"Every war eventually devolved into sticks fighting sticks—or rather, the essence of war was using different kinds of sticks to hit the other side in the head until the person who raised the question had been physically dealt with."
They clearly could not comprehend what was happening in the heavens now.
War between gods was always like this. The earlier battle between the Underking and the Outsider might have been somewhat easier to understand—
Because the Underking was always simple and brutal, but what had descended upon this starry expanse now was the Dark King. Compared to the Underking, what the Dark King represented was plainly far murkier and more complex.
Put into terms humans could understand, the Dark King was probably savagely striking the Outsider's vital parts with a stick—this was already the stupidest, most superficial possible description.
Perhaps another way of putting it was that, within the span of time humans could observe, after a while—perhaps eternity—only one would remain between the Dark King and the Outsider.
Would the other vanish? Be shattered? Destroyed? Humans could not understand such things.
The living starry sky was reflected in Mortarion's narrowed eyes. It now resembled one of Van Gogh's paintings—only stranger, more grotesque.
Countless suns rose, all identical in shape, some large and some small. Every round, brilliant yellow-orange star bore a smiling face, smiling yet not smiling, its half-lidded eyes seeming to stare at the primarch.
Filthy strands—perhaps they were light—Mortarion did not know. Those rough lines of pale yellow, goose yellow, vermilion-orange, brilliant white, and golden yellow extended from the stars like spinning vortices, swelling across the sky like gnarled roots, or like the blood-sucking tubes of parasites, writhing as they burrowed into the starry void.
Within the regions those roots spread through, countless densely packed, tiny,