She had heard the screams of the dead. It came to her in a dream, a nightmare, and so it was that she thought of it only as that. But something was amiss. Even awake, she could hear them faintly, her feet guiding her without her consciously knowing close to the source of anguish.
She had heard the screams of the dead. And as she got closer to its source, she could also see flashes. Flashes of their past lives. Flashes of their current captors. She could smell in the air the stench she knew very well of the Warp. She knew, to her cold realisation, that those two things were related.
She had heard the screams of the dead. Weaving her powers around her she became virtually unnoticeable, and used that to her advantage. She found the place where those vile rituals took place, and the cold feeling she had had in her stomach turned into vitriolic fire that could not be contained. She entered that place, still weaved in shadows and power, and blew up the door of one of the rooms inside with her focused anger and will, as the cultist, mon’keigh, began to get up, with a gesture of her staff she threw three against the wall, with a cracking sound that could either be their bones, the wall itself, or both.
She’d make them scream as they had made her kin.