Some things were destined to happen.
Skaradrik had understood this long ago, though he had never fully accepted it. He believed there was a clear dividing line between light and darkness. Whether one realized it or not, it was there: good was good, evil was evil, and the so-called middle ground did not truly exist.
For someone like him, or anyone engaged in a similar profession, such a belief was undoubtedly dangerous. However, this was a philosophical question that would lead to endless debate if pursued any further. Thus, when Dorian Sol told him that the young man named John would become a Vindicator apprentice, the Crimson Lord merely gave a calm grunt.
Then he swung his claws, and three lives vanished with effortless ease.
"Stop resisting." He looked toward the others and growled, frenzied and threatening. "You are already accomplices. After death, your souls will suffer pain a thousand times worse than this. So stop resisting. Stop raising your weapons. Just die..."
"Reduce your eternal sentence by a little. Think of yourselves."
They did not listen, as always. Of course they did not. Who could hear such things in the roar of a blood-soaked monster? Not even the maddest person, most likely.
Skaradrik wanted to tell them what he had just been thinking in true High Gothic, but he could not do it. Other Astartes could. The remaining four of the Five Blades could as well. But the Crimson Claws could not.
He did not know why. They simply could not.
For a time, he had thought it was a curse. Only later did he realize that it was actually a warning born from deep within their bloodline, shaped by ceaseless mutation over long years... It whispered mournfully, its voice drowned beneath the roars: You have soaked in hatred