As Radago was loosed to the kill, Orphiel made his preparations.
You fight the way you speak. Svelk's word echoed through his mind with some accuracy, provoking a smile.
His hands began the work, uncinching the reinforced plasfibre rope keeping his travelling robe closed. The fabric unfurled, obscuring his shape further, draping around his shoulders and gear in an unshapen mess. It would blur his outline - if only for a moment, and it was all he would need. His weapons were free to his hand after being cooped up, and slipping Argo free from the rucksack, he used the rudimentary belt to fasten a lanyard to the weapons grip.
He didn't want to lose anything to glak-sucking abyss.
Working the selector and bolt very carefully, he dropped two Stalker rounds into an upturned palm, then gently tapped Brynjarr on the shoulder.
+Just in case,+ he subvocalised, passing the rounds to the Tactical Marine. The ambient sounds of creaking plasteel girders and groaning rockrete proved more than enough to hide the lower-than-whisper words.
Then, robe forming more of a cloak, he made off, Argo in both hands. Since his warplate was not there to absorb the ferocious recoil of the weapon, he was thankful for the sturdy front grip installed near the muzzle. The darkness was a blanket, hiding the sins they were about to commit, so beloved of ganger Bravos like the dross there were here to slay. Even so, contempt for the enemy stopped only at their character, their natural awareness, familiarity with gutter-fighting, and hard won experience were not to be underestimated.
Shotguns could still hurt, Holger could still be pushed over the edge.
Into a glak-sucking abyss.
Such a tomb of shadow represented a body of ignorance, of secrets. Orphiel smiled then, as was his want at such revelations. A pit of dead men and silent tales, a whole that could never be filled with enough corpses or truths, buried in the depths of dark.
Mind on the now, Orphiel.
He went carefully, rolling his boots onto the side of the sole, avoiding the distinctive tap of heel-toe, and was rewarded for his caution when one of the tiles shifted under his boot.
Silent Move Test:
The sentiment never escaped his lips, but he shifted his weight carefully and moved on, reaching the low wall in the centre of the immediate area of operation. He was in position, kneeling behind cover, Argo ready. The light from the lumen-orb above Razor's head fell just shy of his position at the corner of the barricade. Orphiel smiled. He was in that hazy zone between the bleak dark and illumination. It was perfect.
He signalled he was in position by a single pip of the commbead.
Whilst doing his best impression of a stack of boxes smothered by a tarpaulin, he suspected Radago and Brynjarr would echo the sentiment that Razor was more useful alive, but if things went wrong, Holger no doubt would have wormed enough information out of his captors to shed some light on the origins of that very ornate Bolt pistol.
If not, it would be a terrible shame if the only source to the Pride of Kings took a terrible tumble into darkness and ignorance, his secret consumed.
By a glak-eating abyss.
Oh yes. That would be just terrible.