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"How many are there, Vommikrux?" asked the young Plaguebearer.
"Silence, pustule. I'm counting," replied the elder Daemon as he set a rotting head in the pile to his left.
"It's Blackrot, old stinky, and I know. That's what I asked. What's our count so far?"
Blackrot's enthusiasm was welcome most of the time, but at present it was distracting to the old Plaguebearer. Vommikrux had been sorting the head piles for longer than he could remember. It was the first task he'd been given when he took form as a Plaguebearer, and he would not be allowed to move on to another until he finished it. He had counted the heads more than a thousand times since the first, never coming up with the same number and therefore never knowing if he was accurate. Now he had the end in sight. No troublesome Nurglings had stolen any heads from the pile, nor had a fresh crop sprung up in the Garden. Just a few more and he could complete his task. He just needed Blackrot to calm down and let him finish. Twelve thousand and sixteen, twelve thousand and seventeen...
Blackrot grabbed Vommikrux's elbow, tugged it slightly and peered over his elder's shoulder at the head in his hand. "Is that twelve thousand and fifteen, or twelve thousand and sixteen?"
"It's twelve thousand and sixteen, or wait, maybe it's nineteen. I... I don't know! Tzeentch take you, Blackrot, I don't know! You've made me lose count. Now I have to start over. Not again..."
Blackrot jumped up and grabbed a head from the pile. "It's alright, stinky," he said with a rotting smile, "I'll help!"
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