Grandfather's Garden was a place that could not be accurately described in words, at least as far as Typhus was concerned.
The Death Guard was in a particular state just then. Thousands of diseases spread through the thick Creep beneath his feet, flowing slowly. A deep yellow mist hung in the sky, shifting gradually with his gaze. The air smelled of bone cancer. He could smell it. He liked it.
He had not come here many times, and each visit stirred his emotions with the beauty of this place. Who could fail to be awed by Grandfather's Garden? Besides, not everyone had the honor of residing here for long. Once, Nergus had counted as one such being. Unfortunately, its reckless audacity had turned it into a smear of embers on the wind.
"Follow me, Typhus."
Baru moved slowly ahead. Along the way, plants stricken with blight saluted it one after another, and the demon answered each in turn, its steps light, as if it did not wish to disturb the sleeping plants.
They were sick, yet they glowed with new vitality. They were gradually adapting to death, adapting to rot, and in the end, they would become part of the cycle of life and death. Baru felt incomparable pride in this—all of them had been planted by his own hand. Grandfather had entrusted this task to it, and it had completed it well. It had already begun to look forward to the day Grandfather returned.
It hoped Grandfather would be proud of it.
"Where is my father?"
Typhus came back from his awe. He tightened his grip on his scythe, his voice like an echo from a tomb. His question made the demon grunt in displeasure, but it still began to explain to him with good temper.
"The Withered Plains.