Fate's Tributary
Deploy.
Mortarion pondered as he strode rapidly through the stifling corridors of The Indomitable, the stars sliding past beyond the windows. Deploy.
Deploy.
The thought seemed to grow madly, like tangled tree roots burrowing deep into the Primarch's mind and draining Mortarion's reason.
Shadows hung over the corridor. In the dim places beyond the reach of light, Mortarion finally could not endure it any longer. The Primarch bowed his head deeply, white hair falling loose as his shoulders trembled.
At last, at last!
Mortarion burst into laughter. At last, that stingy tyrant, Roboute Guilliman, had finally chosen to deploy after two thousand years of overtime!
The stifling reality had nearly devoured Mortarion's sanity. Endless exploitation—working beneath the cold-blooded king Roboute Guilliman meant a painful, gray life without rest.
At last—at last!
Mortarion could not stop laughing, yet his laughter sounded like the desperate struggle of a consumptive on the verge of death. He instinctively reached out and drew the Gas Mask from the void.
Unlike the gas mask worn by Mortarion of the main world, the mask Mortarion produced now was savage and grotesque. Insect-like fangs and spikes jutted from its surface, while vivid green, enchanting violet, and bright crimson flowed across it in strange radiance. White mist continuously poured from its back.
Breathe deeply. Breathe deeply.
Mortarion pressed the Gas Mask tightly over his lower face. Like a drowning man desperate for air, the Primarch braced himself against the wall and leaned his massive body upon it.
Ten thousand years had passed since the day he raised his scythe against the Emperor.
Ten thousand years had also passed since the day he put on the golden shackles.
There had been regret during those ten thousand years, and hatred, but more than anything there had been exhaustion and