If the spikes on the Iron Warriors were ground away, Imperial forces would instinctively mistake them for the Emperor's Angels of Death.
The Emperor's Children were different. No matter what emotions had driven Fulgrim to choose to fall to Chaos, these sons of his had followed him without hesitation. The depths of the Emperor's Children's corruption had already begun to show during the Horus Heresy. Any rebel with even a halfway functional mind felt deep disgust toward their behavior—after all, the one who had shaped them was Slaanesh, most adept at indulgence and excess.
Over the Legion's long history of corruption, the vast majority of the Emperor's Children had muddled minds, acting only according to their bodies' pleasures and their souls' emptiness. As they experienced pleasure through every manner of extreme madness, had they ever thought of their Primarch father? When they rose from foul, unidentifiable fluids, did even a trace of regret ever stir in their hearts?
Fulgrim could not see into every Emperor's Child's mind, but he could analyze them through memories of his own actions.
When he indulged himself, had Fulgrim ever thought of his promise to the Emperor?
Don't be ridiculous! What did you think Fulgrim indulged himself for? Of course, it was to escape pain! Just as some people drowned their sorrows in drink to temporarily avoid their problems, the countless games Fulgrim played with the Greater Daemon of Slaanesh made him forget responsibility and duty, forget glory and promises, forget the Emperor and his brothers, even forget the remorse of having killed Ferrus Manus with his own hands.
Fulgrim's hand trembled slightly, and his breathing gradually grew heavier.
Look at his children. The golden eagles on their shoulder guards, once polished to a shine, were covered by layers of tanned human skin. Their purple