The thundering sound rolled through the thawing vaults of Processional Two-Twelve. Fists and palms, beating at coffin hoods. The sleepers were waking, their frigid bodies trapped in their caskets. I could hear footsteps above the screams. Eyclone was running. I ran after-, passing gallery after gallery of frenzied, flailing forms. Me screaming, the pounding... God-Emperor help me, I will never forget that. Thousands of souls waking up to death, frantic, agonised. Damn Eyclone. Damn him to hell and back.
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