[ Oh, but on the contrary. As that question is posed to him, his lips stretch wide in their cheshire grin, and without hesitation or a hint of insincerity, Lucius declares, ] I am not perfect now.

[ Without resistance, that finger moves where it's coaxed, the tip of his claw teasing at the space where stone and flesh meet even as his words grow heavy with excitement. ] Had I already achieved perfection, what need would I have for my eternal life? If you strive to reach that peak, as I do, you should know that to claim it is an end to things. To try and drag yourself higher still is to merely gild the lily.

Make no mistake: I am nothing less than the greatest duelist in the galaxy. That does not mean that I am yet perfect.

[ He doesn't feel the hand on his thigh anymore, or the stem of the wine glass in his hand. A manic, restless energy rolls through his limbs; it's a drive that is only ever barely chained at all, and with talk of the obsession that has filled his hearts with blood for ten-thousand years and more, it flows free. Caught up in his own momentum, his thoughts spill freely from his lips. ]

There is only one man among us who can claim to be as such, and that is Fulgrim.