"You need help—my help," the daemon named Vashtorr said before anyone else could speak.
No pretenses, no string of lies after lies. The Lord of the Forge stated his true purpose outright.
The tension in Horus's brow eased slightly. Though this was their first encounter, the Wolf Lord was still surprised by this unusually independent daemon.
He was accustomed to exposing daemons' lies, then using naked force to threaten them into cooperation. Only then would those malicious entities of the Warp submit. Compared to them, Vashtorr seemed almost refreshingly different.
"You need more warships, more powerful weapons for your Space Marines, and more daemon thralls. I have all of those," Vashtorr said.
Abaddon stood beside his gene-father, his wary gaze fixed tightly upon Vashtorr. He did not believe the drivel of these Warp daemons, especially when the other party opened by offering such seemingly generous terms.
Though the First Captain was not particularly skilled in schemes or tactics, he had one virtue—Abaddon knew he was not especially clever, and thus never tried to be cleverer than he was.
"Then what do you want, daemon?" Abaddon demanded.
This Son of Horus did not hesitate in the slightest. He drew his power sword directly, while his other hand had already pulled out a bolter and aimed it at the ugly daemon's head.
Vashtorr remained unmoved. He waved a hand, and black forgefire ignited across Abaddon's body.
Abaddon jolted. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, he discovered that his Terminator armor was melting and reforging within the forgefire.
The same was happening to his power sword and bolter. As the First Captain of the Sons of Horus, Abaddon's weapons were naturally masterwork equipment forged by masters of the Mechanicum. Yet under Vashtorr's control, these mundane objects had completed their transformation.