Editing The Tales of the Emperasque: Part Thirteen (section)

==4-100-001-M42==
“Well, if you wanted to do so, I assure you that the first thing I would have done is approve,” Leman Russ said, looking over his restored quarters. “Not that I can blame you for holding off.”<br>
“Restoring your quarters in absentia would have given false hope, I think,” Grimnir said, watching the servitors drop off the last of the boxes from cold storage.<br>
“True.” Russ stepped down into the restored room and dropped his meager kitbag on the floor, kicking it in the general direction of his wardrobe. The room was the exact opposite of the rest of the Fang. Every inch of the walls was obscured under a mess of junk; trophies, flattering portraits, books and scrolls, holos of distant places, and, naturally, enough weapons to outfit a full Blood Pack.<br>
Russ smirked as the memories the trophies recalled filtered back…conquest after conquest. He glanced over the colossal, fur-covered bed, and continued his recall of rather different conquests.<br>
The far window looked over the endless expanse of the Fenris ice fields. The scouring wind was propelling a shard-storm over the plain. That would mince any of the nomads that got caught outside.<br>
Russ hefted the featureless black case next to the nearest pile of weapons, and clicked the simple combination lock open. He reached in and extracted the battle-scarred Power Claymore from within, grinning broadly as it caught the light of the room.
“An old friend, my Lord?” Grimnir asked from the door.<br>
“Indeed, Grimnir, an old friend.” Russ twisted his wrist suddenly, driving the blade down to the floor and back up in an arc. It looked oddly small for the Primarch, Grimnir noted.

“I drove this through an Ork Warboss and out the other side, then left it in there,” Russ said, setting back in the box and closing it. “The Warboss lived through it, and even kept fighting until I kicked his legs out from under him and he fell on it. Bjorn thought it was the funniest thing he had ever seen and made a point of retrieving it.”<br>
Grimnir smiled half-heartedly at the mention of their venerable brother. “My Lord…as long as we’re here, I have to ask. What do you think of Bjorn’s complaints thus far?”<br>
Russ pulled a face, thinking over what little he had seen in the two days he had been back. “Well-grounded. If, perhaps, tainted with regret. He doesn’t just see something wrong here, he sees it as having been his fault for preventing it.”<br>
“You could, of course, change things as you saw fit,” Grimnir pointed out, masking his displeasure at the thought.<br>
“Oh, yes, yes I can,” Russ said flatly. “In fact…” he said, turning to face the shorter man with a tight, strained grin. “Bet on it.”<br>
“Well, that’s encouraging,” Grimnir said. Russ went back to rooting through his piles of crap.<br>
“Don’t take it personally. Honestly, I don’t see too much to be wrong here. Just a few…edges need trimming. We’re going to be called upon to take to the field soon again anyway.”<br>
“You’ve heard from the Emperor, then?” Grimnir asked.<br>
“Nope, he’d be damn stupid not to try to capitalize on the gains we made against Abbadon in the Black Crusade.” Russ pulled two wooden doors in the side of the room open to reveal the suit of prototype Mk.7 armor he had worn before beginning his penance. “And we won’t be the only ones.”