Horacio lay where he was, knife in bleeding hand as he saw an apparition appear before him. Momentarily he reacted with fear, for he knew very well that it was the way of the daemon to hide their evil in appearance that a faithful Imperial would mistake for piety. But his fears were gradually dissuaded with the words the woman provided, and eventually he was convinced that it was indeed a blessed occurrence indeed.

As he pushed himself upright with a grunt, he brushed himself off. Who had visited him? Perhaps Saint Arabelle? Or perhaps Sabat herself? It was a matter of much contention within his mind, and indeed it may just as easily been a mirage brought on by the injury of his head. After all, the bleeding from the head-butt may not have been all that severe, even if the internal injury may have been mighty enough to create hallucinations. Nevertheless, even if it was a falsehood of injury, it was right in that he had been neglecting his duty to his Sisters through laziness, fear of his incompetence, and now he had to go to them once more. Picking up the weapons of the traitors upon slings, he jogged through the hallway to move at speed but simultaneously conserve energy and not create too much noise. 

The man found himself turning at intersections and walking up and down flights of stairs, guided along even with his eyes closed by his very instinct — a euphemism for the providence for the Emperor in any sane society. As he got closer to what that same instinct told him was his destination, he found ever more dead men. Fortunately, a good many seemed to be traitors for which no mercy could be afforded. 

At last, the edge of his vision bore doors behind which there was a good deal of noise. By now Horacio was shouldering quite a good many weapons on slings and holsters, from las and autorifles to recovered chainswords strewn about the place. 

He only arrived in time to hear the last few syllables of the dark manipulator, but it was enough to knew this was spawn of darkness, a being which could only beckon one response: its demise. 

"Watch out!" the Confessor bellow, pulling the pin from a single grenade upon a bandolier of them that he then swung like an ancient sling, the length of synthetic leather flying in a neat arc over-head of the Sisters towards the bugger.