As the party - now remarkably more chipper with the power of chaos running through their veins and healing the torn and ripped muscles that had been lacerated by the hellshriek.

The maintenance corridors. Quiet save for the occasional whump rat. dead boy or twitching heretic overcome by some sort drug use led through to one of the one of the smaller domes that ajoined the main central one. The stench of blood and sweat rose as you entered the better lit areas and the roar of a crowd was like a physical wave. A great throng of several thousand crammed around the fighting pit in the centre of the hab dome. THe trio of imperial slaves battling in the pit projected on several giant hololiths as they fought with crude weapons of boe and steel.

THe edge of the small habdome was ringed with inns and drinking dens where people drank themsleves insensible, gambling of all forms changed hands at high speed and a long line of armed mercaneries slowly shuffled up to a small plinth where a tiny man - barely 4ft in stature but gowned in magnificent robes and with a head crowed with glorious horns scribbled and typed on a series of datapads. 4 traitor Astartes - one in the red of World Eater, the other 3 in livery of small and long forgotten chapters - surrounding him. Hands resting on weaponry and eyes behind mk6 and mk7 helmets scanning the crowd restlessly.

The books that you are carrying still floating along on a wave of telekinesis. A disparate mix of tomes and scripts written in a wide range of languages- from purest high gothic to foul xeno script, flowing eldar runes or pidgin dialiect of feral worlds - at a glance from the 50+ scraps of paper, slate and metal its hard to know is the correct one.
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Linguistics or suitable scholastic lore tests please.