Verily, these are among the most unforgiving of the new automated abominations. Is there a day that the mantle of Byzantium Secundus fails to rattle to the stings of these merciless machinae? They are aptly named: They are prophets of war, of death, of discord, of the buried Shadow that strives to overwhelm our disunited ranks.
Oh, but that these hell-wasps could be tamed and unleashed on the deserving, so that the Symbiots might cringe in fear at the whine of the descending marauder, the hiss of the torpedoes as they exit their docks, the roar as the ground beneath the attacker geysers in a column of flame.
