projectile weapon, which parts of a person are squishiest, and which are best for stabbing, and how to patch up the kinds of wounds you're likely to encounter as a psycho running around stirring the pot. He also got a lesson on which parts of an alien are most likely to be edible, but didn't trust that one so much. It was good to know that he no longer had to rely solely on his mental clout, though, and the feel of familiar iron hanging under his left arm was always a comforting one.

Now Vorgen is back to square one, more or less. Another new world, another fresh start in his old familiar getup. Cargo pants, combat boots, a figure-hugging tank-top or excessively-low-cut v-neck, and a well-loved leather jacket that obviously wasn't sure if it was supposed to be dark brown, or black. Regardless, he never zipped it up more than half way for multiple reasons. Today his pants were dark green, and his tank-top was a cheerful pale pink. Shortly before the shuttle ride down to the planet, he'd gotten a fresh crew cut to keep his hair out of the way, but he'd had the sense to leave plenty on top for styling in case of an emergency. Not that anyone cared what his hair looked like. Rocking a body like his, people only seemed to care about his tits, and Vorgen was more than happy to take advantage of that. Today's plan was to see if there were any pirate crews who wanted a pskyer around, and in a worst case scenario, he supposed he would always convince them. The idea of starting his own pirate crew, with blackjack and hookers, had occurred to him on more than one occassion, but the psyker didn't want that kind of responsibility. It was tiring enough running around waving his mental influence at people all day, having to do that to the same people all the time would get old quick, he was sure. Besides, if he forgot about the pirates and the blackjack, he'd have a much better time. That wasn't really an option, though, not if he wanted to accomplish any of his goals. He needed to focus. And he needed to find someone to springboard him on to greatness...

Me? Oh you want to know who I am eh? Well, the armor not give it away? Heh, alright sure... I'll give you what I know, how about that?

I've always been a... violent person. First memory I got is ripping me brothers throat out with me teeth. Next one I gots about me pop, tough old bastard he was, one o' them old farmin' types... its of me taken the knife to him. Boy I cut him up good I did, lots of blood. Then eh... well next is something I'll never forget, the angels. A bitty after I cut up my pa they came down, lots of killing came with'em. How'd I live? Simple, I joined em', starting cuttin' folks up whosoever got near me. Afte that, they picked me up, took me inta' the sky. Next thing I 'member? More killing, course now I was one o'em angels... course now's I know we weren't no angels. We was Eaters, I member that much, always shoutin' bout eatin' sumthin for someone... don't rightly 'member what though. Then I 'member it changed. Oh we was still killin' fer sure, but it weren't like before, now we was carvin' up other folk like us. Big angels you know? Armored what like me see? That wen'on fer a bit... then fer a bit more.

I 'member runnin, er rather flyin', away. Some... big red place's where we were flyin to. Then more killin' obviously, more boys like us, then our own boys... ended up alone after that I did. Jus' me an the ole' bolter an' sword ye know? Loads o'fightin an'killing an'cuttin after that. Sometimes it were like before, I mean before we started gettin' violent with eachother, killin smaller folk, alien folk, any folk I was pointed at really. Sometimes I got back into fightin' with the ole'crew, or at least a crew that looked like 'em. That was... good. Stayed like that fer a long time, them boys were good to be with ya' know? Good crew we made... but, nuthin lasts I 'spose. I 'member... a fight, big one, lots a shooting an' killing. And uh... I don'rightly member it too well but... lost the crew ya know? An' uh... somehow some-when I en'ed up 'ere... and uh... spose thats the sum of it eh?

Oh the armor? Yea... tough old bitch she is, had 'er ever since the first crew picked me up. Yea, she's gone through a couple changes... bottom 'alfs from someone else you know? Arms en' chest er the same though. Course, she don' work quite like she use ta. Sum o' the... higher functions don' work no more, an' I loss' the helmet ages ago. Ain' as quick or strong, but she's still my second skin, tho' thinkin she needs eh...maintenance? Yea tha's it, I got the uh, way in my head but eh no parts ya see? I try to keep 'er sensitive bits clean nuff, an' she does still run. power? Oh no she's got them nuclear er whats it called sources, don' never run out. the brown bits? Oh lad tha's dried blood, turnt brown with age an' all that. Yea, legs 'er real brown eh? Guess I waded through pleny' o'gore huh? heh heh heh... tops ok though, I like too keep her the old white an' blue... gives me warm memeries... Hm? Oh that sword?

Well, ole' piece, though ain' had it as long as the armor. Oh yea, still runs well, simpler than my armor you know? She's a special beast after all... heh. Oh yea, yea, boltgun still works... oh didn' know tha's what it was? Yea, had this since uh... well as long's me armor at least. Ammo ain eh real pleniful... less than a full clip to me name. I mean not like I need it, though I do miss usin it, kick's nice an' satisfyin'. Now eh... ahhh fuck... hm? No, no i's jus' me head. Hurts when I go... eh don' matta now, what else ya askin? My face? Ha! Ain' it pretty? Nah, I ain' had hair fer... don' matter, still got the half goatee around heh heh... cours' some o' its grey now... eh don' matt- eerrggh... no no I',... jus' me head... why? Well, 'member that first crew? The Angels? Well eh, the... father? Tha's what I called him yea, he eh... put some... fuck what he call 'em? He had a better set... called'em... Nails thats it! Yea, nails uh somekind, an' uh... made me more violen' ya know? A real killer even more'n I alredy was... Yea they hur' if I ain'... killing... real sorry abou' this but... yer all that'l stop the hurt. But eh, tha's why Im down 'ere ya know? Ain't... no-one to hear ya... scream...

... *sniff* *sniff*, damn, been way to long since I had tha' smell... what'd I use ta'say when I did that?... blood er... heads fer something er other... eh don' matta... damn still hurtin... well lad thanks fer that, names Vinicius by the way... er, ye can't hear me aye? No... well still hurtin... guess I'll go... an' eh... out killing.