#garion/rhu'zrak is on a fucking crusade against tyranids because he took one look at the Shadow in the Warp and said 'fuck that'

[rats-and-robots]

Hi, two certain mutuals of mine have injected a small dose of Abaddon brain rot directly into my soul and in return I have vomited it onto paper in the form of my Rogue Trader-turned-Daemon Prince meeting Abaddon for the first time.

---

“Ezekyle.”

It won’t get out of his head. How dare this usurper come into this meeting that he had so kindly agreed to attend. And he leads… with that.

A wall shudders and bends under the force of his fist, a roar escaping him.

The daemon had only said his name.

“Ezekyle.”

But he’d said it… in his Father’s voice. In Horus Luprical’s voice.

The audacity of it. The sheer foolishness of the daemon’s choice to mimic his genefather’s voice had rippled through every former wolf at the meeting. His throat had long since healed from the strain of yelling, yet he remembered the burn of it. His fist relaxes and his arm falls back to his side.

The worst of it all… The worst of it all, as hot tears fall down his cheeks and disappear against the heat of his power armor… is that he’d nearly not recognized it. He’d almost forgotten what his genefather sounded like. No, he had forgotten. He’d only been furious at the lack of formality in the first second, the lack of respect, to refer to him with the familiarity none had the right to, not these days. He hadn’t realized until one of his legionnaires had been the one to point it out. And he saw the shift in the daemon’s eyes as it stared at him, watched and tasted his reaction as it changed. From yelling into a silence of naught but rage, mouth gaping in such a deep fury that no words would come. 

… the ice that had speared his heart and had refused to stop spreading until the heat of rage had been sucked dry from him, now.

He wishes he had seen mirth or mockery in the daemon’s eyes. But instead he saw softness. The look of an apothecary about to administer a painful procedure followed by the acceptance of Abaddon’s reaction.

No, perhaps that wasn’t the worst of all.

—

The daemon, Rhu’zrak, is coiled on a balcony, watching the movements of his and Abaddon’s forces in their different and yet so similar ways. Both made up of multiple legions, once full of current purpose and confidence, and the other uncertain and wary of the other. To be honest, Rhu’zrak was also a bit surprised that the Black Legion had not left as angrily as their leader had left the initial meeting. He must have misjudged the Warmaster a touch.

Something curls at the edge of his psychic awareness. His feathers raise up off his neck in curiosity and his head tilts to the side to view his new visitor. Very few would be allowed in his presence…

Ah.

His teeth click, “Warmaster.” His voice is his own. Or, at least, it is the voice his mortal form used. His eyes turn back to the forces below.

“...Beacon.” Abaddon’s voice is low. Quiet.

A few brief beats of silence pass between them. The soft wind of the air sings with the acrid bite of the acidic ocean of the strange planet. It rustles the daemon’s feathers in the same way it rustle’s Abaddon’s hair.

“I will not apologize.”

“I did not come to ask for one. But you knew that.”

“...” The daemon’s head turns to look at him, “I did.”

A slow, measured breath, pale eyes searching the ground below as he approaches the railing of the tiny balcony. Eyes have lifted up. Seeing the two speaking, and calmly, is no doubt a curious sight.

“You want something, Warmaster.”

“If you know that, you know what it is. You read my mind, don’t you?”

“...I am trying not to. But doing so is like trying not to see pale fog on a field.”

Abaddon’s jaw rolls, gnawing on his lip in contemplation. Feathers and silks shift behind him as the Daemon moves, its tall form coming to stand next to him.

“I will not make you ask, but perhaps this is not the place.”

Abaddon’s eyes close… and he nods.