The Undercult of the Poisoned Claw views the battle for territory as a distraction, seeking only vulnerable souls and the perfect ambush site. They are a creeping blight upon the lower levels of the Hive, emerging from corroded drainage systems and collapsed sump-tunnels to execute surgical strikes. Guided by the telepathic whispers of their Brood-mind, each cultist moves with an unnatural, sickening silence, their rusty blades and crude autoguns perpetually slicked with caustic, bio-engineered toxins. When the ambush breaks, it is a brief, frantic horror: the sudden glow of bio-luminescence, the wet sound of a four-fingered claw-strike, and the faint, lingering smell of ozone and decay as they drag their targets back into the suffocating darkness, leaving behind only the dying and the soon-to-be-converted.