After a few moments time from when the Sister called, the duration of which was likely spent pondering how right his prier words were, the vox nearest the Sister cracked to life, and a familier, but far more garbled voice erupted from within;<span style="text-decoration: underline"><i>"Message recieved, servitor 395 en route."</i></span>And so he resumed his walk through those anchent, laberinthian corridors. Stopping a moment outside his own quarters, and staring at the massive, hevy double doors centered on the Mechanicus emblem. A wave of his hand, and pistons older then he groaned, working like two diligent old men to pry the doors open for the weaker being, who bowed in thanks before entering. The large space, his 'stateroom' such as it were, was a lonely ordeal, two extra heafty matresses rested stacked on the floor, not for comfort, but neccessity brought on by his ork like size and metal laiden weight. The bathroom had no flourish to it, though at the moment his personal servitor was busy scrubbing away any hints of rust.<br/><br/>The space was more workshop then living space, if truth be told, all the walls lined with shelves and tool coffers. Countless more workbenches took up much of the room's floorspace, many covered with half fixed, partly finished devices and contraptions, all covered reverently with scarlet cloths, much like the robe he wore and loincloth which garbed the servitor. Three skull servos drivted about the room, derived from his ancestor's remains. Weapons also filled the room, in various stages of repair and blessing. Along the far wall, furthest from the door, but closest to his bed and robe chest, was an alchemist's assembly, to which was infused the ritual fixings and garners for blessing oils in the name of the Omnissia. Behind him, the doors sealed once more, while his eyes roamed a subject to devote his care to... To him, this room was little different then a hospital ward, save his charges never bleed to death.<br/><br/>His attention was, yet again grabbed by another voice over the vox in his head... This one far less courtious, and infinitly more annoying, if such was possible.<span style="text-decoration: underline"><i>"Reach me, in my quarters."</i></span>He retorted back over a privat line... Thoroughly contemplating to what ends he would make the man suffer...<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>