As Thraxius' squad advanced after Darius, the techpriest paused in the midst of the fresh slaughter.  His eye honed in on the<strong>nurgle-marked autopistol</strong>, and for a moment it seemed as though the red glare of memorance implant's lens intensified.  His vox spat a jet of white-hot sparks at the floor in disgust, and he made sure that his left hand was wrapped properly in litany-inscribed scrolls before bending down to pilfer the defiled weapon from its gutted owner.  He made a mental note to purify whatever latent corruption had infested the damnable thing's once-holy spirit, but for now it would rest at his waist.<br/><br/><em>"What a thoroughly wretched day,"</em>he grumbled cantankerously, again nearly bumping into the lumbering sentinel of the rear guard.<em>"I've never felt so utterly useless.  The gun I've worn with pride for decades jams in the midst of combat, my shots go horrifically astray, I know <strong>nothing</strong> of ship-to-ship tactics, and now I'm being babysat while the glory of spilling heretic blood goes to that thrice-accursed Kroot and all the pretty, marketable faces."</em><br/><br/>He stared at the ink-drawn face on his utility mechadendrite and sighed.<em>"I wonder if the Magos would be inclined to let me retire and become a puppeteer.  Emperor knows the younglings under his watchful eyes could use the entertainment.  It's just a shame I <strong>despise</strong> children."</em>