His arm was gone. He could just find a Warpsmith later and have a mechanical one fitted; recovery could be considered slowly.
"But why do you look so panicked? What are you hiding, Sorcerer?" Abaddon narrowed his eyes and ordered the Sorcerer to remove the spell from his arm. He wanted to see with his own eyes what had gone wrong with the wound.
After hesitating for a moment, the Sorcerer chose to obey Abaddon's command. He withdrew the spell, and the wound was no longer concealed by psychic light.
The wound, which should have been the color of flesh and blood, was now terrifyingly pale. Even the tough skin and muscles carried a soulless stiffness. From any angle, it bore a startling resemblance to the shells of the Degraded Ones.
"This... this!!!"
Abaddon was so shocked that he could not speak. Under his gaze, the pallor was clearly continuing to spread. Before long, his entire body would be assimilated into that state.
"What did he do?" A Black Legion Terminator worried over Abaddon's condition. Anyone could see the Warmaster Abaddon's weakness. If word got out, the Chaos Legions, barely held together as they were, would immediately descend into a civil war over the position of Warmaster.
Typhus, leader of the plague fleet, was an ambitious man. He and his forces had been basking in glory amid the increasingly powerful winds of Nurgle in recent times. Already difficult to kill under Nurgle's blessings, they now possessed immensely powerful regeneration and infection capabilities as well.
Typhus had grown increasingly arrogant, letting Abaddon's orders go in one ear and out the other. If Abaddon did not have the Vengeful Spirit, the Planet Killer, and the Blackstone Fortress backing him, that bastard would have seized Abaddon's seat and taken it for himself long