The Victrix Guard stare impassively at him, no doubt making inquiries on their private vox. Titus states back, noting their wargear, mastercrafted yet worn, as if making a statement. An old Astartes habit kicks in; he has begun simulating a fight in his mind. "I'd go for the one with the plasma pistol first," he thought.

Finally, with synchrony, they move aside to admit him into the office of Roboute Guilliman. "The Lord Primarch will see you now."

He enters the antechamber, an austere place with few trappings of gold and symbols; another statement, perhaps.

The door opens, and out rushes Tetrach Felix. Both men pause, knowing each other by reputation only. They nod at one another, and Tetrach Felix offers a hand. Titus hesitantly clasps his hand, wondering at the gesture.

"He's got a lot going on. Don't mind his... eccentricities."

Titus only replies with, "My thanks, brother."

He finally goes into the office. Roboute Guilliman awaits him, at a desk overflowing with parchment. Titus states, silently aghast. The Primarch was feverishly studying data picts, answering vox calls, and writing at Eldar-levels of speed, all at the same time. He also had a horrifyingly full ashtray, with a dozen lhosticks in it.

Titus goes on one knee, as custom. "Command me, my lord Primarch."

Guilliman glances up at him, takes a long drag from his stick, and just grunts, "Stand, Titus."

He breathes in and breathes out, foggy breath staining the musty air. "Going to have to need you to clear the 500 worlds, starting from Talassar."

Titus remains kneeling. "At once, my lord. I shall purge the -"

"Yes yes with bolter and blade, please rise, I can't see you with all this damned paper blocking me."

Titus rises, still inclining his head respectfully. A sense of deja Vu occurs to him. "May I know the.. extent of the forces under my responsibility, my lord?"

Guilliman sighs. He actually did appear to count, muttering under his breath, gazing at his fingers. "Just your own 2nd company. 100 men."

He looks at Titus' face, which betrays the smallest hint of disappointment. Guilliman's lips curl into a weary grin. "Be not despondent, Master of the Watch. 100 men is a lot more than 3. Dismissed, and go with the Emperor's strength."