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The Daemon prince of the Word Eaters stood with his back towards the sunset.
He has been trying to get in contact with his brother, Angron, but the wind of favour was not blowing towards him recently.
He was sitting down on the wet ground, he tried finding a clean spot, but the gore of battle and the splatter of blood and prometheon reached far.
Lorgar sat, letting the golden light of the dying sun wash over the letters on his skin, listening to the sounds of the battlefield.
He held his hands together, on his lap, mind clean.
The wind was bringing a chilling breeze, and the daemon prince tried not to hoover his hand over the food. It sat for far too long inside the meagre bag he took from the abandoned house. Lorgar chose to cling to the hope that it might still have been lukewarm.
A foolish thought, since the battle has been raging for at least half a dozen hours since he arrived.
Still, in the mists of battle stood tall and roaring like a sun, Angron.
He was fully immersed in the flames of combat, giving and receiving blows with the same gracelessness and dedication.
With another blood curdling scream, Angron slammed his Blackbalde onto a Bandblade, making the mechanisms eject the still spinning motors, making the spilt promethium ignite in the air.
Drool and blood both spilled from the corners of Angron’s fanged mouth. In a rare moment where the battlefield around him was devoid of moving targets, the daemon primarch of Khorn became aware of his surroundings while he scouted the area for his next target.
His gore-red eyes narrowed as they stumbled upon the other deamon primarch’s form, the sun behind him making him seem made of gold.
Lorgar smiled, brotherly.
And like a sibling who outgrew his elder, Angron started walking towards Aurelian. His steps, although wider, were slow and measured.
Lorgar grabbed the bag and placed it gently between them.
Nothing from his relaxed movements betrayed their previous encounters.
He could see the way Angron’s knuckles paled when he gripped Samni’arius’s handle harder.
The Bearer of the Word was trying to fall back into Angron’s good graces. The chosen of Khorn was often moody and prone to violence rather than reason, and so, predictably, when Lorgar first accosted Angron, he was quickly made acquainted in an intimate way with Spinegrinder.
And so Lorgar decided a buffer was needed, something to smooth their meeting.
With a whisper of the warp and a flick of his power, a neat feast was laid at Angron’s feet at their second meeting.
What better to rekindle their brotherhood than the comfort of humanity’s need? A meal to lubricate conversation and bring forth their common roots.
The first meal was a grandiose feast, laid in cups and plates of gold, such as Lorgar’s Words. It was what the daemon primarch remembered the old leaders of the Covenant used to enjoy, after a proper ceremony, lay in front of the two brothers, on a long wooden table. Fatty fish stuffed with root vegetables covered in oil and strong herbs stood in the centre, but smaller bowls of fish strew still bubbling called to the onlookers with their moth watering spicy smells. Fresh fruits, ripped and almost bursting with their juices were filling the rest of the space alongside the beer of Lorgar’s youth.
The Chaos Prince let a soft, indulgent smile bless his visage. The foamy tops of the beer chalices brought back memories of the refreshing first sip from the drink. The feeling of the foam decorating his upper lip brings echoes of long lost amusement.
Angron did not seem to want to partake in this reminiscence, as he rushed to stomp his hoof over the wooden table and impaled in one swift motion the other Daemon Prince with his sword.
Undeterred, Lorgar persisted.
This approach was good, but not perfect, and so he decided to change tactics.
This time, with a soft breath, he took a short peek into Angron’s memory of the past before setting in a way that the Chosen of Khorn would stumble upon him.
When Angron saw him, Lorgar was already enjoying a cup of wine, the same that nobles would drink on Nuceria.
‘Brother.‘ The golden Chaos Prince started as he gestured at the fine foods laying on the table. ‘Come join me!’
Angron rushed him, screaming as he scattered the succulent beasts roasts, with fruits in their mouth, and spilled the rich red wine that dripped just like blood.
He was still screaming when he punched Lorgar in the stomach, so hard that its contents came rushing back up, spilling for the Bearer of the Word’s mouth. Angron punched and ripped, and scratched at Aurelian’s body until more World Bearers came to their Leader’s rescue.
Later, in the Warp, Lorgar decided on a change of plans.
This time, he intoned the words with focus, as he drew the proper gestures in the air.
When the red Deamon primarch saw him, his brother was waiting on the battlefield, with still steaming hash, mixed with fresh blood, and dried meat, spiced and flavourful, he offered his brother the same water bag Angron used to drink, cheap beer, plucked right from his memories.
Angron’s reaction was somehow different, yet the same.
He charged at his brother, but this time, it was also pain alongside the rage in his eyes.
Logar knew he was closer to his goal.
He waited until he knew exactly where his brother would be, before arriving on that wretched Imperial world that the Forces of Khorn were attacking.
Instead of rushing towards the battlefield, Lorgar stopped at one of the plundered villages. Most of the houses were burned, stripped of anything used, or just shattered so they wouldn’t be able to be used by anyone else. , but the houses near the periphery were untouched, as their owners made haste to run to safety.
He stopped inside the too-tiny kitchen, bending so he could fit in the already spacious room.
Everything around him was so tiny, it was almost comical.
Although reading books about the procedure, it was Lorgar’s first time working with the ingredients on this planet. This bread needed a chemical compound to rise, unlike the other breads he was more familiar with. The milled flour was an unusual tormentor for the armoured covered fingers, but Lorgar had plenty of experience manipulating delicate pages while cladded in ceramite armour.
Reading was quite different from making the bread himself, but he did not let his frustration show when he bumped into the salt container, spilling some of the white grains.
Two who share salt at dinner are now bound, and brothers. They shall never raise knives at each other’s throats. He recalled the words from the tomb he studied with this planet in mind.
In the end, the bread did not rise as much as he wished. The huge load was still impressive, if not slightly more compact than usual, and the Deamon’s Prince’s plan of making a fuller meal fell flat, as he just resigned to grabbing some of the familiar’s salt-dried sausage and frying them in an oiled pan. He found a jar of what looked like jam and a bottle what he thought to be wine. Shoving them all in a bag found nearby, he accepted that this was all he could offer for the moment.
In the present Angron was approaching slowly, his nostrils flaring, as he tried to figure out what was in the bag.
Lorgar didn’t smile this time, choosing to nod his head.
‘Angron.’ He said when the Daemon Prince of Khorn stopped in front of him.
With a sudden move, Angron crashed on his knees, as his clawed fingers grabbed the bag, opening it rushingly.
His eyes widened a bit, as his nose sniffed like a war dog.
A dry laughter sneaked out of his fanged mouth.
Angron was laughing. It was as bitter, joyless laughter.
‘I have come in hope of talking to you, brother.’ The Bearer of the Word said, calmer now that his plan seemed to work.
Angron rolled on his tail, as he threw himself at his brother, grabbing him as he manoeuvred both of them to sit on the cold ground, with Lorgar between the larger Daemon prince’s hooved legs.
Angron took a large bite of the hard and cold bread.
‘It tastes like shit.’ He laughed as crumbs fell onto the Golden Prince.
‘I personally prefer to use a yeast to rise my breads, but such are the ways of this world you are now cleaning for our Gods. ’He blinked the crumbs away, as he noticed Angron’s eyes closing in pleasure as he chewed mindfully.
He reached his hand, grabbing a salty sausage and the jar of jam, hoping to chase the taste away, as he recalled the words previously read.