Mortarion charged ahead in fury, like an enormous locomotive spewing poison gas, leaving a toxic trail that could suffocate all life in his wake.
Wrong. All of it was wrong.
That hypocrite loved spouting nonsense just as much as the corpse on the Golden Throne.
He barreled onward until he suddenly heard familiar laughter.
He turned to see a flock of merry elves flitting among the flowers.
Mortarion's face darkened. He had no idea what good it did to keep these things around. These stupid Nurglings only took up precious teleportation capacity, and on the battlefield, they could not even withstand a volley from the Astra Militarum's lasguns.
But the elves spotted him and immediately flew over in delight, gathering around him.
"Mortarion, you're finally out!"
"Come join the feast! Father has been waiting for you for ages!"
"No. I'm not going," Mortarion refused stiffly.
"Come on! He's been preparing for a very, very long time!"
Mortarion snorted coldly, but his feet turned toward the feast of their own accord. The voice that had enraged him moments earlier still seemed to echo in his ears.
"You're nothing but an overgrown baby who doesn't care about anyone else!"
He looked down at his battered armor, which billowed poison gas, then toward the stone pavilion in the distance, lush as a garden.
In the end, he took a detour and changed into a plain Barbarus-style robe. He even stepped into a fountain, using flames to burn away the poison gas that had clung to him for so long and washing the filth from his body.
Only after all that did he head toward the feast.
"Oh, my child, you've come!"
A delighted voice came from the head of the table. Grandfather looked very pleased.
"You're looking quite smart now. Come, sit beside