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When his lord had told him about his meeting with Primarch Russ, Ahriman was nervous. He trusted Magnus’ judgement, but he was still nervous. The Primarch of the VI Legion was unpredictable at best, however Magnus had merely chuckled and thanked him for his concern.
“Russ can try and be difficult,” The Crimson King assured him, “But I’ve got him figured out.”
-
Now, standing outside of the large tent that had been pitched on the neutral ground that had been chosen, Ahriman felt the confidence of his Primarch’s assurance turning distinctly to awkwardness. He resisted the urge to glance over at the Wolf King’s guard, just as he had quietly instructed the rest of the Primarch’s guard to remain at parade rest when the noises had started. The Wolves didn’t seem at all concerned, and when the noises had started they’d muttered and laughed at one another.
The noises-–or rather, the noise–-was a deep rumbling interspersed with rhythmic thumping and the occasional rise of what Ahriman knew from its timbre was Magnus’ voice. He couldn’t imagine, and didn’t want to imagine, what both Primarchs were doing, and couldn’t bring himself to reach out to Magnus psychically during what could be a delicate moment.
The fact that the Wolves seemed outright amused at the noises made Ahriman almost demand to know what they thought was going on, because it couldn’t possibly be what he thought was going on-–Ahriman hoped–-and so there had to be some other explanation. As galling as it would be to get one from the Wolves.
Ahriman kept a close ear on his Primarch, though, both physically and psychically. The noises continued, with Magnus’ voice undecipherable but recognizable and Russ’ voice occasionally joining in after a great deal of shifting furniture. Whenever Russ spoke up, after the sounds of shifting furniture and fabric, the rhythmic thumping always stopped. Likewise, when Russ stopped speaking, after more sounds of shifting furniture and fabric, the rhythmic thumping always began again, usually accompanied by Magnus’ laughter.
If he were not as disciplined as he was, Ahriman would have barged in hours ago and demanded to know what was going on. The thought of Russ besmirching the honor of his Primarch was nearly too much to bear, but Ahriman’s cautious psychic checks on Magnus were always amusedly rebuffed and so he had no way to gauge how much longer it would have to be endured.
His vigil was ended when there was a sudden clatter of breaking porcelain. Turning quickly and tearing the tent flap open, Ahriman was greeted with the sight of his Primarch sitting on the floor with the head of a massive wolf cradled in his lap.
“I–My Lord?” he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting, but this certainly wasn’t it.
Magnus absently scratched the wolf behind its ears, and the wolf’s tail thumped against the carpeted ground. He smiled at Ahriman and asked, “Is something wrong?”
“No, my Lord, I just heard breaking, ah, dishes?” Ahriman said, feeling the previous awkwardness return and intensify, “And, where…is Primarch Russ?”
“He’s here,” Magnus told him, “don’t worry, and you may resume your place outside.”
Ahriman carefully retied the tent flap and retook his place. The Wolves giggled at him. He had more questions than he had answers. He tried very hard to not think about how the wolf’s fur had been the exact rust color as Primarch Russ’ hair.
From inside the tent, the low murmur of Magnus’ voice as he talked to the wolf, and then contented rumbling and tail-thumping of the wolf as it had its ears scritched began again.