Editing Nobledark Imperium Writing (section)

==These Animals==
<div class="toccolours mw-collapsible mw-collapsed" style="100%">'''''
Two people, man and woman, prone behind a low ridge atop a hill among some scraggly bushes. Hiding. The terrain, low dry scrub one step away from desert, does not offer much concealment unless you are skilled. They are skilled, and have cameoline. 

Below them-
“Shit,” the woman, Sergeant Arn Kasparova, not that it will be relevant much longer, hissed. “Looks like a whole damned command section.”

A profusion of bizarre and unwholesome color. A- command tent? decorated in abstract shapes that suggested exaltation through pain and suffering. Coiled up mecha-centipedes on the scale of heavy tanks. A small forest of crooked ghastbone spires, suggestive of an antenna farm. A major force.
<div class="mw-collapsible-content">

“Call it in now?” the man-Corporal Saram Ostokova, not that it will be relevant much longer, asked. She shook her head- no telling if they could pick it up. Sometimes the Chaos Eldar were utterly ignorant of any communication besides psionic. Other times they fought vox-war as well as the Mechanicus. 
They would need to get some distance. They turned to leave.

The Mandrake behind them gave them a second to appreciate their situation before shooting them. A nonlethal weapon. Not a positive development. 

They came to, kneeling, without visible or tangible restraints but still immobile, in a room. Riotous and baroque, seizure-décor. The eye could settle on details- twining figures in the heart of a gem, a burning tesseract-city, a newborn infant still placenta-wet crowned and enthroned- but refused to resolve any kind of whole. Only the other figures in the room could be clearly comprehended, drab in comparison, practically silhouettes against the background of nauseating splendor. 

“What is to be done with this mad animal?” the first, head fully enclosed in radial quicksilver-fungus sensory apparatus, twitching on the edge of information overload, asked. Perfect Low Gothic, a performance for the benefit of the captives.

“I could debone them and fold them into glass jars as ornaments,” the second, naked with razor vines growing into and through him, cutting him with every movement to bleed in a continuous stream upon the carpet, offered. 
“I could bend and break their minds into perfect little toy soldiers,” the third, clad head to toe in featureless vantablack bodysuit (or is it its skin?) studded with grinning maws like zippers, said. 
“I could kill them and dump their bodies in a ditch out back,” the fourth, near transparent, organs and bones mere suggestive twists of light beneath invisible skin, silk drapes and gun belts only certain evidence of her presence, stated. 
“Enough,” the first said again, completing the ritual debate. “I have decided. We shall give them mind-knots, and body infections, and set them free to bring ruin to their fellow animals.” 
Arn and Saram both tried to commit suicide. Hollow molars filled with neurotoxin. A commonplace among soldiers fighting the Chaos Eldar. They could not move even that much. They could not flinch or scream as the cutting started. A hole in the skull, and a slimy convoluted something pressed into the wrinkles of the brain. Holes in the body, and rotten-looking ghastbone nodes slipped inside. Then, everything sealed back up, with not even a scar or drop of blood to show what was done. 
Then, dumped back outside, their bodies no longer their own. They punched the right codes on the vox, knew the sign and countersign, the name of the voice on the other end, called in an artillery strike on the position they had just left (vacated only minutes before). Then, they started the long walk to link back up with the main body of the Godspire 1888th Infantry. 

The 1888th was destroyed within the week. 
</div>
</div>