"That is our very purpose, Brother-Sergeant," Aleph said, watching as Extrovious handled his trophies with practiced ease. When had his Brother become so quick to rush in where a moment's tactical thought would reap a greater bounty of enemy dead? True, Extro had always been poised to enter the fray when war called, but for some time now he'd seemed ... keener for violence. Alephoros thought of it for only a moment. After such losses, who would not wish to take vengeance on the enemy? And every time they were thwarted in the Emperor's purpose, well, it was very much a personal affront both to their own honour, and that of their gene-father. Perhaps he was just over-stimulated by the many demands on his senses, the scent of blood, his own lesser reminder of frailty and that of his Brothers' wounds. Arnock, wanting a hand. Vitaly, an arm. It was of grave concern to him, their loss, and he chafed at having to set it aside, despite his training. Bonds of brotherhood were always strong. But - as he had been trained - duty was even stronger. "We'll be there soon enough, my Brother. Then their skulls shall cave to your fists." Aleph gave Extrovious a light punch to the upper arm, as drinking companions might. "I envy your tally already."