Two Techpriests tend to the Emperor's emaciated form, the torture of the Golden Throne having twisted His once noble visage into a facsimile of death. Was it the horrible wound from Horus or this terrible device? As the Techpriests go about their duties a faint gust of air breaks the silence... the techpriest nearest the Emperor slumps slightly and staggers. Coughing spasmodically and finally righting himself the techpriest looks to the other. "I hate it when He does that," he blurts in binary. This elicits a robotic cough from the other priest, which must be a kind of laugh for so inhuman a being. Had anyone been looking close enough, there could be noticed an ever so slight upwards curl at the corners of the Emperor's mouth... Moral of the Story: Even in the grim darkness of the 41st Millennium farts are still pretty funny... EMPEROR APPROVED!!! ECCLESIARCHY DENIED!!!
Nurgle: *Sticky fist bump* Nice one bro'! Cegorach: You honor me dude! *Throws a suspiciously obvious glance at the Emperor's right hand, then presents him his contrary one, accompanied by a wink and a broad smile* Never thought I was left-handed, eh?
(Some time in the early years of the Great Crusade) Malcador nods patiently to the diplomat and shakes his hand. Hy Brasil would serve a grand purpose if all went according to plan, he thought as he quickly entered his private restroom. Grabbing some reading material: A Treatise on the Primarchs: Genetic Engineering or Playing God?, and sitting down for a considerable stay he went about his business. A number of minutes later the now relieved Sigillite reaches knowingly for the toilet paper roll. Nothing. The Sigillite quickly extends his psychic self through the door to his restroom and into the nearby janitorial alcove, which was carefully concealed during meetings and such. A handservant shivers a bit and becomes wide-eyed as he witnesses a roll of toilet paper lift from the shelf and float quickly past him. Not missing a beat he follows the floating paper roll as it lazily makes its way through the large meeting hall. The door to Malcador's private restroom whips open as the roll zips through the doorway, the door closing quickly behind it. "Somebody's in trouble..." pipes in a nearby handmaiden. The handservant gulps nervously and darts from the hall. He had some other work to attend to, didn't he? Moral of the Story: Always check for TP before you go about your business. After all, you're not psychic... MALCADOR APPROVED!!! ADMINISTRATUM DENIED!!!
