Beneath Ullanor's filthy skies, atop a "Throne" hundreds of metres high, piled from countless pieces of rusted metal, shattered vehicles, wreckage, and unspeakable refuse, the Ork Warboss Uralk surveyed his kingdom and the shining "nail" within it that he would soon crush.
His body looked as though it had been carved from a mountain, covered in thick, crudely welded steel plates scarred by bullets, claws, and the stains left behind when weaker creatures were crushed.
His eyes stared unblinkingly into the distance. Within his sight lay the seething battlefield at the fortress's heart.
The green waves surged like a living ocean, battering and washing over a small patch of "reef" that still stubbornly flickered.
It was a pocket of Imperial Army resistance, and at its very centre, a figure in pearl white armour fought on, like an undying lighthouse in a storm, or a great whale surrounded by thousands of sharks.
Every swing of that white figure's sword cleared a small patch of the green tide, only for more green bodies to flood in and fill it an instant later.
To Uralk's primitive understanding of warfare, the figure's movements had changed from the fierce storm of the beginning into heavy but still deadly thunder.
He was trapped, exhausted, bleeding.
"Good, good, good..."
Uralk's low voice sounded like two rusted steel plates scraping together, steeped in almost intoxicated satisfaction. His huge, tusk-filled mouth split into an ugly, savage grin.
As far as he was concerned, the exceptionally strong, exceptionally dangerous "stinking humie" called Horus was performing exactly as he had expected, even exceeding his expectations.
This prey was strong enough, tough enough. His struggle was so prolonged and fierce that the pleasure of the hunt stretched on without end.
Watching such a powerful enemy being worn down bit by bit before