Тем временем один святой человек поделился цитатой из дополнительного рассказа Райта к лимиточке. Честно говоря, я даже не знаю, как этот рассказ называется =|
The primarch is there, there, less than a kilometre away, surrounded by his Deathshroud in their hulking, frost-encrusted plate. Even at a distance, his presence is absurdly dominating, slewing the entire battle about its axis. His dun-grey cloak whirls about him as he strides into contact, gilded with the last traces of translation energy. He is tall, lean, pale, an outline of gaunt strength. Vorx finds himself pausing, absorbed, before glancing back at Camanio.
The Blood Angel is wearing his helm, and so his expression is hidden. Vorx hears the faint crackle-hum of a vox-bead in use and guesses he is saying something to his squad.
‘Magnificent,’ Vorx offers, trying a third and last time to build a bridge between them. ‘The primarch accompanies us. We are honoured indeed.’
Then Camanio turns, properly, shifting his weight onto his front foot, which sinks into the sucking mire. He comes closer. 'My warriors are asking me, how can anyone follow that skin-and-bones wretch and call him “primarch”? I do not know what to tell them.'