The vessel transporting the distraught and unwilling human cargo, among whom was Armin, did not shrug off the energies of the immaterial plane upon departing the Sea of Souls. 

If an inhabitant of this region of the galaxy had the misfortune to lay their eyes on this ship, they would perhaps recognize the shape as something akin to ships of the Imperium. 

Yet, even those insensitive to the soul-poisoning effects of exposing their naked eyes to a vessel corrupted by blasphemous sorcery would know immediately that this thing was something which had long since abandoned the sanctity of the Imperium. 

Moments before, when it was still traversing the extradimensional plane known sometimes as "The Warp," the ship was wrapped in a protective skin known as a "Gellar Field."

Much like the architecture of the ship and its heritage shared with other vessels wrought of the Machine Cult of Mars, this Gellar Field is a common feature with any other ship humanity uses to traverse the Immaterium.

It is a grim necessity - elsewise intruding into the extradimensional plane known as The Warp would spell ruin for the vessel. Without the Gellar field, The Warp would, in short order, distort the vessel into something unrecognizable. What would escape, if anything at all, would be fortunate to retain even small pockets of remaining useful structure. 

But unlike most other ships of humanity, this - The Founder's Whisper - has been remade by the acolytes and servants of the god Tzeentch. To them, the Gellar field was merely a necessary tool to preserve the form and function of their vessel - the warp beyond the field was not sheer anathema. They did not disdain its embrace. 

Unlike the rest of humanity, where there is a dire compulsion to adorn a vessel in seals and sigils to ward off the forces of the Immaterium - for this ship these wards were some of the first things to be stripped away when the Rogue Trader house it belonged to fell to Chaos.

In their place, there are now mystical forms of an inverted polarity. The Founder's Whisper is decorated in runes and sigils which embrace the tainted and eldritch energies of the Sea of Souls. 

So, upon exiting the extradimensional tunnel, the ship did not shed its strange psychoreactive energies in a great flare of power - and the inhabitants of the ship did not shun these intruding forces like panicked laborers rushing to decontaminate after being forced to work with hazardous materials. 

Instead, the ship gathered the trailing energies towards itself like a lodestone amongst iron filings, even as the tunnel closed and the Gellar field dimmed and finally deactivated. 

On the bridge, these energies found their way to ground among the beings who were masters of this vessel. 

Finally, after a moment of basking in the ripples of strange power flaring and distorting their surroundings, a loud shrill voice like the sck'ccceechh of charcoal under a steel grindstone spoke. 

"Finnnd our path to the desttttination. Our cccccolleagues awwwwwait. The tttttiiime draws nnnnneaaaaar. We will notttttt beeeee laattteeee."

The master of the ship scanned the bridge crew with her dark sunken eyes. 

Eventually her cold gaze settled on two beings lurking at the edge of her cathedral, observers and attendees upon her domain.

"Go nnnnoowww. Gatttthhhherrrr theee offeriiiiiinnnnggss. Bunnnndddlllleee the llllammmmbssss up and ssssecccccurrreee them in the ssssshuttttlllleee. Swifffffttttllllllyy."

Command given, she returned her gaze to viewing the stars - awaiting the mystical and physical readings of the star system and the status of the ship's systems which would be delivered shortly by her underlings. 

Cracked, worn talons drummed along the butt of a lasgun, pecking miniscule craters in the hard plastek - dozens to add to hundreds. 

Yezek threw skittish glances to his companion, then back to his master, waiting a few beats of his frantic heart before finding that neither further commentary nor orders would be forthcoming, and jerking his head down in a sharp, singular nod.

"As you-it wills it, so it might-shall be, master! Lovely blood-lambs for the soul-novas! Chitter-chains broken, flight taken, yes. Come now, feed-licker, don't tarry lest master lash-love us again!" 

The lasgun's stock caught on his friend-rival's ornate armor, dragging him into a stumble towards the central elevator at the rear of the bridge as Yezek broke into a jog towards it, uncaring of the stagnant's status, truncated beak-mask concealing the vicious grin on his face.

Paths lay ahead. The sacred number. Hope, desolation, remaking. Ascent, fall, negentropy.

He couldn't wait. The shuttle waited, and beyond it, his God. Poor heathens to redeem, master to obey, strikes to make. Oh, oh, oh! 

Urkastix does not sigh. Whatever small-minded mortals believe, exhaustion is also something which can be worn down with time. 

He does, however, drag his feet slightly following Yezek out of the cathedral-like Strategium and down the twisting profanely-decorated halls of the ship. 

He could move swiftly - he has steadily abandoned portions of his flesh, and in return for his toil and dedication he has been gifted potent atavistic features wrought of sorcery.

No, he drags his taloned hind limbs along the deck plating because there is the barest chance some misfortune would occur in the conduits of the ship a few paces ahead of him, and Yezek - gods willing - would be blasted into ashes by venting plasma or dissolved by superheated chemicals. 

To move in harmony with his god he makes every choice like this - a small scheme accompanied with a murmured prayer. 

It is purely coincidence that the vast majority of these schemes and prayers - by number if not magnitude of effort - are aimed at ridding him of the lunatic stomp-marching ahead of him. 

"Yezek, while I set about to rouse the mortal soul-stock, chain them together, and ensure they are ready for transport - you will seek the acolytes tending the ship's feathers. I marked the word 'swiftly' among the words the Mistress spoke - I expect it would not be wise to test our comprehension of the plans which motivated that utterance any more than is necessary."

Unspoken: 'The crews managing the landing craft will probably be able to deduce the meaning of your ravings quickly enough - while on the other hand I have a bad feeling about what might eventuate if you are set to the task of securing the frail and volatile cargo... And, if Tzeentch wills it, perhaps a steel plate will fall on your head while you are in the hangar.'

"Swiftly? How else would one do-see things, archivist? Ah, I forget-remember, you prefer to move like the snail-creeper! Perhaps you'd be better off worshiping the pestilent-rotting one, my friend?" Yezek mocks, trying to cuff his fellow acolyte-aspirant's head, but only knocking a few holiest-unholy candles to the ground as he stumbles on a loose coil of cabling they pass.

The accident brings terror to the faces of some of the crew members, those blessed with the lack of choosing, which the mad cultist delights in. He might not be inclined to lash out at them in aggravation-retribution as others would, but few men-beasts are humble enough to not delight in even scraps of power-domination, heedless of what they might otherwise say. To set your own destiny and set the path is the curse-reward of great men, and the crew are not made great in their exaltation of the Master, the fear a mark of his favor. 

The mockery-argument does not bother the Yezek, his mind too occupied with prayer as thanks for the blessing of life-opportunity, neck spared the snapping twist only by the grace of the Great Conductor. He skips off to the ship's left-twisting wing, dancing towards the domain of its sky-worshippers in the sixth docking bay, lighter-hunters waiting amidst the sea of junk collected by its masters. The acolyte hums a tune, his belt-bound rosaries crashing together with his movement and adding a soft click-laughter to the melody, its invocation gently twisting the probabilities of the nearby crews' actions; a poor throw of the dice here, the seed of a tumor failing to take root there, and a choice erased in mind's oblivion, leaving only silence in its place

Swiftly indeed, Urkastix. Ending-birth fast approaching, and he is too blind to see. Fool-heathen.