Lorgar strode toward Nibelung.
His pace was unhurried, his power-armored boots ringing out with steady footfalls on the cracked, rubble-strewn metal floor.
He had not quite wiped away all the dark green blood on his face. Several mottled streaks remained on his cheeks and jaw, making him look as though he had just walked out of a massacre—which, in fact, he had.
He stopped in front of Nibelung, then reached out and casually draped a hand over his shoulder.
That hand was heavy and warm, its familiarity impossible to refuse, as though he were embracing an old friend of many years rather than an ally he had known for only a few days.
"You said you were out of a job?" Lorgar tilted his head, looking at Nibelung's slightly startled face as a smile tugged at his lips.
There was cunning in that smile, the shrewdness of a merchant spotting a scarce commodity, and an air of certainty.
"But I don't think you are."
Nibelung froze for a moment and was just about to say something when Lorgar continued, giving him no chance to get a word in. "The Cabal may all be dead, but we Word Bearers are still short on people."
He patted Nibelung's shoulder with just the right amount of force, enough to convey his sincerity without causing offense.
"Well? Interested in working for me?"
Nibelung opened his mouth, closed it again, then let out a string of dry laughter. "Hahahaha, please don't make me laugh, Mr. Primarch. I'm just a mere Perpetual. I've lived all this time without amounting to much. All I can do is swing a sword, talk, and run errands."
"How could I possibly be qualified to work under you? You have Primarchs, Space Marines, Men of Iron, and Dwarves serving you."
"Wouldn't