Carrell awoke in darkness, the faint darkness above him shifted and wavered, a canopy of dense foliage that swayed and whistled, subject to a gentle, chilling breeze.

The ground beneath him was soft, dewy, the scent of grass filled his nostrils. The world around him was nought but black shapes, colosal columns of darkness rising up around him in all directions to join the canopy above, faint shafts of moonlight pierced through the thick canopy every few moments, though they were quickly blocked again as the leaves above shifted in the wind.

So he sat there, wincing at the throbbing pain in his skull. He brought a finger to his forehead, it came away thick with a sticky liquid, as he brought the liquid to his tongue, the coppery taste of blood brought memories of his fall back to him.

His breath was heavy, it came with effort and pain, dry and rasping in his throat. Stabs of pain coursed through his head, alone in the dark, unwilling to navigate by the flickering moonlight. He was left with nothing but his thoughts, growing ever-murkier as the pain didn't subside.

A thin shaft of silver light illuminated a corpse, a guardsmen, their head little more than a mess of flesh and bone, every limb contorted into impossible angles. He saw a glint of grey, a metal barrel poked from beneath the fallen soldier's splayed out body.

The light was stolen from him again by the canopy. The body was returned to the blackness that surrounded him.

Carrell was on his knees, scrabbling forwards through the grass and thick undergrowth, a barb scraped against his coat but did little more than that as the man's palms fell upon cloth, simple fatigues. His hands traced along the body, found the dead man's flak vest, working his way under the straps, he heaved the corpse back, pushing it off of the guardsmen's weapon. The darkness retreated, the soft red light of the weapon's laspack rose and fell like a heartbeat, humming gently.

The most common, mass-fabricated weapon to ever be wielded by man felt right at home in Carrell's hands. He fingered the trigger for a moment, checking down the scope of the weapon incase it wasn't built properly. All looked to be good.

But still, the dim light that the laspack gave off helped, but it would be far too difficult to navigate by. Carrell traced his palm along the underbarrell of the weapon, finding a stocky underbarrel attachment beneath the weapon's barrel. He found a small slide on it's side, pushing it forward.

A cone of white light erupted from beneath the lasguns barrel, penetrating the darkness like a spear thrust forward.

Carrell's eyes fell to the guardsman beneath him, no time to bury him or prepare proper rites, his priority was finding out where he was, and finding out where the inquisitor was.

"May you meet the emperor in his golden halls, for you lost your life in his service. Rest easy." His words came slowly, every syllable painful and harsh. He swallowed again, looking out through the endless woods ahead of him.

He was wounded, but alive, he could thank the emperor for that atleast.

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Wounded...

The thought came to his mind, the only pain he felt was in his head from when he'd been struck on his fall.

His arm had been burned hadn't it. At the thought, he felt a phantom pain, an ache in his forearm that turned cold against the chilly wind. He flicked the safety on the lasgun before grapping it by it's body and pointing the light of his flashlight towards his right arm. He saw where his coat had been burnt away clearly, the skin beneath it was whole, a little pinker than it should be but otherwise fine. Carrell pressed a finger to his throat, the skin here was sore, but whole too, healed, when it should be a mess of festering sores, pus and blood.

 Carrell felt the chill on his neck, not the wind, it had stilled in an instant, the air now stale. The taste of copper rose on his tongue, he felt icy fingers along his spine, warming, warming, the heat rising as his spine tensed, his skin felt like it was alight, he fell, grabbing at his skin as the burning sensation continued to rise. The lava-hot fingers rose along his back, dancing at his thoat until he felt the searing pain within his skull. A hand gripped tightly around his brain.

Slowly, a voice seeped through the pain, gravelly, tense and stern.

"Don't think. Move." The words spilled from his lips, they came cold against the scalding hot that filled his skull. Words that didn't feel like they were his.

"Move." The words came again, forced from his lips.

Carrell fought back a spasm as he gripped the dirt, shakily pushing himself off the floor, eyelids quivering as his vision turned fuzzy.

"Move."

He bit down on his tongue, stopping himself from talking, his vision returned to perfect clarity, the world span as his arm gave way to another spasm, world spinning around him until he was glancing up into the pitch black canopy.

"Move."

The world turned again as he steadily rose to his feet, taking a heavy breath as a trickle of life spilled from his lips. His pain ebbed, the wind bit into him again, it's icy chill a welcome change. The hand that clenched his brain receeded.

With an unsteady step, Carrell kneeled, brought the lasgun back into his grip and made his way through the forest again. Not daring to think, nor worry. He just had to keep moving.

And move he did, marching his way through the thick forest, navigating by nothing but the dusty flashlight of his weapon, he picked his way through tangles of thick undergrowth, crawling over and under titantic roots that were thicker than a tank.

A branch cracked above him, wood thumping into the grass infront of him. His eyes snapped up, searching the black of the canopy above as he brought the lasgun to bear.

The flashlight brightly illuminated a figure above him. A small, frail thing, wrapped in heavy imperial robes. A boy, a black collar fixed to his neck.

The psyker.

Dread.

The boy's voice came weakly. "Could do with some help getting down from here..." Dread pointed above him, to the thick branch that caught on his robes and was keeping him suspended in the trees above. Carrell figured it was no more than a 20-foot drop onto thick forest floor beneath him. Dread continued "I sorta can't get off this thi-" his words were cut short by the crack of lasfire, a bolt of energy blasting a hole clean through the branch that held the boy in the air. A surprised squeal followed as the sound of wood snapping came before it, the boy fell, landing in a heap of cloth and flesh amongst the dewy floor.

He was looking at me, expression sour, eyes squinting through the bright beam of the flashlight. His next words came bitterly. "Thank you."

I looked back at him down the barrel of the lasgun. "You gonna run?"

Dread gulped slowly before shooting me a smile. "Not a chance, I've got no idea where I am, or what the hell is going on after all."

 "Hell?" Carrell questioned.

"Yeah, hell. where all the sinful people and magicians go when they die."

"You're not a magician, you're a psyker, one that uses his powers far too freely."

Dread scratched at his collar "Well that isn't a problem anymore is it?"

"Mhmm... Just shut up and follow behind, I'm looking for Hargraves." With that, Carrell turned from the boy and started on his march again, glancing behind him once. "Stick close and watch your step."