The Night Lord finally calms himself. The time for fury had passed. He looks about the room, checking that his kills are just so, disengaging the helmet and crushing the necks of each Word Bearer in turn, save for the one on fire. If he was playing dead, or merely too unconscious to respond, he cared little which was the case. If he lived, it meant a survivor to spread the word of an Astartes who could kill others with naught but his hands. He placed the acid stroke of his kill-mark upon the cheek or forehead of each of the three, and took any grenades they had, along with the most intact helmet he can find, before checking on Katria. He was surprised to find he had a sense of regret that the mortal was dead. For all the failing of human flesh, she had fought well despite the odds. He kneels to place a hand upon the odd insect head she'd gained as a "blessing" from the Gods.
"He who stands with me shall be my brother." he intones quietly. He then helps himself to the Frozen Shard, along with the medikit, stimm, her conversion field, stummer and grapnel. It would not do to leave these things in the hands of the enemy. Funerary rites for brothers were oddly missing from his memory, so he sufficed by taking her camo cloak, and draping it over her like a shroud. At least in death she would have some dignity.
He walks over to the Word Bearer who is gently smouldering still.
"Far greater fires await you in Slathissin, zealot." he spits a globule of acid upon the Astartes' chest, before allowing himself to come out of the reverie of ritual.
++Slathissin to group, report. What is your status and location?++ he asks, checking his auspex for any locations of return signals.