The Collected and Collated Annals of the battles, wars and conflicts of Aurish Prime: Part 7: Flowers

Somewhere, in what ever false organ made of warp stuff that serves to formulate a consciousness, deep within the heap of tissue that is known as Muculent Reapbane, a feeling occurs.

Heightened by the gathering winds of the tides who's waves now break upon the shore of the outer atmosphere, it stirs satisfaction.

A knowing.

A satisfied, sated quality.

Something that if even postulated by a warpsmith or astropath, that a Daemon could feel peace, would have them lobotomised and reinstated as a janitorial servitor on the lower decks of some backwater mining vessel.

Despite the unlikelyhood of this feeling manifesting in a creature made of the raw matter of the Immaterium, it did.

The thought process went like this:

They die, they rot, we die, we rot. Everything is just potential for the garden it will all end their eventually. Nothing exists forever. It is all compost for the great flowering at the end of all things.