"This is too strange." Ferrus Manus looked around, finding everything increasingly wrong no matter how he viewed it.
The room was formed by seven walls, each covered in plants personally cultivated by Mortarion. Fungi, branches, and flowers formed abstruse symbols, with a string of simplified formulas solemnly annotated beside them.
Mortarion sat cross-legged in the center of the room, his eyes closed as though detached from worldly affairs. Seven guards stood facing him, holding censers and chanting under their breath.
If they had not known that Nurgle had already been devoured by Tzeentch, the Primarchs would naturally have associated everything before them with a daemonic ritual meant to summon a Great Unclean One.
Before the Primarchs could speak, Mortarion spoke first, his tone carrying a warning and obvious impatience.
"Fulgrim, raise your right foot."
"What?"
"No, not now. Lorgar, raise your left arm."
"Huh?"
"...You truly are idiots..."
Mortarion opened his eyes, his complaint and impatience toward his brothers plain to see. "Because of your interference, the numerological currents in this room have become obstructed, and the feng shui has turned dangerous as well. I came up with a remedy, but none of you cooperated."
Utterly cryptic and incomprehensible.
Even Lorgar felt that Mortarion's behavior had become far too mystical.
"So the plague project you mentioned failed?" Ferrus Manus asked calmly, frowning as he endured his disgust for the room.
Mortarion clapped his hands and rose to his feet. With a stomp, seven jars filled with dark green liquid rose from the floor. He took one and handed it to his brothers for inspection before saying, "It just won't be quite as effective. The toxicity is difficult to control. My recommendation is to keep the troops away from mountainous areas."
"Withdraw? We only just finished building our positions. We're