Because he was quite sure he'd have gotten himself furious again if he looked over to Xepherial, and in particular what the blood-red Marines were doing to him, he refused to so much as glance in his brother-Marine's direction as he strode over to one of the various weapon racks in the room. His two blades were all well and good, of course, but as recent events had shown, they were insufficient for requirements. He needed a gun - his own gun, not one stolen from another person - and since this was an old Space Marine ship after all, the ship's armoury was packed with bolt weaponry. Not just bolters, but bolt pistols, and even heavy and storm bolters, though the idea of firing either of the latter two outside of power armour was realistically infeasible even for him.

And the variety of patterns! Crusade, Tigrus, Umbra, Umbra Ferrox... oh, if a Phobos-pattern bolter presented itself to him, he might just be able to die happy despite everything! Alas, it did not, and he did not see that he had the time or space to check around for one, if he needed to perform maintenance on whatever weapons he selected. Perhaps for the best, since to his knowledge, the Phobos pattern actually used a slightly smaller bolt caliber. Odd, of course, that he could remember minute details such as that, and yet not know so much of his history. So, being forced to pick and choose, Lucius grabbed a Tigrus-pattern bolter and bolt pistol, as well as the holsters for them and enough magazines for both to last him at least a few engagements, if he was picky about who and what he chose to shoot (and that was how he should treat them, of course, for the Tigrus pattern was renowned for its accuracy compared to standard bolter patterns).

One round of gun maintenance later, and it seemed there was little else to do but prepare to enter their new ship. The Mechanicus priest had already left, it seemed, and from the look of things, Xepherial was keen to exit through an airlock, despite his armour's condition... which reminded Lucius that he was still wearing naught but cloth. And with a badly damaged body, at that. He would surely die if he stepped into the void in such condition. But, surely a ship such as this ought not to be so unprepared? Surely he ought to be able to find voidsuits... perhaps, if he was lucky, even a suit of power armour to call his own?

[hr]

He was not. Mere voidsuits aplenty, for both Astartes and human serfs- he grabbed one for his follower too, not that the wimp really deserved it- but apparently, power armour was in short supply. Not unexpectedly, he supposed, but even so, he might have expected at least a few spare.

And after putting his suit on, he simply followed the route taken by the others in his group, exiting through the airlock, trudging with mag-locking boots across the surface of the enemy ship, and then into another airlock, and ultimately the ship proper. Was it the same airlock? He had no idea, and he didn't see his fellows in the vicinity. All he knew was that his minion had followed him, and once inside refused to just shut up about how grateful he was that his almighty lord master had so cleverly yadda yadda yadda.

'You know,' Lucius began, drawing his bolt pistol, 'now that we aren't at risk of drawing any Genestealers to ourselves, you could put that telepathy to use in guiding us around, perhaps? I'm sure figuring out where the life in this ship is would be useful.'

'Ah- o-oh! Yes, of course, lord sir Scion sir,' the worm snivelled, 'I'll see if I can use it to that effect, though I worry of course that my recent, ah, deprivation may have affected my abilities- just a little bit of course, no setbacks to what I can usually do, of course! Ahaheh...' Admittedly, he did seem a little bit better for being out of the null field. Less pale. Less crying, too. Not an excuse for failure on his part, evidently, though a failure to possess a particular use of a particular ability at all might be questionable as a "failure". Maybe. Either way, without asking whether he was succeeding, Lucius began to wander, weapon ready to kill whoever needed killing. And, hopefully, his physique would hold out for long enough until the ship was under his control. If he was lucky, he might even come across a physician with the skill to heal him who [i]wasn't[/i] utterly mad. Wouldn't that be something.