As he stood Theis looking over the gathering, he knew that far most present. couldent be trusted, atleast not in the long run, but atleast far most seemed above mindless instinct, going on a more intilligent couse of survival, and now there was one trying to unite them, atleast for a while, a plan he could stand behind, he wouldent be fooled into cannonfodder, he was better than that.
"Aye, we should unite to fight our goalers" he attempted to call out in his hoase voice, as he then started to make hus way down to symbolicly join, the one who seemed the freshest in their torturus prison

Appropriating a silvered ritual athamé and a staff, Silim secretes the former under his ragged prison garb and leans upon the latter for support as he forces aching, atrophied sinews to move in poor imitation of the grace and strength they once possessed.

Leaning upon a wall for added support, he eyes the collection of fellow prisoners with habitual suspicion.

Observation: I have apparently escaped from my prisons - both Immaterial and physical. *Apparently*. Initial search for tools and weapons has come up sparse - I have found an athamé and a staff. I have just encountered what appears to be a large group of fellow prisoners, of whom one seems to be advocating a unified effort at completing this jailbreak. I can hear the sounds of battle from outside the prison walls, and see battle damage from whatever forces hostile to the jailers of Sicarus passed through.

Premise: Again, no telling how long I have been imprisoned here. Ever since the Changer wrenched me back from the dead with his brand upon my soul and spat me out here, I have been a prisoner - I lost track of time after ten years, at the very least. This is by far and away the largest change to my personal status quo since the start of imprisonment, and certainly the first of its kind.

Postulation: If it seems to good to be true, it probably is. While all the standard tests for reality bear out, it is well within the Changer's means to craft an elaborate scenario such as this as just another hamster wheel for me to exhaust myself upon for his amusement. After all, his reach as one of the Four extends well past the ephemeral realm and into the Materium - this could be all too real and yet still a part of his torments.

Conclusion: In the end, does not all life and motion serve the Changer? To live is to move, to grow, to change, to hope. And is it not the ultimate - and ridiculously simple - secret of the way of Change? That the Great Game has no end, no goal, no purpose other than change itself? I will struggle against all odds, and I will survive, because it is in my nature. It is what I do.

Skimming over the motley rabble, his eye lights on Aphael. Dusty memories stir as he recognises the Prodigal Son as not merely a Legion Brother, but a fellow Cult Adept , albeit of a different Order within the Corvidae - he himself having completed his training with the Order of Ruin before being called to Mars and the Legion Forge.

Sidling close to the Thousand Son, he rasps quietly, "Brother."

As and when he catches Aphael's eye, he will swiftly make signs with his free hand, indicating his Legion, Cult and Order, according to the secret sign language used by the Cults of the old Legion.

@Grall_Stonefist

Now this was more like it. The sudden influx of various outside stimuli, combined with the long years of being starved, made Viator's mind, despite his earlier acceptance and preparation, go into overdrive. It was the way of Slaanesh, to feel and be felt, no matter the cost, no matter the price. It was a road often traveled upon and at the moment, it looked as the only path leading towards the exit and another chapter.

The joke was also fitting and appreciated. To be attacked by none other than the servants of the Blood God, the feud between him and the Dark Prince brought down upon every traveler, no matter how far one might've gone, Viator of course being no different in this. But it also allowed him to gain his metaphysical strength faster for every soul bound to Khorne which he sent into oblivion and made his patron grin in amusement was a good way to get started. Although at the back of his mind he understood that all of them here were prisoners of sorts, simple deduction leading to a conclusion that perhaps even those wretches might've fallen from grace from their god, but the thought was drowned quickly as the rising tide of emotions surged forward. Reasons mattered little. Motion, sensation, achieving perfection with every move. That meant everything.

Viator was dimly aware of another servant of the Prince of Pleasure (@Redthirst ) close to him, in similar shape as he was, as he spun around to meet the attacker from behind, giving a simple nod of understanding to the fellow traveler and leaving everything else for later. As he turned to meet his pistol-wielding foe, a sneer crossed his regal features. "One does not bring a gun to a sword fight. You dishonor your patron," he said and tried to bring his sword in a quick slashing move that would cut off his enemy's arm and disarm him in the cruelest way possible, hopefully causing enough sweet agony which would allow himself another fleeting moment of beautiful sensation.

OOC trying to cut the dude's arm off and disarm him of his pistol.

Not only was Aphael surprised when another marine spoke to him, but seemingly another ancient thousand son, and one of the Pavoni cult, it was a face Aphael barely remembered, but something was there, if he remembered Aphael, he also had to know he was with the prodigal sons, with if he did, then it was a bigger surprise that he wanted any contact with Aphael.
Not one to act aloof at this kind of time, Aphael answered Silim legion signs with hus own sidings within the old legion to the best of hos ability, his own hands still feeling alien to him.
@Draconion

< Gardens of Decaying Favor > @Uriel1339 @matt23
Here in the very pit wrought for failures like Kaleidos only similiar results could be expected for a damned soul like his. Nurgle's eyes fell upon his fallen servant for the briefest of moments and the disappointed sigh of an exasperated father was heard. The veins in Kaleidos' right arm expanded and began to burst as instead of doom bolts he called forth maggots. The fat things writhing about in his blood stream and chewing through malnourished limb until they burst out from beneath his skin and fell to the ground. They popped loudly whenever crushed and the pain great enough to stun the sorcerer. He was easy prey for the playful plague Beast that had come near with its lopsided grin that never remained quite in the same place on its slug like form. It decided to give him a friendly nip on the shoulder like an affectionate puppy and to its delight teeth came away in soiled blood and rapidly rotting flesh. For the Nurglite what would of once been heaven had become hell.

Walking in to find Kaleidos desperately trying to get some space from the creature Arnok stands amid the fungus covered corpses of those slain here in the Gardens. Fat flies buzzed in noisome fashion, descending to pick at his flesh with hungry curiosity. The former Dark Apostle could see that Kaleidos probably needed help, even though it would put him in some very real danger. Though it may be more useful to him personally to try and bust some of the various plant like prisons around, after all the shadows of those kept inside could make for some fine fodder.

The Damned:
Kaleidos: 3 Arnok: 8
Conditions:

Friendly Fiend:
Beast of Nurgle: 20
Conditions:

< Silver Tower > @Draconion @Keidivh @Grall_Stonefist @Vulpas
In the midst of all the chaos going on it was the Silver Tower that was the most peaceful place around right now. With primarily magic based defenses and psyker minders it had been struck especially hard by Khorne's anger ripping through like a flash flood. No one went without at least a headache here, and already some of the weaker wretches among them had given out and found their will to live sapped and souls detaching to twist off elsewhere in the warp for whatever other terrible fates awaited. Garrick at least would be able to wrestle some joy from the sight of the accursed witches and cowards suffering, even if it pleased Khorne too.

"What is this? I sense a dullard's mind and all its bloody thoughts. Have the Blood God's lackeys come to clean house? " The man who had first spoken about rallying together looked down from several twisting levels and stared at the Iron Warrior. "No no, you look just as miserable as well. Speak your purpose or raise your hammer, either way I'll only ask once politely that you get out of our way. "

< Temple of Deprivation > @Redthirst @Colapse @Virgil_Corbec
Mordethac found himself approaching the back end of an angry mob consisting of his fellow Khornates. Said mob was quickly being diluted by crazed Slaaneshi as well. Both these forces though were dropping at a worrying rate thanks to a well ordered squad of Word Bearers rapidly cleaning a path out of the forsaken temple. The marine would end up ducking into cover around the arched entrance as a horned Word Bearer shouldered aside two wrestling inmates before splitting them both in the torso with a wide sweep of a power sword. Bolters sounded off keeping the gap clean while a flamer toting warrior lingered right in the entrance way roasting dozens. He didn't seem set to move either and now acted as a very real obstacle to Mordethac's advance. For those still devoted to Khorne it was infuriating as they died trying to get to grips with a foe they stood little chance against. The Slaaneshi simply embraced the sensations and howled with joy as fat boiled and flesh was cooked. They would of been sobbing wrecks in the inferno were it not for the fact their tears ducts had long run dry. There was certainly enough room for Mordethac to try and creep around but who would help him if he were discovered? Then again what chance did he stand trying to take on a fully armored Legionnaire who wasn't so malnourished and deathly looking as himself?

Things were simpler for Viator and Nemeritus whom were far enough back that the flamer wasn't a concern for them. It couldn't reach them and that meant the fight was starting to swell in size and intensity around the pair thanks to an influx of bodies fleeing from the Word Bearer up front. Not like this mattered to Viator whom had taken a bit too direct an approach to the bolt pistol wielding heretic and received a shot to his forearm which simply blew it apart and left him with a jagged stump of bone and torn flesh in the aftermath. If he weren't a sensation junky just starved enough to actually -want- that sort of pain activating his long quiet nerves it probably would of left him lying on the floor set to die. Instead he lashed out with once noble blade and drove its rusty edge deep into the fading muscle of the champion. Cut was set just right and the limb fell useless forcing the warrior to drop his prize. Not like anyone else here was gonna really be able to use it though.

Behind him Nemeritus embraced his own desperate cravings much more readily and was fueled to greater heights by them. His dagger missed its target by a wide margin as the inmate stagger-dodged the attack and instead knife's edge drug across his forehead. A fresh source of crimson stink joined the various other odors in the air and its enthralling powers made the pit in Nemeritus' stomach much more real. When both inmates unintentionally fell upon him they were in for quite the surprise as cannibal elbowed one aside and pounced toward the other one trying to get to grips with life giving blood.

The Damned:
Viator: 4 Nemeritus: 8 Mordethac: 8
Conditions: Nemeritus now has his full 5 stacks of Craving. The effects will be laid out as appropriate for each stack. 1. Enemies gain +1 to hit. 2. Nemeritus can only crit on 20s and crit fails on 2s. 3. Enemies gain +2 to hit. 4. Critical failures Nemeritus always stun for 1 turn in addition to normal effects. 5. Nemeritus re-rolls results of 19-20. As a reminder he may attempt to remove stacks by using a turn to feed on a foe he has slain, and may try again by feasting on the dead once he is out of immediate danger.

Those Damned Khorne Lovers and Lunatics:
Fallen Champion: 5 Crazed Inmates: 3/5 Word Bearer Legionnaire [Flamer]: 12
Conditions: The Word Bearer is focused purely on keeping anyone from escaping the temple and will not actively target or engage anyone unless provoked.

[OOC: Silim is/was Corvidae, sub-Order Ruin, a.k.a. the siegemasters and strategium officers. I'm assuming that, by now, every Thousand Son knows at least some tricks from each of the Cults.]

Further memories stir as Silim recognises Aphael as one of Ahriman's cabal - responsible for the Rubric that changed the entire Legion forever. Not that he cared much then, having been one of the fortunate survivors who emerged with vastly amplified powers. And not that he cares much now, when there are far greater stakes.

"Old allegiances matter not, Prodigal," he says, the ugly scar in his throat betraying the source of his weak, rasping voice, "Not then, and especially not now. We need to band together to make good our escape. Help me organise all the psykers here into a war choir. We are weakened individually, but we can be unstoppable in concert."

Thumping his stolen staff thrice upon the floor, he rolls his eyes upwards into his skull in concentration. Blowing the dust and cobwebs off long-disused battle cantrips, formulae of arcane erudition and mantras of power, he begins to channel power from the Warp-saturated air of Sicarius, proceeding with utmost care like a man attempting to bathe in an icy glacial stream. Creaking like the rusted hinges of a long-closed door, he feels his mind expand, bit by bit, unfurling like a tentative flower into a psy-scape of interlocking equations spinning ever towards a resolution that will only come at the battle's end, changing with every piece of new information fed into the mix.

Flickering like candle flames in a strong breeze, sigils in brass and steel-coloured light glimmer to life in a circle about his feet, forming an orderly ritual mandala of complex geometric patterns and arcane formulae that change constantly with machine-like timing and precision. Any Thousand Sons present would instantly recognise the war-meditation of the Order of Ruin - the siegemasters and ops officers of the old Legion - furthermore perceiving the constant flicker of immeasurable amounts of data expressed in mathematical form in a sphere about the caster, uncannily like unto a Mechanicus noospheric interface.

[Tactical Noomatrix - established.

Central Processing Hub - established.

Primary Cogitation - online.

Primary Data-Mining - online.

Core Quintessential Capacitance - online.

Principal Warfare Control - online.

Auxilliary Processing - awaiting handshake.

Secondary Cogitation - awaiting handshake.

Accessory Data-Mining - awaiting handshake.

Peripheral Quintessential Capacitance - awaiting handshake.

Secondary & Tertiary Warfare Control - awaiting handshake.

Tactical Noomatrix - core functions established. All margins nominal.]

Silim's mindvoice blasts across the psyches gathered within the Shifting Tower, its heartshaking metallic bass rumble a world of difference from the weak rasp of his fleshvoice as it announces the readiness of what amounts to the bridge of a psychic warship, empty and ready for those willing to take up station.

It was a good pain. After all this time, following the stimulus effecting his mind, Viator's body also received the necessary "push" needed for him to once again feel alive. Pleasure turned into pain turned into pleasure, the sound of blood dropping from the ruined stump where half of his arm was just seconds ago sounding like the sweetest melody to the traveler's ears. Emotions going into overdrive, hate, anger, satisfaction, all combined into a mix that would drive anyone who wasn't the follower of the Dark Prince mad. But for those who walked the path, this cocktail of sensations was the driving force that pushed them ever onward towards their goal of reaching perfection.

Despite the pain - because of the pleasure - Viator laughed as the rusty edge of Sa'vr'sen'stvo cut through the muscle and bone of his enemy, the pistol falling out of his grip alongside the better part of his arm. "An arm for an arm? Slaanesh does have a wicked sense of humor!" he cheered, satisfaction of causing pain to his foe a beautiful thing which set his mood right after the initial shock. But this was only a start, not only his patron requiring much more than that but Viator himself needed it if he was to further enjoy himself. The bliss of killing, causing suffering, spilling blood and being an artist, it would mean nothing if he didn't continue with the motion. To stop was a worse fate than death. To stop was to feel nothing.

His long ashen hair, now smothered in blood, moved through the air as he closed the distance with his wounded foe, the rusty blade this time moving downward and towards the right leg, couple of inches above the knee. A strike aimed not to kill the enemy, but cripple it and cause it as much excruciating pain as possible while leaving it alive but completely helpless to prevent its death. The anger and hopelessness that such an act would cause on a warrior would give Viator great satisfaction and allow him to walk more steps on the road towards the ultimate pleasure. Of course, he was also aware that the bolt pistol fell somewhere close by and in case his strike is true and the enemy tries while weakened to reach for the firearm, Viator would allow him a moment of hope and then crush it fast by cutting another arm off. All of it was a game to him, a game he wanted to enjoy to the fullest.

OOC Trying to cut my enemy's leg off and then watch him suffer a bit before killing him, at least that's the idea. For Slaanesh at shit Also, "savrsenstvo" means perfection in my language - yeah, quite original, I know

Kaleidos cried in pain. There was much a Space Marine was taught to endure, but if he was anything like a pathetic Ultramarine or one of those stubborn Dornians he would have already perished. This was pain caused by the warp and Nurgle, beyond comprehension of most. Which is why even the most dedicated non-nurgle worshippers never did understand how they could embrace his blessings! Just like them, Kaleidos too felt no love - but pestilence's anger. The maggots that literally crawled out of him took several chunks of his pale flesh and did not replace it with their warmth instead started to fall to the ground, rejecting him!

And the love of the beast...? If love really felt this way he never wanted to meet a significant other - he joked for sanity's sake in his mind. In fact the pain was so great, he did not even notice the Word Bearer behind himself as he frantically tried to push the Beasts head away from him and then just make for the exit - not caring about the acid puddle - not caring about anything but getting out of Nurgle's domain so he may live another day. He knew... Hoped that the plague father did not mean to kill him but to leave him with a good beating that he would never fail him again.

Arnok took a moment to look at the vial domain of Nurgle, knowing that everything he touched could easily kill him. The smell itself was almost enough to send one running, but they needed more bodies to get out of this alive. His eyes then laid upon someone being attack by a spawn of the plague father. As much as he wanted to help directly, Arnok knew that to draw the attention of that creature could spell his own death. Instead, the World Bearer decided to help indirectly by cutting other prisoners free from their confines. Perhaps this action would give him an opening to help this individual whom had draw a vast amount of bad attention from Nurgle. This attention, to Arnok, meant that at one point this person must have been powerful and stumbled. So he began his move of cutting other prisoners free from their cells.

OOC: cutting other prisoners free to draw the spawn away and free a way for Arnok 'The Weak' to get in there and help Kaleidos.