Peturabo prodded the steak on his silver plate with an enlarged primarch-sized fork. His gaze drifted from the heavily painted canvases hanging on the walls to the white gauze curtains patterned with netting, and he tried to rearrange the gilded trim in his mind into a new, simpler design to replace the current elaborate one.
When Mors called his name, he immediately replied, "Mors always exaggerates," shifting his attention back to the center of this baffling, indecipherable, mysteriously complex scene, like a ball of yarn played with by small animals.
"Do I exaggerate?" Mors rested the pad of his left thumb and the knuckle of his index finger against his chin. Seated to the Emperor's left, he was clearly speaking to Peturabo, yet he looked at Horus. "But you truly are extraordinary, Horus. Both of you bear precisely the right resemblance to the golden-crowned man seated at the head of this table. And I never use lies as sarcasm."
Peturabo sensed Horus, seated directly across from him beside the Emperor, quickly raise his head to look at the Emperor, then pretend that deliberate glance seeking the Emperor's reaction had never happened.
He nodded together with the wolf's head attached to the pearl-white fur draped over his shoulder, like half the host of the banquet: courteous, generous, and magnanimous.
"Thank you for your praise, craftsman," Horus said with infectious warmth. "And thank you, Father. We merely possess one percent of the resemblance you envisioned."
Having been mentioned, the Emperor made an effort to respond: +You... have all met my expectations.+
"Have they?" Mors suddenly asked, successfully cutting off Horus's rising delight.
Makado sat at the Emperor's right, silently cutting the creamed baked leafy greens with long stalks on his plate.
The chancellor had drawn up his black hood. Perhaps, in his