Lion El'Jonson was no artist.
Of course he had an eye for beauty. Any human whose mental faculties were not impaired ought to possess such a capacity, but that did not mean he liked art.
At times, he did appreciate things worthy of appreciation. But that was as far as it went. If you wanted to see him standing before a canvas with a brush in hand like Fulgrim or Sanguinius, I would advise you to go to sleep early.
So—when Alpharius, clearly harboring ill intentions, asked him what he thought of the "style" of the Vengeance, Lion El'Jonson did not even answer with a single word. He merely gave Alpharius a look.
The latter laughed for a while because of that look.
Around the long table, the Primarchs had all arrived. Some had appeared in formal dress befitting a banquet, while others still wore hoods and bandages, unable to muster any enthusiasm at all. There were even some who lay sprawled over the table, constantly moving back and forth between two heavy tomes.
"Magnus. Perhaps you should rest for a while," Vulkan reminded him tactfully. "Father only just spoke about this before the meeting began."
"I am resting."
The Crimson King, whose name had been called, paused in the act of turning a page, and answered the Lord of the Fire Drakes in a relatively low voice. Even so, his eyes remained on the page.
"That is a lie," Konrad Curze said casually.
"." Magnus closed the book without saying a word.
"No need to thank me." Curze shot Vulkan a snicker, a faint malice flickering over his pale face.
The Lord of the Fire Drakes sighed, for the first time unsure whether he should thank someone for their help. However, his troubles did not last long. Because Curze