Hopefully the beginning of something interesting (wrote it really quick so it's probably littered with grammar issues).


Cynogen sat at the table. One hand propping his head up, the other lazily poking at a beetle as it skittered across the rotten wood. He hated these meetings, not because there wasn’t any progress, no. It was because these things take him. He had been working on this project for months now and every 7th day his supervisor, Misan always wanted a status update.
Cynogen leant back against the chair, at looked at the room.
“Misan Misan Misan.” Cynogen muttered.
Most would agree that there has to be a certain decency upheld by the practitioners of the Grandfather, a discrete humbleness that leant itself a certain aura of patience and understanding. Misan flaunted these aspects. The walls of his chambers were festooned with grim totems, garish symbols, an excess of such display made Misan’s personality obvious. He did not share the patience Cynogen had. Misan demanded instant gratification; he sought each new affliction with unnatural vigor. This kind of zeal and obsession belonged in one of the Prince’s cults.
A caged Nurgling scowled at Cynogen. It growled, almost comically in the corner.

The door opened and Misan hobbled in. He was cloaked in a pale green shroud. He was clearly weighed down by the copious amounts of jewelry and icons displaying his affection for the Grandfather. How utterly superficial. He approached the caged bloat-form. The Nurgling cooed and mewed as it teethed on Misans fingers until it drew blood. Misan turned and stared at Cynogen and paused as if never seeing him before.
The Nurgling squealed softly as Misan walked toward the table and sat down.

Misan threw back his hood to reveal his pocked, gaunt face. No doubt he forced every phage and disease he could unto himself. These things should come naturally, the Grandfathers boons must not be taken, but given.

“Cynogen!” Misan coughed up black spittle.

“Misan, you look well.” Cynogen nodded at Misan.

This was not a compliment as Cynogen expecting the barrage of “whys” and “when’s”.

“Why haven’t you finished yet?” Asked Misan.

Cynogen sighed and covered his face with his hand.

“When will you be finished?” Persisted Misan.

The former Biologis-adept ran a hand across his shaven head and looked up in dismay.

“Lord, these things take him. Every week you ask the same thing and every week I tell you the same. You have asked for a Rictus so potent and vehement that it is to rot iron and steel, something like that cannot be wrought in days, not even weeks…”

Misan raised a palm to silence Cynogen.

“Shh Shh…Listen adept, the Archon has hastened his attack, and he demands the Rictus to be complete by 2 blessings…”

“14 days?” Cynogen startled.

“Indeed. You know the role your creation will play in the invasion and therefore how important it is to the Archon. You also know that your success is reflected upon me, as well as your failures.”

Misan grinned, his skin rippled with deep wrinkles, a tooth rotten smile.

“I understand what the Archon demands but…”

“Get it done.” Misan interjected.

Cynogen pushed himself from the table and rose.

“Good, good, I knew I was right to place my trust in you” Misan sneezed. He wiped the thick strands of mucus with his sleeve.

“Bless you” Cynogen muttered between his teeth.