"Gulp... gulp... hah!"
Loud swallowing, followed by a satisfied exhalation hot with liquor, echoed through the compartment aboard the Law of Faith that served as both a small showroom and a private workshop.
Grom Ironanvil sprawled without a shred of dignity in a human-sized metal work chair far too large for him.
His two short legs could not reach the floor and swung idly in the air. In one thick hand, its knuckles covered in calluses and tiny scars, he held a metal mug almost as large as his head, filled with strong liquor requisitioned from the Word Bearers' logistics department.
His other hand was busy too, stroking, tapping, and patting the towering behemoth beside him with something close to obsession.
It was a Grail-pattern Combat Robot that belonged exclusively to Lorgar.
The robot stood silently on a dedicated mount in one corner of the compartment, its lines sleek and lethal, its armor gleaming with a cold matte finish beneath the soft lighting. Though its head-mounted sensor array was inactive, it still radiated an intangible pressure.
Grom's touch was anything but casual. His fingers traced the joint connections, tapped the armor plates to gauge their thickness, and carefully examined the weld seams and routing of the energy conduits. His little eyes shone with the mixture of scrutiny, admiration, and excitement found only in a master craftsman assessing a masterpiece.
He took another hefty swig. Between the alcohol and his excitement, his rough cheeks grew redder still, and his thick, untidy beard, stained with traces of oil, quivered as he swallowed and smacked his lips.
Like a child who had discovered treasure, he slid off the chair that was too tall for him and began circling the stationary Grail robot with steps surprisingly nimble for his build, muttering indistinct praise in