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The Lion and the Flea


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It was dark, as it always was whenever the Lord of the 1st Legion sat alone in his quarters. Although he was tempted to light a candle this once, if he could get his hands on one. For something disturbed his thoughts that day. A niggling tickle on his scalp, robbing him of his strategic focus he so needed in these troubled times. He resisted the urge to scratch his head. He -knew- the Watchers were watching, but as always they would not intervene. The jerks. They could easily remove the source of his distraction with but a thought, but instead they just stood there. In the darkest corner. Staring like the creeps they were.


He could handle it himself. Take a step out and holler for a servant to fetch him a mirror with which to pluck out the foreign life form. But ever since he had disciplined his Chaplain a bit more fatally than anticipated, the rank and file men of the ship would wet their undergarments whenever they so much as heard he was coming. In the most literal way possible. There was going to be a shortage of floor detergent soon. Thus, he didn't leave his chambers much. And yet the distance only made his infamy amidst the crewmen all the greater.


Where in his Father's domain, had the thing come to lodge upon his mane? And how did it survive his rigorous hygienic procedures, as thorough as they were regular? He did not know. Maybe it was during that scrap of his with Russ... He wouldn't be too surprised, if his Primarch blood had inadvertently bred a new species of super flea on his unwashed locks. Weren't the men of legend, from the time when Mankind dwelled exclusively on Terra, and from whence Fenrisians drew so much of their culture amidst the most well-groomed and cleanly sorts of their time? Just what was with that whole Legion's lack of hygiene? Did it have to do with the rumours of their canine DNA? He let out a groan, not bothering to hide it. Russ frustrated him; in all that he did, he was the opposite of him.


He gave in to his desire to scratch his head. And as always, it offered but a temporary respite. The blasted animal seemed to always be one step ahead of him. The familiarity with Curze didn't go unnoticed. Both bloodsuckers, both nuisances, both so clamoring to be squashed mercilessly. Both evading his grasp. He toyed with the idea to divert the fleet unto the tomb of an eldar civilization. They must've had ways with which to rid themselves of parasites of the scalp, at least judging by the flamboyant hairs they favored.


He stopped that train of thought dead on its tracks, as he realized he had forgotten that which he was thinking about before his mind drifted into the realm of idiocy and inanity. It was just a damn flea! He was a Primarch, for his Father's sake! And by his Father's sake, he would rid all obstacles standing between him and victory over the heretics! The most immediate one being the flea! With a most gallant blow, he drew his hunting knive from its sheath, and plunged it into the depths of his mane, as a tickle registered the place from which the little beast drew blood this time around. With remarkable precision, the tip skewered it, but stopped nanometers away from the surface of the Lion's skin. He let out a muffled, barked laugh, staring at his impaled enemy, and pondering eating it for old times' sake. He decided against it, times were scarcely lean that such a deed was required. It was indeed a larger than average flea however. For the sake of academics, he stored away the plump insect in the confines of his robes, to hand it over to the apothecarion discreetly for further study.


Self-satisfied with his deeds, and feeling more than a bit gratified over his conquest of one more dastardly beast, the Lion resumed brooding forlornly in the dark. He was about to remember what exactly he was plotting, when he felt another tingling tickle on his scalp, a familiar feeling that had haunted him since that scrap of his with Russ...


(I need to drink less coffee daily...)

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