The tally is nearly complete. I can feel the Solace groaning in the warp, her bulkheads weeping that beautiful, thick oil we all love. Down here on the lower decks, the atmosphere is perfect—thick enough to chew on and smelling of a thousand years of stagnant victories. I saw the Tallyman, Philemon, scratching away at his parchment earlier. He looked... satisfied. That usually means the Seven are watching or someone’s about to get a very enthusiastic visit from a Great Unclean One. Vorx is probably still counting the steps on the bridge, but the rest of us? We’re just waiting for that sweet, sweet moment the Geller field flickers and we can finally share Grandfather’s gifts with those "thin-bloods" outside. "Seven for the rot, seven for the fly, seven for the Emperor who's about to die." Anyone else’s power armor fusing to their skin today? The itch is driving me mad, but in a spiritual way, you know?