3. Ghilabrious's vision

Ghilabrious sat with his head hung low between his legs. Not from the pain of the migraine assailing him, though it would have been reason enough, but from the knowledge of his failure. He had not seen Sebastophon's death, but Brother Kor spoke of it with a haunted look in his eye. The huge saw-handed abomination had taken delight in its work as it hacked Sebastophon to pieces. A poor end for an Elder of the Church. The death of Lum and Nok would have bothered him little - mere Brothers, neophytes to be expended as necessary to further the Great Plan of Prophet Zicarios - but with Sebastophon dead and the embarrassment of Reticulus's capture he needed them. 

How had it even happened? The unholy ones had been surrounded. They had fallen backwards in front of the brood's onslaught and their timidity seemed certain to bring their end. First blood even came to Ofghil as he slashed open the throat of one of the damned. The wretch had been brought low by Ghilabrious’s own pistols, Blaze and Glory, earlier in the battle, and it had seemed that a strong message of Church supremacy would be delivered. 

Ghilabrious tried not to believe in luck, looking instead to the will of The Amethyst Emperor, his Saint who was father-to-them-all here on Necromunda, and The Great Plan of Prophet Zicarios. But he could not contemplate the idea that his gods and masters hated him enough to bring him this failure; the failure must be his own. Were it not for the neophytes, Zil, Cos and Kor, dragging away most of the survivors, things could have been worse still. Now though, with his kin Sebastophon, Jocastum and Reticulus dead, injured and captured, Ghilabrious knew his own authority was weakened. The cripple, Nostrox, would be looking to take advantage to undermine him further and elevate himself in the eyes of Prophet Zicarios.

A powerful image of the Prophet intruded on his thoughts, and his stomach knotted in pain. Ghilabrious knew both the shame of failure and fear of the Prophet's wrath. Hitching sounds started to come from Ghilabrious and he began to breathe unevenly. He sat up, leaned back and gritted his teeth, his face curled up in a fierce snarl. Never had he more resembled the holy Saint, the primogenitor and strongest of them all, manifestation of the Amethyst Emperor's will upon Necromunda; Ghilabrious's face, normally close in colour to the baseline humans he despised, was swollen and bulbous. Purple, blue and black bruises merged into each other across his face, and barely closed scabs seeped yellow plasma as wounds healed. For the first time in his life, he felt tears run from his eyes.

Angry at this new weakness, Ghilabrious stood and roared over and over. Clouds swirled across his vision and his thoughts. Thunder boomed for only him to hear, louder than his own screams. Pain arced across his vision as lightning. Acid ran through his veins and flames burned every part of his skin. Still Ghilabrious howled, and slowly his screams of pain turned into bellows of defiance. His back arced, and head tilted upwards, arms spread in a challenge to the world. The lightning began to coalesce, and take a form in his mind, limbs surrounded by a nimbus of light and thunder becoming animals growls. An ambull was coming, bringing other denizens of the depths. A monstrous beast, and a worthy foe to slay. If its corpse were given to Doctor Nostrox, it would be a gift that could never be matched, and show Prophet Zicarios which of them was the more valuable servant. Ghilabrious saw redemption in his vision. The ambull would fall to him, Nostrox would work for him, and the rival factions in Sector H8 would know who to fear. His howls subsided, and he lapsed into a fitful sleep, hands wrapped around his tender head. 

He was going on an Ambull Hunt