Rage. Anger. Hate. It was not that he could not feel anything else, it was not that he could not think... but it was easier this way. He could almost drown out the regrets, the self loathing, the fact that he still lived when his true brothers and sisters had died. The fate he inflicted on his legion. The fact he had been forced to become a High Rider even as he remained a slave. It hurt to think, to remember, to feel the black claws gripping him. As the collar burned into his skull, strand by strand, burned with rage, driving it out.

So much easier to drown it all in blood and skulls, to keep it at bay with the rage. Still, there was little left to do here, as the world died around him. As the last wretched and fearful slaves that worshiped the carcass of his old master were reaped and it would be time to leave, to keep drowning out the screams already clawing at his mind, as his past was still coming, still catching up with him. Logar, the red angel thought, and not for the first time, should have let him finish dying.

Another regret, another taste of copper bile in his mouth, as one of the recent skulls seemed to snort. Which was, to be entirely honest, odd. Oh, they sometimes cursed him, whispered their hate and loathing of him. He welcomed it, it was honest. He crushed the ones that tried to praise him. None of his legion was among them, none of his true family. They deserved better. So, for one of them to snort? As one of his warriors ran up to him?

It was a whim that saw the warrior live to make his report. An errant spark of curiosity. "My lord." His hand twitched, he LOATHED being reminded of the fact he was a High Rider now. "Vox message. Apparently there are Orks translating into the system." He considered that for a moment, a grin on his lips. Why, he did not even need to go anywhere, the fight was coming to him. "The messenger slaves say that they are calling for you, looking for you my lord."

There was a quirk to his lips, something almost feral and brutal, as he considered slaughtering the mortal in front of him. Mostly to pass the time before the Orks arrived, before they could deliver to him this fight. And then the warp turned green. Not the putrid rot of Nurgle and despair, but a deep, fungal green that roared for war. As the deamon primarch lifted his head, wings about to beat, the mortal was discarded, untouched for now.

Yet, even as he rose, as he took in the coming tide, he paused. That was not a space hulk. That was not a fleet of the orks ramshackle ships. He blinked, as he was shocked away from the baying for blood, as his mind, ravaged and lax due to not using it for so long, worked to take a quick count as he made for a World Eater ship.

He of course, demanded to know how many appeared on the auspex. The mortals on the deck, warrior and human like, seemed to pause, before one spoke, voice not shaking. "At least a hundred Attack Moons, ten thousand hulks and the machine spirits and deamons cannot keep track of the number of cruiser weight vessels. My lord... they have shifted course."

All eyes are on him, as the mortal pronounces the words. "They are moving directly towards us, towards you."

The skull on his wait with a baleful red eye laughed. Only he could hear it of course, as the old man sneered. "I always hated that Ork you know." Something goes down his spine, as the dead man speaks, almost friendly, casually. "He is a smart one, as cunning and intelligent as he is strong. Its why I wanted to make sure he was dead. "

The spirited tasked, sounding annoyed, the phantom sound of an ork claw clicking, metal scraping against metal. "To be entirely honest, I'm hoping you win this." For a moment, the anger inside of his hearts is shaded with incredulity, as the spirit was talking in the same casual tone. "God Emperor knows, he is a far greater threat to the Imperium than you can ever dream of being."

He nearly tried to crush the skull between his fingers, as fury boils at the insult, as Spinegrinder lashes out in a fit of pique. What did the dead slaves mean? What did the carnage he wrecked as he exploded out of the bridge mean? Nothing. It was nothing as he raced on wings of blood and fire across the void, the nails driving any thought from his head, as he screamed a name.

"Ghazghkull!"

From his command throne, he saw the git. He could see a lot of things, and the gods had made sure that he was able to get a lot of boys good and ready to krump the zoggin red git that done in old Bale Eye. Only HE was allowed to be the one to destroy his favourite enemy, one of his hardest and best fights that he ever had. And so, he tracked down this Angron.

In other situations, he could see this being a good scrap, a good bit of fun. But there was no good humor, no laughter in the prophets eyes. There was anger, there was determination, there was a need to rip and tear the kill stealing bastards wings off before shoving them down his miserable hole!

He was not going to a fight. He was not going to a scrap. He was going to settle something that he owed a friend, his good enemy. He could hold off on the great work for a short while, to get this in order, as the war moons raced towards the screaming and flaming git. As the greatest warlord the stars had ever seen rose to his feet,

He lifted Mork's Roar as Gorks Klaw snapped, as he began to move. After all, this Angron had an appointment with the most painful krumpin of his life, and Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka was just the Ork to deliver.