Chapter 125 The chatting time of the warriors (Part 2)
When Azak Ahriman arrived on the surface of Inwit, his keen spiritual senses had already smelled some unusual waves.
The etheric perception ability given to him by the Black Crow School made him very sensitive to the psychic tides driven by emotional waves. As he approached his destination, he gradually saw the illusion of two similar huge fortresses standing in confrontation.
The atmosphere ahead was as tense as the insects flying low in the night before a heavy rain, and the omens of danger were like water vapor lurking in the humidity-saturated air, which made Ahriman's heart beat faster.
Fortunately, there seems to be an imperceptible void between the two fortresses, which neutralizes and relieves the pressure of the etheric aura, allowing Ahriman to gradually relax.
When Ahriman opened the curtain of the temporary tent and stood next to two primarchs who were frowning and gritting their teeth, holding the table with one hand, one wanted to pull out the non-existent sword from his waist, and the other wanted to pull out the non-existent hammer from behind. , he silently recalled the peaceful red face of Magnus, the father of genes, and drew the mental strength from the smile that Magnus once showed to be enough to cover up his embarrassment.
Then he respectfully greeted the tense Primarchs: "Azhak Ahriman, the first school of the Sun of Thousand Dusts, reported to pay tribute to the Primarch."
"Come here. , Ahriman." A familiar man in black robes spoke, and Ahriman immediately recognized him as the mysterious friend of the Emperor who had saved his brother, and even the entire Fifteenth Legion.
Morse, he remembered this person's name, and then remembered that Frix asked him to divine whether this person really existed last time. So seeing him in person again gave Ahriman mixed emotions.
Seeing that neither of the two primarchs had any intention of stopping him, the red-armored warrior took up the courage to move forward, and finally stood at the large table where the two primarchs stood facing each other on the left and right, facing Morse. Face to face.
He noticed that there were only two Primarchs and one craftsman in the camp now, and all the rest of the entourage were missing.
The table is covered with scattered drawings, some about architectural design and some about regional planning. The painter's brushstrokes are all exactly the same, precise and steady, and the lines are clean and powerful. If it weren't for the seemingly different styles, they could almost be regarded as the works of the same person.
He didn't quite understand the details. After all, he was not a professional in this field.
"And you can sit down, Perturabo. What's there to be angry about?" Morse continued.
The Primarch of the Iron Warriors glanced at the white-haired Primarch reluctantly, and sat back on the large chair amidst the trivial sounds made by the armor.
"That's Rogal Dorn." Perturabo tilted his head in the direction of the white-haired original body. "This is Azac Ahriman, a warrior from the Fifteenth Legion's Thousand Dust Sun who came here for exchanges."
The way Rogal Dorn looked at Ahriman made the latter feel like he had been thrown into ice water and soaked again. Fortunately, the white-haired original body quickly withdrew his gaze and sat down like Perturabo.
"Is he a just man?" asked Donne.
"He is not your Invite, nor is he my Iron Warrior." Perturabo said coldly, every emphasis highlighting his unfriendliness, "As an independent warrior , his courage and reason are equally recognized by me. I can't find a more fair person than him - since you must think that my warriors will favor me, Rogal Dorn."
" I'm just stating the objective possibility, brother." Dorn sounded no longer calm, "It is common for subordinates under command to defend their superiors, whether it is my Inwit or your warriors. , you cannot blindly assume that they are impartial and selfless just because you love your heirs.”
Perturabo's burning anger finally infected him, and he was not without a temper. When a large cold wave swept through Inwit a few years ago, the bodies of those speculators who took the opportunity to clamor to overthrow the Dornish family and pursue freedom are still frozen deep in the ice.
Of course, this does not mean that he is going to do anything to the Iron Warriors. Rogal Dorn is just a little angry.
"You know your Invite, but do you know my warriors? Do you have to accuse them of favoring me?" Perturabo said.
"This is part of common sense, just like I don't need to know the coordinates of your ship to know that the product of one and one there is still one."
The white-haired giant said Here, Ahriman noticed that Morse raised his eyebrows, shook his head quietly, and seemed to say "maze".
Dorn continued, his voice low and solid: "Your heirs who are close to you must be affected by the close relationship between them. This is an undeniable subjective factor. I am not blaming your warriors, we need Face it, Perturabo!" "So you say in front of me and my heirs that my warrior, my warsmith, is not qualified by nature to be our judge? You... Roger Do? Well..." The Lord of Iron swallowed a dirty word.
“I said this was not an accusation.” Donne frowned.
“I know you mean no harm, of course I know!” Perturabo slapped his palm heavily on the table, and Ahriman clearly saw a fleeting burst of golden runes supporting and repairing the wood. "But you have to insult them?"
The scholars of the Fifteenth Legion began to feel that they should not stand here and be a wooden witness to the quarrel between the two primarchs. pile.
He was supposed to be here wearing a helmet, Ahriman found the humor in the pain, so that he could relax his muscular face through the helmet.
"Does anyone here remember that you invited an innocent warrior to the scene?" Morse let the words drift into the unfriendly atmosphere at the right moment before Dorn spoke, cutting off the intensified quarrel, " Primarchs, the chatting time is over.”
Perturabo covered half of his face with one hand, and Dorn calmed down as quickly as the wind and snow cooled down stone.
"Ahriman, look at these drawings."
The Lord of Iron said in a dull voice while taking out several controversial drawings in comparison.
Dorn was doing exactly the same thing opposite him. Although his appearance was completely different, his actions mirrored each other.
The two of them worked very quickly and without any communication, and their four arms tacitly agreed not to interfere with each other. They sorted out the drawings on the table with extremely high efficiency and placed them on the corner of the table without any dispute. , the rest are placed in categories.
"We can't decide whose idea a certain design should be based on, and we can't convince the other party." Perturabo snorted coldly. "And Dorn believes that my own warriors cannot give impartial advice."
"The drawings here have been classified and similar drawings have been merged." Dorn has calmed down. "In each pile, we need you to choose one drawing fairly and state why it is better than other design solutions."
"This soldier immediately conceived the entire small building without even looking at the drawings. Town training," Morse continued, "I can show you the model."
Ahriman was surprised at first that the Primarchs almost took out their weapons just for this matter, but he soon had no time to doubt the Primarchs while he was mourning for himself.
Every building concept projection that rotates 360 degrees above the square table is extremely beautiful, and the town planning is easy to understand and excellent, which often makes him, a layman, shine.
However, at the same time, he had to withstand the cold eyes of the two original bodies at the same time, forcing his tight throat to work, and squeezed out a string of words from his mouth. He even thought it was unprofessional when he heard it. simple evaluation.
This mental torture was far more disturbing to his soul than any psychic training he had done so far. Ahriman's pride nailed his feet to the ground and persisted through this journey. Unbearable torture.
Crimson King, he thought, why are there so many drawings left?
When Rogal Dorn and Perturabo inexplicably began to develop in a harmonious direction later, harmoniously having friendly discussions with each other on the conceptual model floating in the air, Ahriman really couldn't help it. I know whether I should be grateful that the pressure of the ether in the air has disappeared, or feel exhausted because I may have to stand here as a stake for a longer time.
No matter what, Astartes' physical strength is enough for him to easily stand for a few more hours...or dozens of hours.
They probably wouldn’t really chat for dozens of hours at a time.
The prophet suddenly discovered that the division of the Milky Way galaxy in the 30k period may be different from that in 40k...
(End of this chapter)