Roboute Guilliman—a word that could serve as a noun, an adjective, or even an exclamation—gained a new alias today.
"Erha? Is that your hometown dialect, Brother?"
A rough voice like the freezing winds of Fenris rang out. Even without seeing its owner, one would instinctively assume that anyone with such a voice had to be a brutish man.
And that was indeed the case. The moment the Wolf King saw Mordred, he acted like an overexcited Erha, not treating himself as an outsider in the slightest. He plopped himself down on Mordred's sofa and slung his hairy, greasy hand over his brother's shoulder.
"Brother, this place of yours is really nice. It's not as harsh as Fenris, and this sofa is so comfortable to sit on. Say, Second Brother, why are you trembling all over?"
Trembling? Mordred was not merely trembling—he was about to lose it and punch this furball, wrapped in fur, grease, and all sorts of incomprehensible filth, to death.
Especially since he had just had this trench coat pressed. It still carried the warm scent of sunshine. It was new, and now the collar was already dirty.
And why were you acting so familiar?! This was obviously my home.
But as the saying went, one did not strike a smiling dog. Mordred forcibly suppressed his discomfort, greeted this brother who had suddenly appeared, and reluctantly gave him a brief hug.
"Erha is a title for those who are confident and free-spirited, brave and invincible. Only warriors exceptionally skilled at conquering cities and seizing fortresses can earn it. So, Russ, the moment I saw you, I couldn't help but praise you as an Erha!"
Hearing his brother praise him so highly, Roboute Guilliman was delighted. This was completely different from what Vulkan had told him. Listen to that—Mordred