[Whatever anger Eridanus had managed to stifle by name alone was exposed as Lucius jumped at the opportunity to sermonize his war-father. His grasp on the other's arm had been weak, the flesh slipping through his claws, yet where it fell to the couch, deadly points pierce into the cushion with murderous intent. His face reddens, as the disconnect between their experiences is filled with the gospelizing void-priests of Vathea. To Eridanus, this in the same vein as the cultists who would herald the end times of Old Gods, and the demonic proselytizers of the king of demons himself.

The way he exhales the breath he held is like dragon-fire poured past his lips, smoke pluming from the hot furnace of his rage-gripped heart, stoked by the coals of Lucius' words—their embers licking at his skin. Sick thoughts of abandonment fill Eridanus' mind, of Rosefica leaving him, and if given the opportunity, Lucius too. The cesspit that opens within him is cavenous, bottomless, and thirsty. Like the fluttering of wings, selfish ideas pass through his mind—the desire to entrap Lucius in the void of his heart clawing eager and torturous at his limbs.

Yet, it is one lone thought, one lone idea that manages to stay him from lunging at Lucius like a rabid animal. His grip on the seat cushion loosens, and he brings that wine glass, shaking in his hand, to his lips for a taste. There is a look of smug satisfaction that captures him, as he grins impishly up at Lucius.]

All his power and he's yet to come rescue you from this place? I wonder if he even notices you are gone? [His words are haughty, and he can feel the umbral talons of avaricion dig into his weak flesh.] Perhaps he's replaced you with some new toy. A shame that you are stuck in Ryslig, with no manner to contest your place in beloved Fulgrim's heart.