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Alexandros Darshan VonSalim hissed with pain as the Eskut magi pried off the last melted steel from his body. Apothecaries, in white and purple, stepped forward to see to his health. Molten adamantium criss-crossed over his bare, muscled chest. A lesser being may have gone into shock from the pain alone, but Alexandros was a Primarch, one of eighteen exemplary creations of science and war. This wound would not end his life. “My lord,” Zhivka, the Legion’s ranking apothecary, began. “We will have to operate. I could prepare a number of sedatives-“ Alexandros offered a pained grin. “Unless you have nerith on hand, there’s not much point.” The downside of having enhanced regeneration. Alexandros feared very few toxins, but could not benefit from tranquilisers. “I have my own methods. Begin immediately.” Another downside to enhanced regeneration. Skin was swiftly growing around the solidified metal. The apothecaries would have to cut into their Primarch before they could remove the adamantium. The longer they too, the more they would cut. As Alexandros laid his head down, closing his green eyes, he called upon his impressive mental powers. To a degree, pain was illusory. It may travel through nerve cells, but all pain had to be allowed by the mind to register. Alexandros placed a mental wall between himself and the pain as the surgeons cut into his body. Instead, he locked himself within his own mind to pore over his newest orders. His being was already spoken for. He was to travel to the Qarith home world to play a small part in their necessary extinction. With such a small role, he would have to choose among his battalions a mere few to accompany him. The rest would be divided between those that required rest and those ready for the next battlefield. He immersed himself in this task, until a dim awareness alerted him of Zhika’s success. He steadily rose back to physical reality, finding recent pain already dulling before his body’s impressive self-healing. There were advantages of being a Primarch Alexandros would never complain about.

"Alex?" Alexandros, Shield-Lord of the Halcyon Wardens, swung green eyes toward his companion. Pyrrhicles stood beside him, his aged features wrought into worry. Alone among the Halcyon Wardens, Pyrrhicles was not an Astartes. Instead, he was a man who had been gifted all the Imperium could offer to bring a man a step towards an Astartes. His lined face revealed Pyrrhicles was fighting a losing battle against time. Alexandros focused on the hidden depths of anxiety within his friend's eyes. Few things could inflict such a state on the veteran champion. The Primarch gathered his thoughts before he stated the horrible truth wracking his mind. "The Emperor is gone." Confusion joined anxiety as Pyrrhicles absorbed the news, comprehension far from him. "Gone?" Straightening himself in his throne, Alexandros saw the entire bridge crew's attention was upon him. "Damage report," He ordered, his voice ringing strong and clear. The task broke their reverie. As they bustled with their new task, Alexandros whispered to Pyrrhicles' ears alone, "Gone. The Emperor is no longer with us." A fearful pause blocked the half-Astartes for a moment. "He is slain?" Pyrrhicles asked, his voice a ghost of a whisper. Was he? Alexandros wondered as his eidectic memory recalled the event. After a moment, a measure of relief passed through Alexandros. "No. No, it is not his death I have sensed." That left confusion and similar relief upon Pyrrhicles' features. "Then, how is he gone?" Alexandros' lips twisted into a frown. "I... don't know." His eyes swept across the bridge of the Elpis. "First, let us deal with the disaster we can control."