It was not the two completely unintelligible plans proposed by the humans that bothered the black-clad Apothecary, nor was it the numerous – apparently surreptitious – looks that he was given any time 'stealth' was mentioned; these fools clearly believed that he would even allow himself to be seen, or that because of his armour and size it would make it harder for their overall objectives. If anything this made him chuckle within the illuminated and flashing interior of his helmet, blink-clicks on his HUD transferring pictures of their expressions for later analysis and, although he went through things absent-mindedly in this small world of his own, he took in everything that was said or done at the same time.

Soon enough a decision was made, the only one that truly counted in this rag-tag group, and Nergüi followed along behind the smaller figures in almost complete silence. Contrary to popular belief, his Corvus pattern armour moved with a fluidity and quietness (at least to those on the outside) that earned it its name as a second skin for the Astartes, his Black Carapace making it more-or-less precisely that. With his enhanced vision, hearing and smell, the psyker and the rest had no need to worry about him...it was to their own sounds that they should pay attention.

No, it had been at this point, when they had entered a vehicle section and simply walked past them, that the Astartes had finally felt a pang of sadness at their task. He was a White Scar, born and raised upon the back of a horse on the plains of Chogoris, and any chance – even for an Apothecary – to man or travel within a blessed vehicle of the Imperial military was one not to be squandered. The expression and sigh of disappointment from Adrianne did much to mirror his own, unseen, feelings on the abandonment of those beloved resources.

As they moved through the pouring torrent of rain, not unnoticed by the Marine but with any noise or visual obstruction filtered out quite handily by his armour, Nergüi kept his ears sharp and his filters constantly shifting. If there were any Greenskins abroad, and he knew there would be, he wished to find them and eliminate them before they clocked the frankly fragile group.

By the time they reached first contact, five Greenskin 'Boyz', the lowest of the fully grown hierarchy, he was almost dying for a fight. He was, after all, and in spite of his chosen profession within the Chapter, still a being forged for a single purpose...his Deathwatch training and assignments had only heightened his need to slay the xenos, mutant and heretic wherever he may find them. Not only that, but he had smelt them long before the group had seen them, one fist twitching to pull his bolt pistol from his hip and fire through the walls of the building and straight into them.

The countdown began, and very soon there was but one bewildered and angered Ork left, an Ork that the Apothecary would not bother wasting precious energy or ammunition on but would instead leave to whomever wished to take the final shot and dispatch the creature to hell.

"[color=a187be]Clear the path to the gun. I can destroy it myself.[/color]" Spoke the psyker to the rest of the group, moving her very confident self behind a nearby pillar – probably the best option, for if the Orks had heard them over the storm outside (unlikely as that was), then they would soon be in for quiet a ride.

Slowly, as if feeling a niggling in the back of his mind, he turned his head (and thus his beaked helmet and shimmering eye-plates) to glance at the seven-foot mind-warrior, the visored helmet clearly looking in his direction not all that different to his own. A target-rune flashed into his vision, a blink-click rendering it redundant for the moment, and without a word spoken he turned his head back to watch what would become of the last Ork left standing.

[i]Come and get us.[/i]