Leman Russ, who was drinking his fill, sneezed.
What the hell? How can I still sneeze? And this booze doesn't even smell that sharp.
He looked in confusion at the barrels scattered all over the floor, shrugged, and simply kept drinking.
Sometimes, there was pleasure in drinking alone. Simply savoring the mellow fragrance of the liquor was enough to keep Russ happy for a while—though of course, his happiness lasted far more than a while. Under the pretext of investigating internal matters among the Space Wolves, he had worn Guilliman down over the vox for four solid hours before finally persuading him.
As of today, he had been drinking for two straight weeks.
Roboute Guilliman had agreed to Russ's request to remain on the space station with a dark look on his face, and told him, Your sons will be here soon. If you're not afraid of embarrassing yourself, then keep drinking.
At the thought of that, Russ curled his lip.
Embarrassing myself how?
The 13th Company had been thrown back by their old man ages ago, so they most likely already knew I was back. Maybe a few pups who haven't even grown their fur yet don't know. It's not like they don't know what kind of man I, Leman Russ, am. When there's no war to fight, I do whatever I want.
Besides, if I don't drink more now, when will I get another chance? They'll definitely come rushing over like madmen to steal this booze.
He cheerfully swung his arm, the thick wooden tankard in his hand cutting through the barrel. The scent of liquor spread with the stirring, making him let out a satisfied breath. Then Russ raised the tankard to his face, tipped back his neck, and drained it clean in a single gulp.
"Burp—"