Do you understand?
When death came, when everything faded away and only quiet peace remained, you would understand.
You certainly would.
"I don't want to speak with him."
Typhus—First Captain of the Death Guard, Mortarion's former lieutenant, and now Nurgle's vanguard—said this to the demon before him, then repeated it stubbornly.
"My Legion is attacking. I cannot leave at a time like this to see him. The war effort needs my command. The Death Guard need me."
"Strictly speaking, this is not your Legion, and they possess wisdom of their own."
"Not yet," Typhus said stiffly. "For now, it is not yet my Legion."
The fat demon answered gravely, "Until you have gained more love than he has, Grandfather will not allow you to call yourself that."
"But I have already said it many times. I cannot leave at a time like this. Five hundred prosperous worlds, and I can see one of them within my grasp. Are you going to deprive me of this wish to bring Grandfather one small joy?"
To Baru, that already sounded little different from a threat. And what truly put it on guard was Typhus's movement.
Before it, Typhus indifferently tightened his grip on his holy and filthy scythe.
It had once been bathed in supreme radiance. The benevolent Grandfather had allowed Typhus to smear some of the sacred filth beneath Its seat upon this scythe. Since then, Typhus had always carried it with him.
"Rules are rules. You have a silver tongue, Typhus, but I will not waver."
Baru raised its right hand, and a long staff formed naturally from rotten wood was gripped in its hand. This gave it some confidence: who did not have a weapon blessed by Grandfather?
It hunched its back. Unfortunately, even so, its height still nearly