The snake did eye the bottle of water, emerging out from the coils. Stretching his limbs and back, with joints popping as he did. The Artist towered over Abaddon, one of the many things that he made sure to cultivate to feed his own arrogance. But what could one expect of someone from the third legion, where pride and arrogance breed like and spread like a sickness?
A clawed hand picked up the bottle from the floor, curved nails more akin to daggers tapped against the dull glass of the bottle. With ease of the thumb he popped the cork from the bottle, taking a sniff from the contents. The Artist did not hide he would not check anything gifted from Abaddon, even they both were on neutral ground. The snake was no fool and careful, not caring if they were to happen to step any toes in suspecting his host to seek to harm him in some way. One of the Eye learns well to trust few and suspect all.
He snorted before emptying the container of water into his elongated toothed maw, quieting down any of his bodyâs cries for hydration.
âHrh, good water. None re-cycled and undiluted, you are quite generous today, warmaster.â He rumbled pleased, his voice returning into that honey coated voice that gave the impression of claws running through silk and a snake slithering over soft rocks. âAh, good old brother Telemachon. Do send him to me so we can converse after weâve had our meeting, I would not mind seeing a brother of my kin who is as interesting as him. Even he does now listen to another master.â
The question of if the snake meant Slaanesh or Fulgrim it is not known, but it is more known that the Artist does not see eye to eye with the genesire of the Emperorâs Children, often being by force brought under the heel of Fulgrim when the snake even tried to refuse to answer the call. Call it the own pride of the snake or the hate of losing control, the outcome is the same regardless. Hate and seething anger. Â
A black tongue ran over the Artistâs sharp teeth, as to savor every drop of the water before a grin appeared on the beastly face.
âI have seen the plan, yes. Such a detailed plan, a delightful plan of burning and bloodshed. You wish for me and my own to strike at the heart of the defenses of this world you mentioned in the battle plans you sent to me. That your forces distract them for us to quickly come from the side, to strike like a poisoned spear into their heart.â An unsettling chuckle emerged from the serpent, amused and cold.
âIt does sound fun, to let my forces loose upon them when their focus is elsewhere, to let us use our speed to our advantage. Such sweet music my Kakophoni would make, my darlings would be delighted to play with the souls of those who foolishly think they can hide behind their walls and my brothers to taste the sweet ecstasy of combat. But as much as I would agree upon your plan, warmaster.â The Artist still had that wide wolf grin as he bore his ruby red eyes on Abaddon, not once broke the stare.
âWhat do I get out of it all from helping you?â Â
