"All right, Curze."
Just as Rockefeller was inwardly wailing and Sevatar and the others were about to lose their grip on Angron, a voice rang out.
It was Angron.
Whether he had exhausted himself shouting or Curze's "flaying plan" had somehow struck a chord with him and given him a "solution," he struggled a little less fiercely. He was still breathing hard, but a little of the crimson had faded from his eyes.
He shook his arms, signaling that those clinging to him could let go.
Sevatar, Khârn, and the others hesitantly released him, watching him warily.
"Since Lorgar trusted us and left things here in our hands, we can't really ruin everything with one swing of an axe and leave him to clean up the mess when he gets back, can we?" Angron's voice was still hoarse, but he seemed to have recovered a little reason.
Curze tilted his head slightly, looking at Angron's hand resting on his pauldron before raising his eyes to him. The icy smile on his face faded a little, replaced by genuine puzzlement. "Oh? My dear, impulsive brother Angron, do you have an idea that's... not quite so direct, but just as effective?"
"Whenever I think that my dearest brother Lorgar might be in some freezing corner of the Warp, trapped in sand by that idiot Saladin, with a cold wind blowing over him, I just... I can't help wanting to turn Saladin's skin into a rug and stomp on it ten thousand times a day."
"Of course I do." Angron grinned, revealing a smile that could only be called savage, yet held a trace of cruel cunning.
He crooked a finger, beckoning Curze closer, then signaled with his eyes for Rockefeller, Khârn, Sevatar, and the other key personnel to gather around as well.