"Hey, old Malcador."
The communications screen lit up, and once the signal stabilized, Lorgar's faintly teasing face appeared.
He was lounging in his office, one leg casually crossed over the other knee, looking far too relaxed for an encrypted call with one of the Imperium's highest-ranking figures.
"I only went a few months without contacting you. What, getting restless? Had to come looking for me yourself?" Lorgar asked, raising an eyebrow.
At the other end of the screen was Malcador.
Chancellor of the Imperium, the Emperor's most trusted adviser, the eternal Sigillite.
He wore his ever-present plain gray robes, symbols of duty and mystery. Deep wrinkles and the ravages of time covered his face, but his eyes remained sharp and unfathomable, as though they could pierce the mists of time.
Malcador's timeworn face betrayed no emotion at Lorgar's overly "casual" greeting. He merely replied calmly, "A routine briefing, Lorgar. And confirmation of the post-campaign cleanup and your movements."
"All right, all right. I know how you lot love to worry," Lorgar said with a casual wave.
Then he leaned forward slightly, a hint of nosy curiosity on his face. "What about that glittering old bastard? How's he doing? He hasn't had another sudden inspiration lately, has he? Some 'grand plan' or 'little test' that'll give everyone a headache?"
The "old bastard" he referred to was, naturally, the Emperor.
Across the entire Imperium, there were probably very few people who dared use that description and emerged unscathed afterward.
"My lord is well. His will remains as constant as a star, and his plans proceed steadily."
"Tch. Boring." Lorgar curled his lip and shifted into a more comfortable position. His gaze wandered over Malcador's old face, so full of untold stories, before he abruptly changed the subject with a mischievous edge:
"Speaking