"Don't think you can use the same trick as last time, Lorgar." Erda's voice was as calm as still water.
She stood there, the hem of her sand-colored robe drifting gently in the gray void. Not a ripple disturbed her beautiful face, as though Lorgar's anger were nothing more than an inconsequential breeze.
"Your verbal abuse no longer has any—"
"So you're saying you don't give a fuck about having any shame, you old hag." Lorgar rested his sword on his shoulder and tilted his head, his tone casual.
His voice wasn't loud, but it cut clearly through every inch of the void, like a precise scalpel severing Erda's words at exactly the right point.
An exceedingly faint crack appeared in Erda's icy expression.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again, then drew a deep breath, trying to recover her air of detached composure. "You..."
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Giving out already?" Lorgar cocked his head, making no attempt to conceal the mockery on his face.
"I haven't even started trying, and you're already panting? Looks like you haven't done so well for yourself out there all these years. Even your trash talk has gone downhill." He lowered the greatsword from his shoulder, set its tip against the ground, and folded both hands over its hilt.
"Still, I didn't expect a piece of shit like you to still be alive. If I'd run into you back then, I should have ripped out your large and small intestines, tied them into a bow, and slapped them onto your face. Might have made that ugly mug of yours a little easier to look at, instead of making me sick."
Listening to Lorgar, Erda closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
When she opened them again, that veneer of icy composure had