Without contrast, there is no harm.

It turned out that it was not the Imperial who were too high-profile, but the barbarians from Barbaros who did not understand art.

The dome arched, and the flames and gold flakes hung down from above, illuminating the hall, the perfect mix of darkness and light, and the candlelit walls emitted a shimmering shimmer.

Beneath the chandeliers, carved with pearls, gold and silver, are a sea of bright white satin, and the undulating tables and chairs of varying heights form the laws of the Empire.

The tallest tables and chairs are naturally surrounded by light and jewels, and the tables and chairs below them surround the giants with the aftermath of the waves.

The rulers of the human race are always mean, they cannot tolerate the company of people of their status, and it seems that equality will kill them.

The cheapest pleasures naturally arise in contrast, and there is something wonderful about condescending, and the echo of the crowd breeds happiness, and the conversation with the authority is only sharp.

So although this is a gathering of primordials, there are still planetary governors from other planets, diplomats from garden planets, and if a banquet is likened to an outing, then these people are the beings in nature who make birdsong or frog song.

Actors and dancers swirl on the dance floor, chords drift from the sumptuous and low strings, and they stand out from the crowd as impromptu toys for the empire's magnates.

But even if their skill and charisma were so high that the king could take the crown and the brave break the sword, they would still not be the protagonists of the feast.

Even most people's eyes and attention are not on the stage, looming, and the restrained and forbearant gaze is focused on the center-

The scrawny giant stood on the most remote throne, he was simple to the point of barrenness, plain in color, reminiscent of the cloudy wasteland before a rainstorm, remote and oppressive.

It is not uncommon to see rulers who love the night, and the dark tones are accompanied by mystical and serious tones, but even so, the gems and gold filigree that should be the details of the "costume" still satisfy their vanity.

But the Lord of Death was dressed without ornaments that showed wealth or status, no precious stones, no pearls, no elaborate ornamentation.

The only accessory was a brass skull tied in a cloak, which was surrounded by the glow of six thorns, and the Roman numeral fourteen was carved on it, which seemed to have traces of blood splattered on it.

Such an existence, even if it appears at the funeral of the magnates, will be considered too simple, and it will be followed by not knowing the etiquette and deliberately picking on the master's family.

But he was a primordial, a demigod, and held the lifeblood of an entire empire in his hands, so people automatically figured out a plausible explanation for his actions.

After all, he is the original.

The Lord of Death sat in his seat, seemingly displeased with everything around him, the dishes served, but he hadn't even taken off his breathing mask.

A deathly depression spread out around Mortarian's body of its own, and the most daring administrators did not dare to come forward to talk to him.

But the maids and waiters had to go through the pressure under low air for no other reason, and at the table behind the Lord of Death, there was a Space Marine Lord who kept asking for an extra meal.

Oddly enough, most Space Marines would match the original temperament, but apparently the Death Guard didn't fit this theorem.

Garo was expressionless, he should have realized that the commander of the Death Guard was not a normal person, but unfortunately he didn't realize this when he chose this kid in the first place.

The other legions hadn't arrived yet, and only the Death Guards had entered the main hall first, as they weren't "coming in" normally.

Faced with the tedious and long guard of honor of mortals, Motarian did only one thing, and that was to ignore them.

In the face of the emperor's forbidden army, Motarian did the same, and the original body despised all flashy actions, and complicated etiquette obviously included them.

So Garo watched as Motarian led them on a rampage in the guard of honor, ignoring the guard of honor who had come up to plead guilty, and proceeded along the shortest line between the two points.

Garo sensed that the honor guard, who had been rejected by the Legion Commander, was about to kill himself with his sword, but fortunately Hades stopped the poor and unknown man.

Garo silently breathed a sigh of relief in his heart, Hades's move, at least he didn't need to do it.

But that didn't make the whole thing any better, and Garo had participated in similar events, and their actions were not at all polite and honorable, but rather like an intruder.

Garo felt a little uneasy, which reached its limit when they entered the hall, and they were not dressed in a way that did not fit in, as if they were mourning.

Garo wore the costume he had worn for the diplomatic service, but in order to match Motarian's style, he had to remove the parts with the elaborate patterns.

And Hades's clothes are even more. Unusually, Greier's Mechanics had previously given Hades a dress, and Hades had put it on.

Although Hades also demolished the parts that were too flashy, Garo thinks that Hades simply felt that ugly, rather than other more obscure reasons.

The dark undertones, with a dull shade of dark red and husky moss, outline the logos of the Cult of the Mechanicus and the Death Ward, and the buttons are black stone, dull.

If the Iron Hand weren't here, Hades' outfit would obviously not fit - for the most part, the Mechonia weren't a popular subject.

But. It doesn't matter, they're already here, Garo looked at Motarian, who was staring at the plate in a daze, and Hades, who was asking the maid to add food

Motarian stared at the rising and falling beans in that bowl of soup like a toad in a swamp, and he didn't even take off his breathing mask.

For the first time, it seemed to Garrow that Vaux might be better suited for the occasion than for him.

All he could pray now was that the other participants at this banquet weren't the tougher ones—

Garo stood up and saluted suddenly, and dragged Hades up by the way, and Hades, who was still destroying everything just now, instantly turned into a serious face.

The sound of the horn sounded, the crowd flocked, the wonderful hymn was sung from the mouth, the light shone brightly, and the golden and red visitors entered the stage.

It's Rogdorn and St. Giles.

Rogdorn was like a moving wall, draped in a bright saffron-colored cape and a well-cut gown that accentuated his powerful shoulders.

A halo of gold encircled his resolute and tough face, brightening the primordial body's short marble-like hair.

He was a true king, palatial and indestructible.

Rogdorn deserves to attract all the attention, but only if-

The angel St. Giles was not by his side.

This is the real angel.

The large white wings hung down, each one with unparalleled perfection, fluffy and supple, thin chains of gold and red flowing from the overlay beneath the straight feathers, and the jewels on them trembled slightly with the movement of the primordial body.

A soft halo burned around him, burning a dazzling sacredness, and his slightly curled blonde hair hung down, and his face was slightly thin, but it accentuated the scarlet eyes.

Angel, St. Giles, he seems to be glowing, and the river of light flows quietly beside him.

Everything was eclipsed in front of him, all those burning candles, those jeweled lumen chandeliers, everything was gray. It's getting unbearable.

In the face of true perfection, the flaws of all things are exposed.

No one could defend against St. Giles, and the people involuntarily stopped what they were doing and stared straight at the angel—

Except, of course, Motarian.

Without standing to greet him, the Lord of Death remained seated on his throne, his movements unchanged from before, except that he shifted his gaze from the bean toad to the birdman's wings, and at the same time slightly confused.

When the two glittering primordials entered, they seemed to be talking about something, which was probably not a pleasant topic, as Garo saw Rogdorn's slightly furrowed brow.

Next, the two primordials noticed the Lord of Death at the same time, and they were startled at first, and then the Seventh Legion Commander Rogdorn's gaze became even more dissatisfied.

But compared to Dorne, who had been staring at Motarian, St. Gilles's gaze moved to the seat behind Motarian for a moment, and no one noticed that the angel's expression changed for a moment, as if the angel had always been that divine expression.

The Angels of the Holy Blood who followed St. Giles received a secret message from the angel asking them to be cautious.

Rogdorn strode towards Motarian, and the angel smiled and motioned for the people who had been stunned by his presence to return to work.

Hades and Garo also took the opportunity to sit down, and the Imperial Fist and the Blood Angels moved towards their location, Galo busied himself to identify anyone he knew about, while Hades took a sip of the soup with relish.

With the angels present, they are even less worried about what will happen, although Rogdorn may have some quarrels with Motarian.

Rogdorn, the real powerhouse, the simplest bad mouth, the most extreme enjoyment, this self-metaphorical primordial likes to go straight and advocate the truth that "if everyone says it, there will be no misunderstanding".

Ron Dorn stood across from Motarian's table, his shadow casting and his oppression soaring.

"You just caused a commotion in the mortal honor guard outside."

Rogdorn's serious and serious voice sounded,

"For an extra-large banquet, this kind of behavior can lead to chaos."

"If you're not resentful of some of them, then you should respect their work."

Motarian's gaze rose and he stared straight at Dorne, as if a fire had burned in his amber eyes, and he was glaring at Dorne with rage.

Respect? When they wasted his life with that cumbersome and useless etiquette?

He was about to spit out the vitriolic venom when a hand suddenly reached out and interrupted his thoughts.

It was the mutant, his presence was too strong, and Motarian subconsciously moved his gaze to the angel.

"Maybe we should start by introducing ourselves."

With a gentle and restrained smile, St. Giles opened his arms and cut off the sight of the two men.

Rogdorn glanced at the angels, but St. Giles was right, and they should introduce themselves.

"Captain of the Fist of the Seventh Legion, Rogdorn."

"I'm the father of the Ninth Legion's Blood Angels, and it's a pleasure to meet you—"

The angel looked politely at Motarian, but Motarian could only see the cold distancing in it,

"Fourteenth Legion Death Guard, Motarian."

"You like a short welcome, my brother? Is this a habit of your home planet? ”

The angel continued to maintain his flawless smile, gentle and with just the right amount of curiosity, as he pulled Rogdorn into his seat.

The angel chose to sit in the middle of the two primitives, which was clearly the right decision.

Motarian simply hummed in agreement.

Rogdorn spoke again,

"You should adapt to the Empire, Motarian, and maybe your vision shouldn't be limited to a home planet."

Again.

Mortarian realized that, no matter what, his "brothers", who were shiny and lit up like a balls of lights on the dance floor, would mock his home star and ridicule his origins.

Is it just because he didn't grow up between gold and thrones? Is it just because he is struggling in the mire of the wilderness?

Ignorance, short-sightedness, arrogance, vanity.

Motarian cursed his "brother" loudly, but it didn't matter, he had nothing in common with the people who didn't know the brutal truth, only the people who didn't know what was going to happen were wasting their time, throwing their lives away from the jewels and silk.

Slowly, resolutely, Motarian gave Rogdorn a scornful look, then shifted his gaze to his bean soup.

A strange enough brother, with a distinctive sharpness.

St. Giles thought that Motarian looked haggard, as if he was sick, and he was worried, but Rogdorn's words obviously blocked the possibility of continuing the conversation, and Motarian had already refused to talk.

The angel could realize that if he didn't say anything, Rogdorn would speak, and while he didn't want to act as such, he didn't want the banquet to be a disaster either.

After all, he had promised Horus.

Even though the Empire had blocked almost all of the information, there were still Primordials who were aware of the blood splatters on the battlefield of Randan.

The last thing the angels want to see happens.

If the wolf and the lion could raise the butcher's knife in the name of the emperor, then they would have a reason to do it a second time.

The mutilation should have been removed, but St. Giles and his legion were in the closest corner to the mutilation.

Beneath the surface of perfect indifference is a restless and panicked soul.

But the smile on his lips didn't change in the slightest.

The angel laughed and talked to Dorne, it was easy to talk to someone who was willing to be serious about any matter, and in fact, St. Giles appreciated Dorne's straightforwardness.

Dorne had come here to give the ashes of the Flame a place to live, but he hadn't understood all of this yet, and he was still communicating with the angel with a little concern.

Motarian was still present, and St. Giles could only vaguely comfort him.

Horus went to find the Emperor and Macador, and at the same time, in order to communicate with each other, Horus arranged this party.

The executioner, naturally, was not invited.

But to St. Giles's comfort, Motarian was not curious, the Death Guard was an aftermath of the battle, and the new brother shouldn't have known much about it.

The angel was able to detect Horus's courtship and concern for Mortarian, so Mortarian was also here, and Horus wanted his brother to know more about the rules of the Empire.

But. St. Giles' attention tilted slightly behind the original for a moment.

What is that?

Back to normal update tomorrow! Get ready for the blast! Make up for the arrears!

——

Recommend a book! Writing in the middle of the ages, the writing is very good, or ribs! The author praises the code word, because we don't know about the Middle Ages, we won't evaluate it, and interested partners can take a look

Warhammer of the Ages: Making the Tomb King Great Again

(End of chapter)