In a nearby ally, hidden from direct confrontation, but still an integral agent of the war, a man sat crosslegged. Dressed in a mixture of deamonic ritual garb, robes and fetishes, as well as patchwork armor, some ceramite, most flak, his staff rested beside him, and a blood etched circle under him. Before him, a guardsman, tongue gone and eyes pierces, lay tied in the center of the circle, still gurgling in pain... Part two of his plan. His hands were folded over his lap, holding up a bowl of oil like substance, slowly burning to fill the air with incense. Around him, there was termoil and conflict. Near him, a sickening peace... And withing him, a struggle to become hollow. For outwards, he flung his willpower, casting it forth into the fray as searching... Every living being was like a candle to his gaze, most frail little things, some flickering away, snuffed out by their own weakness and mortal wounds. A rare few, however, were strong, people of dedication and resolve. All the little lights were either blue with cowardice and subserviance to the Corpse God, or red with bloodlust and righeous fury, and a few flickering gold, courage and foolhearty valor.<br/><br/>Ah, just what he was seeking, a large blue flame. The mind and soul of a PDF field commander, pressing his men from within the protection of some thick shelled machine, it's own spirit serving as no real barrier again his prowess... Onward, he thrust his own will, slamming into the mind of the commander and wrapping about it like a starfish about a clam. It was all too easy, how he forced himself upon the man's psici, tore into it and arresting dominion. Pain, pain and fear were what he infested that blind, lobotomized servitor of the Imperium. Letting the man's cries of terror and remorse fill his voice, which spilled over the tyrranist's short way vox. His men, weak guardsmen loosing heart as they listened to their glorified commander's death throws as he practically screamed into their ears...<br/><br/>His deed done, he withdrew, returning to his own body as he heard over his own vox. A rallying cry to the true faithful, splendid. Coupled with the demoralization of the enemy, he already knew the outcome... But first... He needed to give them one last push... Phase two... His eyes opening as he regarded the man before him... One hand setting the bowl aside as he leaned over, shifting from sitting cross legged, to rest upon both knees. Looking over his victum, he whispered softly to the horrified man, as silky black hair fell from under his hood. "Easy, brother... Your death will save the lives of countless true believers... Be proud of this achievement..." As he comfortingly stroked the solder's short cropped hair, his other hand returning with a dagger... His words descending into eldritch syllables, becoming to the Blood God, asking for his heralds of lesser. In the knife went, just below the sternum, pushing up as it's saw styled edge was used to hack the man's chest open.<br/><br/>Even without tongue, the sacrifice screamed out, and painfully as his heart was extracted, and set ablaze at the circle's apex. Head bowed, as he weaved and worked the magic, the air cracked with power, seathing with warp born power as  it trickled across the battle field, minding the mark he asked for. Then, all at once, the very air was torn asunder! Brimstone and sulfer weezed into the nostrils of guardsmen and enforcers alike, as half a dozen Lesser Blood Letters poured forth, claws lashing and teeth gnashing. They were frail, and weak by comparison to most demons, but this was not why he called them. They were in instrument to cripple the will of the guardsmen, and boalster the moral of the cultists and converts. A demonstration that, indeed, the Dark Gods fought with them this day as deamons fell upon the startled soldiers, cutting a slew of gore and death...<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>