Mordethac was feeling... weird was the best word for it. He had been suffering from some sort of skin disease ever since he had been turned into a Daemon loogie and recaptured by the word bearers.

The disease must have started affecting his mind as he found it hard to keep up with anything happening... or was it the voices? He sleepwalked through the captivity until he came to his senses again. It was sudden and jarring when he did. The quarters and meals provided to them were familiar to him. He could almost swear that he was a regular crimson sabre/slaughter marine again.

He tried his damnest to sleep but the voices in his head just got louder and louder. Eventually he couldn't take it, he needed to fight again. He left his cell and headed to the training pits. Perhaps some sparring will quiet the voices in his head...

OOC sorry for not posting earlier like I said I would, after I did a post in my other RP I fell asleep

Nemeritus found Viator in one of the training cages, cutting apart a small combat servitor by the means of short stabs and thrusts, as if he wanted to savor the suffering of the lobotomized creature that stopped feeling anything long time ago.

Seeing his fellow devotee, the traveler made a theatrical bow before replying to Nemerotus' question. "Ah but what is there not to be happy about? We have everything we need to feel sensations and rise once again through the dark deeds we preform. Is it not beautiful to know greatness and glory, and then all of it taken in an instant by our sweet Patron? The delicate suffering, the fear of the unknown and becoming once again nothing more than a worm, but still desperately hoping that you will reach heaven once again? Such glorious mix of emotions is surely to be savored, not frowned upon!"

"And, the reason why I came here is because of a bet. To experience all of that what I mentioned and survive? Hardly a prospect that seems plausible but then again, it is possible. And after it, once richer for the experience of walking down this particular path, one can only grow more favored and wiser than before, don't you agree?"

"But enough about me? How about you? What sweet offense did you preform to get stuck in the loving embrace of the Word Bearers?"

Viator listened Nemeritus' story and gave a approving nod once he finished. "Ah I see, the pleasure of having a good meal is sometimes overlooked by the travelers and priests alike. Long time ago I used to debate the point with a scholar interested in the nature of Slaanesh and Her areas of influence."

"I debated that, given the fact the Dark Prince commands all the pleasures so a simple feeling of eating a good meal or even doing something innocent like helping a child in need that makes you feel better about yourself all helps fuel our Patron's power. However, this scholar renounced such premise telling me that if such things were true, than the entire mankind would already be under Slaanesh's influence and that in order to really hop on the dark path, you needed something more."

"So I guess that you adding a little quirk by eating the flesh of your fallen enemies might've done the job right and I salute you for coming to such discovery. Which makes sense because in some of the more primitive cultures and societies I came across during my travels, there was a spread belief that eating the flesh or even a heart of your foe will also allow you to eat his soul and consume his power to make it your own. Interesting fact that I never tried out myself because in some cases tribes that indulged themselves in such practices were more often than not fallen into service to the Blood God."

"But now, after listening to your tale, I can only applaud you for your courage to walk such a line between praising and angering the Dark Prince. I can only guess how such sensation would feel and undoubtedly it helped you greatly during your travel, however I suspect that Slaanesh, capricious as She is, might've simply cast you down during one of her more foul moods. But have no fear, together, we will rise above this mediocrity and return to our former glory!"

"However what I'm also interested in, do you have any thoughts on our fellow convicts? Some of them are quite interesting and some might even look tasty? To you I mean!" he laughed as he once again swung his sword, decapitating the silent servitor nearby.

As the first bell past noon sounds , Silim stirs from his meditations and flexes his limbs. Still desperately lean compared to the glory days of his freedom, but, with regular food and exercise, he has already regained much of his strength. His mangled arm has also recovered with only faint scarring as a reminder of the encounter.

Blinking a few times as his mind spirals down from the higher Enumerations and emerges from the depths of his memory palace, he leaves his cell to go to the pits for exercise .

Spotting some of his fellow escapees there deep in conversation , he notes how they belong to the majority that did not follow him. Keeping his own company , he selects a simple wooden quarterstaff from a rack and launches into a practice drill for spear and staff play. He had always preferred the longer weapons for their efficiency and reach - something he had shared with the Old Man, over their many differences.

At the thought of his mentor, the scars at his throat tingle. His grip tightens on the staff fit to make the wood creak and each of his strokes takes on additional snap, causing the ends of the staff to whip and vibrate violently as he runs through the angles of attack snd defence one after the other .

< Play Time is Over >
The good life of corpse rations and tiny cells couldn't last forever and one day the heretics found that their doors opened not for recess, but for redemption. A five strong band of legionnaires saw them through the halls as one would expect. It was a much swifter march this time, limbs engorged with muscle and sheathed in healthy flesh making for far better movement than the rotting twigs they had come in on. Without armor or armament they formed a long line of tanned robes punctuated by the crimson of the Word Bearers. When the skies of Sicarus were revealed to them once more the atmosphere of the world seemed to tug at their minds much more differently. It was still a prison, but now they were strong- sort of, opportunities were no longer about basic survival and escape; instead it was about ascension, and escape.

The Basilica of the Word loomed over them as it had before. Every step closer only made its presence that much grander. Once again entrance into those glorious dark halls was denied them. Instead the sorcerer from before met them all out in the road. Other prisoners were being brought up as well, having been wrangled before or after they themselves. Groups were being organized and separated, Alpharius, Kaleidos, Tyre and Garrick driven off in varying directions to augment other formations of the physically restored prisoners. The sorcerer cleared his throat.

"Yes, yes, hello all of you. I'm sure you're all very eager to know what's going to happen to you. Just as I'm sure many of you have already figured out your purpose. " Rolling a hand the Word Bearer began to stroll along the foremost faces, studying them from behind his mask. " You have all been chosen, by merciful wisdom, to atone for your failures to the gods and to make yourselves useful after Kharn's break out. " Stopping to look up at the sky figure shook his head at the mention of the Betrayer before carrying on. " Fighting, killing, blowing things up, the usual sorts of tasks that our ilk are used to performing make up the steps on the path to redemption. Today, boys and.... boys, you'll be getting your first assignments. Prove your worth and all that. " He stopped to clap his hands together in mock excitement. "Aren't you all a lively bunch? " Of course no one responded, well except maybe Viator, but the witch made a point of looking in any direction other than the Slaaneshi's own. "You'll each be escorted through the armory and allowed to equip yourselves. Go on now, get to it. Take to your works with zeal! " Waving them all off those indebted to the Word Bearers were marched off....

< Armory Phase >
Each respective group was loosed into the armory one at a time. They were drawing from the pool of weaponry that most the neophytes used meaning anything bigger than a bolt pistol was probably on lock down. It was obvious things had been neutered further just for them, surely the Word Bearer's own capitol planet would have the grandest armories available to the traitor legion. What was on display wasn't too bad at least. Decent quality melee weapons of all shapes and sizes, bolt weaponry of the side arm variety and.... a noticeable lack of even carapace armor. It seems everything wasn't going to be back to normal just yet. At least there were g--- wait no, they weren't being given grenades or special ammunition either. Thankfully on one of the nearby weapon racks there were options with some actual kick, flamers, shotguns and proper sized bolt guns.

OOC: Grab your flavor of [Combat Knife-Equivalent] (can be claymores, claws, knives, staves, hell take a whip, whatever you want) and a bolt pistol folks. Take a combat shotgun, flamer or bolter if you desire as well. Briefing tomorrow.

@Redthirst @Colapse @Draconion @matt23 @Grall_Stonefist @Virgil_Corbec

Maintaining his silence throughout, Silim betakes himself to the armoury with the group. From the racks, he picks out both a Sol-pattern combat knife and a spear with a monomolecular-edged head and a shaft of dark, hard ironwood that tingles with the touch of a Warp-cursed world. One by one, he goes down the racks, racking and examining the bolters and bolts pistols with an expert eye until he finally picks out one of each that satisfies him. The bolter is hung about his shoulders with its quick-release sling, while the bolt pistol goes in a weapons belt about his hips.

Viator grinned at the witch's behavior - he didn't even have the guts to look him in the eyes now! One can only get hexed with one and the same spell few times before the afflicted person becomes resilient to such spells and apparently, this Word Bearer knew better than to once again fight him!

The traveler laughed to himself. That deduction was as stupid as it gets but it amused him greatly to indulge his mind in such mundane distraction. After all, it would seem that the things will only get worse (better?) from this point onward.

Inside the armory, Viator sneered at the assembly of crappy weapons and threw a disdainful look at both Nemeritus and the other witch for having to stoop so low and pick leftovers from a party Word Bearers had with some backwater world's PDF. And by the looks of it, the party was quite bad.

He of course, needed no weapons. His sword was hanged loosely against his back, the blade still rusty but Viator hoped that after spilling some precious blood might change its mood and get him enough power so both of them can rise again. As for the other weapons, now that he thought more thoroughly about it (and by looking what the others did with more focus this time), he took out a simple bolt pistol from the rack and holstered it on his hip alongside couple of spare magazines. It was highly unlikely he would use it - especially since he only has one hand available to him and that one will hold Sa'vr'sen'stvo, but perhaps he might pull out a sneaky shot or two if such situation occurs.

@Draconion @Redthirst @Grall_Stonefist "So what do you think our hosts have in store for us hm?" he asked none in particular (or all of them for that matter), "Hunting bad cultists around the citadel or playing a really fun game of tug of war? Or perhaps something more interesting, like snatching an Imperial princess to do our dishes while we are away?"