"You're the ball! Your whole family's a bunch of balls!"
Grom's roar exploded through the room, deep and gravelly, brimming with the savage fury peculiar to an offended dwarf.
His entire rotund body trembled with anger. His thick, disheveled, grease-stained beard practically stood on end, and he jabbed a stubby finger at Hercules's fortress-like greaves as though he could poke straight through the ceramite.
"You ignorant, long-legged tin can! Take a good look! This is the noble Grom Anvil, with the blood of his ancestors flowing through his veins! A craftsman, a warrior, a rockbreaker! Not a fucking ball!"
Hercules lowered his head, a motion that seemed somewhat slow given his immense bulk. His brow creased ever so slightly on his stone-carved, usually expressionless face.
He looked at the creature bouncing and roaring beside his feet, whose shape did indeed resemble some kind of sphere, then looked up at Lorgar, seemingly seeking confirmation that he had not misheard the cry of some rare xenos.
He extended a gauntleted finger capable of easily crushing tank armor and prodded Grom twice, asking in his characteristic low voice, so steady it was almost devoid of inflection, with genuine curiosity:
"Father, this ball... can talk, too? His vocal apparatus doesn't seem to match his appearance." He even tilted his helmet slightly, as though using his auditory sensors for a more detailed analysis.
"Aaaaaaaargh!!!"
That completely ignited Grom's fury—or rather, detonated it through Hercules's excessively "objective" attitude, which utterly disregarded what he had said and focused solely on the phenomenon of a "talking ball."
He felt that all his dignity as a dwarf, an intelligent being, and an individual with a name had been trampled under this enormous tin can's feet, then ground down for good measure.
The thread of his reason snapped.
"**I'll show