[Jealous. How Fabius reviled the word, the very notion of its use against him a spit in the face of all he has accomplished. Grand Apothecary of the Emperor's Children, second to none in the entirety of their galaxy, and Lucius deigns to imagine him, jealous? Hatred toils its way through creaking bones and the useless flesh of not an Astartes warrior, but a pathetic human.

Though just as that unsettling, impish grin so full of needle-teeth is natural to Lucius, such is the gaunt smile that spreads across Fabius' sagging visage. A smile more befit of a corpse than a man.]

You always were a fan of theatrics, Lucius. Just like Fulgrim. [The name of their Primarch is said with a hint of bitterness, as if it were everything less than an honor to serve beneath him.] And that god grips you even here, where your face has become that of a boy from the rock called Chemos.

[The words pass between them with the casualness of two friends reunited after years apart, but the crouch that possesses Fabius is anything but friendly. As he adjusts to his new vision, without the aid of his augments, he studies Lucius' new form. Felid enough, with some liberties in design. He wonders for a moment, who would chose such a form—but, garish as it is, it perfectly suits the man who wears it.]

Tell me, Lucius: do you still have your undying gift?