User:T42/Sandbox

Boom. Welcome to the Sanbox.

Dingo
"Go on, big man... pull the trigger, and pray to whatever fucked up gods you have that it kills me. Cus if it doesn't, I'm gonna send you to them in little, messy, bits."

- Dingo

Appearance
Dingo is a lithe, muscular individual, clad in his Inquisitorial Great Coat and covered in various tribal fetishes and grizzly trophies. He stands at six feet, eight inches tall, and his bright green mohawk and Latouka tribal war mask make him all the more intimidating for his stature. What skin is revealed is covered in old battle scars and tribal tattoos, along with a few more modern looking tattoos from his time in the Kordakan Guard. He is dark skinned and has bright yellow eyes, a trait he shares with most of his Latouka Tribe kin. Most notable however are Dingo's old surgical staples, which run across his right eye. They can be seen through the eye portals of his helmet, and gleam in the light visibly.

Personality
True to his origins, Dingo is violent and volatile, prone to brash actions and harsh words. He is a very passionate individual, riding out his feelings as opposed to keeping them hidden. However, he is also laid back and very casual, something often at odds with his station. As an Inquisitor of Ordo Xenos, Dingo treats his holy mission more like a big game hunt than a righteous crusade, knowing his enemy purely so he may better hunt them down. Dingo prefers to act independently, so that the Emperor may notice his actions above those of others. While generally wearing his heart on his sleeve, Dingo is known to become fixated like a jungle cat when the time comes for the hunt, becoming an enigma to his allies and enemies, only letting his emotions show through the eyes of his smiling mask.

Beliefs
Dingo is a practicing member of the Latoukan Imperial Cult, a violent and militant creed that hold the God Emperor of Mankind as an honorable but stern warrior god who demands glory in battle and heroic deeds from his followers. The Latoukan ideal of the Emperor is uncomfortably close to the vile Death Cults for some, with the tenets requiring the faithful to gather up grizzly trophies and occasionally cannibalize their opponents. Latoukans must never rest long from combat, for they believe that the Emperor decides when a warrior dies, and will bring that death early should the warrior not be striving for the greatest glory. Thus, Latoukans believe that they cannot die in battle so long as their actions are sufficiently impressive, thus they garb themselves in their fetishes and tattoos, their brightly dyed and wildly cut hair, and their fearsome tribal masks. It is clad in these frightful and garish vestments that they believe the Emperor can more easily see them, and therefore dole out his protection to them as is befitting their actions.

Dingo would be considered a very devout follower of these blood hungry teachings, and any thing less or different is either an inferior form of worship or outright heresy.

Skills
Dingo is a fierce warrior and supremely skilled tracker, his time in the Kordakan Guard and as an acolyte, not to mention his upbringing on the feral world of Kordak, have molded him into a deadly individual with a very useful set of skills. Capable of living off the land indefinitely on any remotely habitable world, and tough enough to survive weather conditions that would make short work of most other humans, Dingo was built to last. His ability with nearly any weapon in the Imperial arsenal is considerable, being a proficient marksman and supremely skilled hand to hand combatant. He moves quickly and decisively in combat, seeking to bring the killing blow in a swift and conspicuous way, though he will drag out a fight or give the opponent a chance to make it more sporting if he sees it as a feasible option.

Dingo is also notably reckless, though he usually makes sure to at least have a rough plan before he acts and tends to learn quite a bit about his chosen prey before he strikes, as any good hunter would. Thus, one would be hard pressed to find another person outside of the Magos Biologis or Space Marine Apothecaries that know more about both xenos and human behavioral patterns and anatomy. Of course, such knowledge does not come without a very strong understanding of basic field medicine. Though Dingo would be a poor choice for a surgeon, he can amputate and manage wounds very well.

However, he is socially maladjusted, his feral origins and generally uncouth behavior clashing with most "civilized" folk. His rampant misogyny and ego, not to mention his proclivities for violence and speaking about subjects considered unsuitable for polite conversation, make him a bit of an outcast within most circles.

Equipment
Bolt Rifle: A custom made Bolter, Dingo had this beast of a gun manufactured for him following his rise to the rank of Interrogator within Inquisitor Brandus' retinue. (being the only retinue member) It is equipped with a mid-long range scope, a sling, and a bayonet. It fires at a precise, semi-automatic rate... all the better for putting down xenos monstrosities or the poor unfortunate heretic down the way.

Lulu: Dingo's closest friend save Angron, this weather beaten but sturdy sawn-off double barreled shotgun, known affectionately as "Lulu", has saved the feral Inquisitor many times before and since his appointment to the most powerful station in the Imperium. A simple but brutally effective weapon, made by primitive gunsmiths of Kordaks more civilized tribes, Lulu can fire either shot or slugs, but can also act as a blunderbuss if necessary, shooting rocks and screws just as effectively.

Autopistol: A powerful, Semi-Automatic handgun, Dingo retrieved this weapon after prying it from the cold dead hands of a Hive Gang Crime Lord. This reliable side arm is no bolt pistol, but it will punch through Flak like nobodies business and put down a raging Ork faster than you can say "Headshot".

Durgan-Pattern Grenade Launcher: A compact Grenade Launcher designed for urban and guerrilla style combat, the Durgan-Pattern Grenade Launcher acts as a versatile "problem solver" that can be utilized in tight corridors. Dingo wears it on a sling, usually letting it hang at the small of his back, and carries various forms of specialized grenades. Most of these are common, smoke, frag, krak, but he also bears small amounts of Psyke-Out and Haywire rounds.

Combat Knife

Punch Dagger

Inquisitorial Greatcoat

Inquisitorial Rosette

Carapace Armor Vest

Flak Vest Shoulder Pads

Latouka Tribal War Mask: Dingo is never without his mask, as it is considered taboo within the Latouka tribe for a warrior to ever remove his mask in the field of battle. And for the Latouka, the whole world is an eternal field of battle.

Flask

Ork Teef Necklace

4 Human Scalps

1 Tau Scalp

1 Kroot Eye in a Jar

3 Grechin Skulls

Retinue
Angron: Angron is a savage little cyber-mastiff Dingo picked up during his first mission as a fully fledged Inquisitor. Angron is a small creature, about the size of a common feline, but his ferocity is that of a beast easily twenty times his size. This missile of miniature power claws and razor sharp fangs can literally burrow through full grown Orks and even solid rockcrete. Angron is also a relentless tracker, capable of leaving a luminescent trail of urine when tracking targets at high speed. Like his master, Angron is absolutely fearless, and will fight to the bitter end to both kill his assigned targets and defend his master. Angron generally likes to ride in his masters left coat pocket, but will settle for a perch on his right shoulder as well.

History
Dingo began life on the savage feral world of

The Corlay Guard (The Death Squads of Corlay)
Combat Style: Small unit tactics, Kill Squads, Assassin Scouts, Mechanized Infantry, Heavy Infantry.

Culture: Fascist Cast System, Warrior-Philosopher Kings rule planet as figureheads, legislators, and economic experts, young or glory hungry ones become high ranking officers within the Corlay Guard, Soldier Cast train in great academies all their lives and enforce Warrior-Philosopher Kings rule, fanatic, tend to be very prideful, Priest Cast enforce the Imperial Cult and provide moral counseling to both Warrior-Philosopher Kings and Labor Cast, Craftsman Cast creates war material and other goods, are often associated with Corlay's local machine cult, Labor Cast provides human resources and deals in agriculture, the Shadow Cast or "Cast-less" act as assassins and expendable soldiery in desperate times, can be selected to act as part of the exclusive "Commando Cast" due to their cutthroat natures and ability to survive.

Personality: Ultra-nationalists, "For the Emperor and Corlay!", ruthless, does not get along with others, considers themselves superior, have strong political convictions. Follow orders to the letter, dishonor in failure, must bring honor and glory to the Soldier Cast and family line.

Grailian Foot
"They are Agri-World peasants armed with nought but sticks and rocks! We will be back on the ships before supper men, off to find some real enemies worth our mettle!"

- Final words of Lieutenant Du'Pont Regialian

Hailing from the wealthy Civilized World of Graili in the Segmentum Solar, the supremely well funded Grailian Guard or Grailian Foot are considered some of the finest armed and armored Imperial Guard forces in the Galaxy. Known for their glorious victories and surpemely trained Guardsmen, known in the Grailian vernacular as Foots or Footmen, the Grailian Foot have fought for the Imperium since the days of the Great Crusade. A shame then that they have a history of incompetent leaders and soft hearted Footmen. The regiments of the Grailian Foot have long since been relegated to ceremonial troops on their homeworld of Graili, with the old wars of the great city states and banking clans that rule the planet being a thing of the past ever since the Emperor himself brought peace to the world. This has left the Grailian Foot supremely well armed and trained, but with little experience in the ways of war. That being said, should a Regiment reach veteran status, there is very little they cannot achieve with a competent commander, for their arsenal is so great that even the Emperor's own Angels of Death would be impressed at the devastation a veteran unit of Grailian Heavy Infantry can level at the foe.

The Cuori Duri
Also known as "Stone Hearts" or "Cold Hearts", the Cuori Duri are the veteran warriors of any given Grailian Foot Regiment. Far and few between given the nature of the Grailian Foot, these men are likely in their positions not necessarily because of battlefield wisdom or experience, but by sheer ruthlessness and a craven drive to survive. These are men who have outlasted their fellow Grailians by being as callous and merciless as possible, sacrificing all to ensure their own survival. Such men are cold and cruel, and utterly ruthless in combat. Though considered craven, the Cuori Duri are unlikely to panic like their rank and file fellows, knowing that their chances of survival depend on the enemy being as dead as possible. Thus they are known for their discipline under fire, and their utter contempt for the enemy. They can be distinguished from their fellows by the worn state of their wargear, and the aloof nature they carry themselves with, being devoid of the usual bravado of their greener compatriots.

Poss Names
Band at the Edge of Reality

Five Marines and an Eldritch Abomination

The Black Sound

Drowning Aquilla

The Thing That Should Not Be

Members/Instruments
Singer- Xam Ober, Slaaneshii.

Guitarist- Jakob Urban, Kornate.

Bassist- Othello "Alpha" Van Merlin, Nurglite.

Drummer- Jimmy Bones, Chaos Undivided.

DJ- "Live Cat", Tzeentchen.

The Throne is Vacant
"Run! Run little one! Ahahaha! You can make it! Just keep running!"

The booming blast of the monsters voice tore through the burning city, rushing after the little frame scrambling through the alleyway, tumbling through the rubbish heaps and trashbags. The smoke and fire cast a hellish red over the alleyway, the usual smog laden air of the hive city now choked with ash and the smell of burning flesh. The little form, wreathed in patchwork rags and long, curly black hair, looked over her shoulder. Set against the flames and flash of bolterfire was the monster, towering above a pair of mangled corpses, monstrous axe roaring, splattering gore across the walls as it gave chase.

"Yes! Scamper! Flee! Scream! I want to see the fear in your little eyes! I want to feel the life drip out of your little body as it falls apart in my hands!"

As it ran, it ran its claws and axe across the alley walls, creating flashes and sparks, revealing its silhouetted form. Flashes of spikes and skulls, bones and eldritch scrawlings, of slathering maws filled with gnashing teeth, of burning purple eyes.

The little one ran, her eyes fixing ahead on the open roadway at the end of the alley. A torrent of human chaos awaited on the other side. People rushing past, monsters in their midst, weapons and guns spraying gouts of gore and fire. Her feet pounded even harder as she heard the thundering footfalls grow closer, sparks of damned weaponry burning in the corners of her eyes. The screaming throngs grew closer, faces could be made out now in the red glow. All were new to the little one, all full of terror and mad panic, unlike her own. She had closed out panic, closed out fear. There was only the end of the alleyway. There was only escape.

Suddenly the air was ripped from her lungs, the human stream torn from view as the grimy alley floor rushed up to replace it. As she hit the ground, the great shape came sailing over her, digging its flashing claws deep into the wall, ripping it down and pivoting to face her.

"Aww, did the little one have a tumble?"

She dared not look up, dared not move. Her lips began to move of their own accord, the only comfort she had left slipping from them.

"Holy throne of golden Terra, watch over me. Protect me from those who trespass against you, God Emperor of Ma-"

A heavy, burning hot mass, dug into her scalp, prompting a yelp of pain.

"Ah! Now that's a far better sound."

The monster hoisted her high from her long, curly locks, her little hands pulling at the solid mass that was its gauntleted hand. It burned her soft palms at the touch, and the heat began to sear her scalp.

"Stop! Please! Let me go!" She screamed.

"Why should I?"

"If you don't He will get you!"

The monster tossed her roughly to the side, crashing her into a pile of rubbish.

"Who? Him?" The beast motioned his horned head to the great statue that loomed in the distance, standing with its stoic face to the carnage of the beleaguered hive. "The Corpse Emperor?"

"He punishes bad men!"

A black, hollow laugh built slowly from the depths of the monsters chest. Slowly rolling out and growing in depraved humor.

"I am no man, little one." The monster said, steaming drool dripping from its slathering, triangular maw.

"He kills monsters too! And He will get all of you for the things you've done!" She screamed defiant, leaping to her feet, little fists balled with all the fury she could muster.

The monster was taken aback, his head tilted in an amused fashion as he flexed his glowing claws. The little one noticed the gaping hole left in its wake, opening into a vast room with crates piled high.

"Will He now?"

"Yes! A-and you can't stop him!" She tensed herself as the beast took a step forward, gripping his axe once more from its place on his skull laden belt of chains.

"Oh? I can't?" It spoke in a falsely inquisitive tone.

"No one can stop Him! H-he is all powerful! He is the God of all mankind! And He will punish yo-"

He voice was cut off by the loud crash of the axe being dropped at her feet.

"If your Emperor is so powerful, then pick up that axe." The monster snarled, a cruel smile in its words.

"Wh-what?" She asked, stunned by the great toothed axe laying before her. The weapon was easily twice her size, was caked with gore and viscera, and smelled of burnt blood and flesh.

"If the Emperor is so eager to punish me, surely he could give you the power to lift that axe. He could imbue you with the might to strike me down right now, and at the hands of a little girl no less! Go on, fight for your Emperor, avenge mankind! Do it!" It roared at her, hefting its flashing power claw high over its head in menace.

With much trepidation, she reached for it, its very hilt burned her flesh on contact. She recoiled, drawing in a pained hiss through closed teeth.

"Whats the matter? Is the glorious God Emperor not with you? Does he not care? Am I simply not vile enough to smite?"

The little one scowled and shook with rage, "Shut up!"

"Make me! Strike me down, little crusader!"

Again she clamped her hands around the axe, the burning haft searing her soft palms. She held on, hot tears running down her dark cheeks. She did not release it, both hands holding firm, muscles straining to move the mighty hulk of steel and teeth. The flesh began to slip from her palms, but she held firm, mouthing the prayers her mother had taught her.

"You can't lift it, little one." The chiding, mocking tone of the monster oozed into her ears.

"Shut up!" She screamed, eyes shut and teeth bared against the pain.

"You have no strength, because there is no one here to help you. There is no one to protect you. No one to save you. There is no God Emperor."

"He will kill you! He will make you pay!"

"He will do nothing, for there is only a vacant throne, with the old, moldering bones of a long dead man rotting atop its seat. You burn your hands for nothing. You scream for nothing. You lived, and will die, for nothing. Just like your loving parents. Just like every single pathetic little soul in this wrenched stain of human waste!" He snarled with manic glee as he swung his claw at the little girl, narrowly missing her, instead ripping open a dumpster and lighting its contents ablaze.

She took this chance to flee, ducking in between the behemoths legs and darting towards the opening in the wall. She heard the axe roar narrowly behind her, catching for a moment on the scruff of her neck, ripping the rags from her.

"Where is your bravery little crusader!?" The beast mockingly roared behind her as she dove into the midst of the cargo crates and boxes. She clawed through the pitch black chaos of the haphazard stacks, desperately trying to escape the sound of smashing crates behind her.

King's Span
It's red eyes seemed to still stare out, its iron maw still fixed with a savage sneer of metal teeth, still stained with blood even after all these years. Justin held the black and purple helm in his hands a moment longer, captivated by its baleful markings, its spikes made of bone that covered the entire head, the jagged symbols that had been carved deep into the ceremite plating. It was a thing of utter evil. It was pure, solidified, heresy. And yet, Justin had to endure its vile presence only a little longer.

The young man stuffed the helm into the secret compartment with the rest of his "artifacts" that he had gathered from the days skulking in the underhives and covered the little trapdoor with the usual goods. The cart had to look as unassuming as possible, just like every time beforehand. The fine fabrics here, the exotic pets there, the rare spices from far off hives stacked neatly in their section directly above the heretical artifacts. Justin agonized over his cart's appearance for nearly half an hour within the dank alleyway. He realized, as he was reshuffling the animal cages for the third time, that he was shaking.

"It's okay Justin boy." He whispered under his breath. "It's just this months run, just this months run. After today, you won't have to do this again for another whole month."

He always said that, just once a month. It somehow brought comfort, but Justin also knew that a month in Hive Julianis went by faster than one would think. He poked his head from the alleyway entrance, watching the great river of humanity rush by him in an unending tide going to and fro.

"Just step on out and you'll blend in." He murmured reassuringly. "You're just some goon with a wagon full of shite for the fops on high, that's it. Go to the gate, go in, move the product, get out. Easy."

His hands still trembled as he hefted his cart and plunged into the rushing sea of humanity. King's Span was utterly massive, wide enough for nearly a few hundred men to walk fingertip to fingertip, yet, as it always was with Hives, every available empty space had been invaded by the onrushing tide of humanity. Thankfully, Justin's cart forced a small gap between him and the writhing masses. The golden span went on for several miles,

The Runner
The stagnant air of Lupercal's Folly forced itself down Gregory's throat as he stood on the precipice, overlooking the steel and rockcrete jungle of the great fortress city. Her spires rose up into the blackness of the upper canopy, where the overlords of the city slumbered, and plunged deep into the utter darkness below, where the Nurglites and Mournscreams lurked. The city itself seemed to be an endless forest of towers and blocks of urban sprawl, broken only by the pulsing veins of light that were her innumerable highways. The air tasted of acid and smog, and stung the eyes of foreigners.

But Gregory was no foreigner. He had lived all his life here in these great fortress walls, and he would die here, one day. But hopefully not today.

"We got him now boys, bastard has stuck himself up on the roof!" Gregory heard over his shoulder as he stood on the ledge, eyes fixed directly ahead of him. He heard the enforcers bashing on the door, their grunts and curses. But he did not take his eyes away from the black city, he did not blink away the ash as it settled on his lashes. He took a deep breath, and steadied himself.

The rusty latch on the old iron door gave way as the enforcers muscled their way through it, but Gregory had greater things on his mind. As he leapt, he closed his eyes for but a moment, feeling the cold rush of the wind, the sudden weightlessness. He heard the amazed voices of the enforcers vanish as the whipping sound of the wind batted at his ears.

Badunz Tribe
The Badunz Tribe are a savage band of Orks known for their violent exploits around the western rim of Segmentum Ultima and near the Galactic Core. Though considered a mild threat (as mild as a marauding Ork Tribe can be)

Enforcer Fleet Tsúil Olc
An internal fleet of the Storm Draugar under the "command" of Lord Murdok of the Third Storm, Enforcer Fleet Tsúil Olc or "Evil Eye" in Tunnel Tongue, is one of many Enforcer Fleets scattered about the Blackspawn Dominion.

These Enforcer Fleets serve a dual purpose. First, they act as a sort of mobile garrison within the Blackspawn Dominion, supporting the regimes of their client worlds in times of rebellion or conflict with small factions. Ideally, most Dominion worlds are more than capable of defending themselves, being supplied with weapons and funds through trade to support considerable armies and fleets. However, times often arise where these forces are not enough or prove incapable. It is then that the Dominion worlds call out for the direct action of their overlords. The Enforcer fleets are small but dangerous forces, their ships being outfitted by the Storm Draugar's Warpsmith shipwrights to exacting standards and crewed with an armies worth of traitor guard and cultist fodder. Each Enforcer Fleet can also house up to two full squads of Fuil Óga and occasionally high ranking warband members if the issue requires a certain degree of finesse (or lack thereof). This force is usually more than enough support the client world needs to put down great rebellions or solve power struggles. But the more important role of the Enforcer Fleets are to remind the Dominion worlds of the Blackspawn brothers authority within their realm of the Maelstrom. The Enforcer Fleets can easily overtake a single world, or, if the local forces prove too unruly to put down, call for the assistance of the rest of the 3rd Storm. The fact that there are at least several Enforcer Fleets, regularly stopping by Dominion worlds both on request and at random, makes many an ambitious noble or warlord think twice about any ideas of treachery, and most certainly ensures that they are expedient with their taxes.

Fuil Óga squads can be attached to Enforcer Fleets for the purposes of gaining battlefield experience and tempering their usual lust for direct combat with the varied and sometimes non-violent needs of the client worlds. Fuil Óga may be assigned as bodyguards, negotiators, even mediators in negotiations. While most Fuil Óga consider such mundane tasks beneath them, they understand that such is their station until they prove themselves capable enough to go with the Storms on great raids and dark crusades.

Attached to Enforcer Fleet Tsúil Olc is two squads of Fuil Óga:

Claudicos Vand
 An one eyed Legionary older than some space fairing empires, Claudicos was born centuries ago on ancient Terra, raised by the techno-barbarian warrior tribes of his homeland and later molded into a living weapon by the burgeoning Imperium of Man. He was amongst some of the very first Astartes, and served through both the earliest campaigns of the Great Crusade and even alongside the Traitor Legions during the Horus Heresy. His life is a tale of blood and death, grand victories and crushing defeats. Few, if any Astartes, can claim to be as old or learned as Claudicos. But, unfortunately, even his super human biology does not make him wholly immune to the ravages of time, nor his own tempestuous disposition.

During the Great Scouring, Claudicos found himself and a small band of fellow Legionaries cut off from the forces routing towards the Eye of Terror, and was also barred from the Maelstrom. Eventually he and his few compatriots and their puny fleet found refuge in the farthest reaches of the Galatic East. There, on the very fringes of the galaxy, he and the surviving traitors made a living as mercenaries to the various techno-barbarians and xenos empires that littered the fringes, fighting for well over a few hundred years. They became known as the "Host of Wolves". For centuries the Host fought and their numbers grew, until they numbered over one hundred Astartes. Some of the band worshiped the Dark Gods, but many remained unconcerned about such subjects, simply plying their abilities to survive in the chaotic expanses of the eastern fringe.

But Claudicos soon grew enfeebled, time taking its toll on a body that was not supposed to last for so very long. Claudiclos had bought himself time though various xenos technologies and elixirs, but then, well over a thousand years old, the old wolf began to wane. With this in mind, Claudiclos decided to depart from the Host, and travel back to the heart of the Galaxy, wanderlust taking up the void in his heart where fiery lust for battle once reigned. He felt he was not long for this world, and wished to see what remained, if anything, of the Imperium he had once fought and bled for.

It was a long and dangerous journey for a lone traitor marine, but Claudiclos did not survive for so long by being foolhardy. He plied his way acting as a bodyguard and enforcer for various pirates and unscrupulous merchants, keeping as low a profile as he could. Eventually, Claudiclos found his way to the Maelstrom. Though a perilous place, Claudiclos was drawn to the eternal storm in search of old comrades, though at the time he was most uncertain if any of the old Legionaries would still be alive. What Claudiclos found surprised him greatly, warbands and small empires constantly warring against one another, daemons walking freely, and a wide array of both horrifying and awe inspiring sights. But to Claudiclos, it was merely another place to ply his skills as a warrior.

At first the old Legionary fell in with a warband of Red Corsairs, but slowly found himself drifting from warband to warband, fighting for whomever was willing to pay his fees and give him a roof over his head. It was only after several years of this that Claudiclos came across the Storm Draugar. It was during the Battle of Disembowelment Gorge that Claudiclos, under the employ of a minor warband made up of traitor guard, ran afoul of Malak Blackspawn. At first the two battled, but after the Greatest of Draugar Lords had a moment to recognize the old one eyed Space Marine, he lay down his blade. Claudiclos had been Malak's commander during his short years as a rank and file Legionarie, and though Malak did not much care for the bolter and combat knife, he did remember fondly the taciturn sergeant who regularly showed Malak the value of discipline with the butt of his bolter.

Malak offered Claudiclos a position of power within the Storm Draugar once the battle was done, but Claudiclos declined such an office, citing his old age and disdain for officers. After a hearty laugh, Malak conceded, and instead let Claudiclos pick his position. The old Legionary would find a comfortable spot within the ranks of the 3rd Storm, where his age was less of a hindrance and more of an asset. Eventually, Claudiclos found his experience put to use as a Legate to the Storms Fuil Óga, tutoring them in the ways of war and leading them into battle.

Claudiclos does not lament his marginalized existence and lack of glory, for he has no want for power or influence. He is a soldier, through and through, and in his age he has time to drown what little regret he has in Rotgut and old war stories in between the bloody battles of the Enforcer Fleets.

Caludicos is both a being of ill manners and even worse temper, known for his fondness of fistfights and total disregard for any form of rank or authority. Virtually attached to his flask of Lupercalian Rotgut and case of Iho-Sticks, Claudiclos is hardly the ideal image of a Chaos Marine, but his drunken escapades and quickness to anger are things that are not totally uncommon within the ranks of the Storm Draugar. His advanced age has seen his physical ability decline somewhat, though this is certainly compensated by his vast volume of battlefield experience. There are very few things indeed that surprise this old wolf, and therefore he is utterly without any vestige of fear or uncertainty when it comes to even the most fearsome foes.

As Legate of Squad Claudicos, Claudicos is a harsh but fair commander. He ensures that his charges are well disciplined and well aware of their betters, but also stokes the flames of ambition and zeal that they will need if they are to survive long enough to make something of themselves. He usually leads by example, armed with a bolter, bolt pistol and chainsword, standing at the front with his men, barking orders in between swigs of rotgut and curses hurled at the hapless enemy.

Tyr
Born from a malfunctioning geno vat, Tyr began his life as a screeching abomination within the Flesh Pits. He emerged from his toxic womb a horrid parody of a human infant, gaunt and feeble with crawling veins and pallid skin. Though a pitiful creature at first, through the mad processes of the Flesh Pits, he emerged from the Proving Grounds a Chaos Marine. Tyr was notably of a stockier build than his fellow aspirants, being only 7'0" and of a squad shape. His left arm was also disproportionately long, his fingers resting at his knees, giving him a disheveled appearance.

But these minor deformities were not the extent of his genetic contamination, simply the most outward. Tyr is most hindered by his inability to speak, though he is capable of various guttural sounds through which to convey his meanings. For the most part though, Tyr remains mute, perhaps to avoid drawing attention to himself and his abhorrent body.

However, in spite of his deformities and perceived dullness, Tyr has surprised many of his comrades and superiors with his sheer cunning and combat ability. He is noted to be surprisingly nimble and dexterous, and uses these abilities to their full advantage, seeking out vantage points and unexpected angles of attack. He is also noted to be quite the thief and shrewd ally.

As Tyr does not speak, he naturally plays the role of the stoic brute, letting his form mislead those around him into assuming that he is a dumb beast or stunted mutant. This allows him the upper hand in many cases, as they would be less suspecting of the imbecilic brute when their bolter shells go missing.

In his Squad, Tyr serves in the role of basic foot soldier and sometimes scout, armed with a customized bolter and combat knife. Tyr's bolter has been fitted with various attachments the Fuil Óga has "found" during his early career, namely a bayonett and belt feed as opposed to the traditional magazine. Tyr also harbors a wide array of trinkets and baubles, some of which prove useful in combat, such as his Punch Dagger and bandoleer of pilfered bolter rounds.

Lotch
A hulking brute with a passion for violence and fire, Lotch may not be the brightest Storm Draugr, but he might very well be one of the toughest. Bred from the vast horrors of the Flesh Pits, Lotch was created with the singular purpose of slaughtering the enemies of the Storm Draugar. To this end, his gene-seed was crafted to create the perfect front line fighter, borne of an exacting mix of Salamanders and Space Wolves gene-seed. Unfortunately, these augmentations resulted in horrendous mutations, resulting in a saurian visage, complete with elongated snout, razor sharp claws, and a scaly hide. The mutation also left Lotch's mind somewhat stunted, and his primal lust for combat and glory all the more powerful.

As a member of Squad Claudicos, Lotch is the point-man and close combat specialist, his bestial instincts making him ideal for this line of work. Though slow witted, Lotch's animalistic instincts allow him to track his prey via the smell of blood and fear, not to mention the ability to "taste" the air with his serpent-like tongue to trace prey by pheromones alone. His visage also benefits his profession as a burgeoning berzerker, his snarling visage and beastly countenance striking fear into the hearts of his victims.

Lotch is borne of a very exacting mix of Salamanders and Space Wolves gene-seed, and was grown from Fenrisian genetic samples that were far from easy to secure for study in the Flesh Pits. While far from a perfect result, Lotch has not suffered from the curse of the Wuflen, though his form is so horribly mutated by his Salamanders gene-seed that it is technically unknowable what mutations may arise later in his life.

Lotch has equipped himself with wargear that he believes causes the maximum amount of carnage in the minimal amount of time. He bears an old Flamer as his primary weapon, and carries a Chainaxe and Bolt Pistol as his secondary weapons.

Velos Omorphii
Master marksman, expert tracker, and a ruthless warrior, Velos is a killer with much promise behind him. Born a prince to one of the warlike city-state clans of the feral world of Koh in the Nosta system, Velos was conditioned from birth to be a warrior-king. Conditioned for combat by the time he had turned his second year, Velos, and many other children of Koh, were ideal specimens for gene-seeding. Thus, Velos ended up within the vile flesh pits, his body morphed into an engine of pain and malice.

But all was not as horrible as it could be, for he was fortunate enough to have the will and constitution to survive, and was implanted with some of the finest gene-seed the Warband could muster. Velos bears not only the blood of the great clan Omorphii, but also the dual linage of Robute Guilliman and Fulgrim. His gene-seed, while not pure in any sense, is completely stable and has saved Velos' form from being marred by mutation. He is both beautiful and graceful, blessed with the countenance of the Phoenician and the poise of the Avenging Son. But behind his serene gaze lies the mind of a steeled warrior, bred to the be the champion to his warlike people. Now a loyal warrior of the Blackspawn brothers, he intends to garner great glory and honor the blood of his people.

To this end, Velos employ's a very unusual weapon, his Javelins. As a child he was trained by his father to utilize the Javelin like many of the warrior youths of his world, it being a primary weapon in the art of war and a symbol of a strong and just ruler. In his days of grueling training, Velos fashioned his first Javelins out of scrap metal, but now as a fully fledged Storm Draugar, he has had them made of more sturdy materials. Light, durable, and easy to manufacture, Velos can easily carry two dozen or so in a quiver on his back. Being essentially metal rods, they are considered primitive weapons in the eyes of his comrades. But those who have seen Velos employ his Javelins know for certain what damage even the most simple of implements can do in the hands of a Chaos Marine. Velos can easily strike a man down from many yards away, and the fine points can pierce power armor with the force that Velos throws them at. They are also potent close combat weapons, light and sharp enough to plunge quickly and precisely into the vital areas, while sturdy enough to also block incoming blows.

Velos also carries a bolt pistol and a simple mono-edged sword, both of middling quality. These are by far less exotic weapons, but most certainly handy and deadly in the hands of this Fuil Óga.

Velos plays many roles within Squad Claudiclos, from tracker to marksman. Velos is quite an adept warrior, capable of many disciplines, though his exotic wargear and unusal style of combat make him ideal for more independent roles, supporting the Squad from unexpected angles.

Galfa
Born from an experimental vat, Galfa was one of the few of his "litter" that was considered salvageable. Unlike his horridly mutated brothers, he was born with all his faculties intact. His form would even be considered attractive, possessing a roguish countenance that bespoke of his dual Luna Wolf and Blood Angels gene-seed.

However, Galfa is more monstrous than his appearance would suggest. Having been "born" a fully fledged Astartes, Galfa easily survived the trials to be fully accepted as a Storm Draugar, but such a rapid period of training left him both uncouth and undisciplined. Such a combination proved dangerous as the Red Thirst began to manifest itself within him. Soon he was devouring civilians during his patrols through the commons of Lupercal's Folly, known to sidle up to a group and simply kill and devour his victim for all of the city to see. This, would lead to Galfa's deployment within the Enforcer Fleets, for while many Storm Draugar do indulge in bestial hungers and cruel sport at the expense of their human wards, few would be so brazen as to devour whole blocks in a fortnight.

As a member of Squad Claudicos, Galfa is essentially the squads grenadier, armed with a full bandoleer of grenades to complement his bolter, combat knife, and chainsword. This is befitting of Galfas reckless attitude, as he is well known for leaping into the fray where he can both slake his thirst and show boat. Galfa prefers the easy kill over a challenge, and thus can be considered "liberal" with his ordinance at times.

Czanek Havel
 Born within the warrens of Lupercal's Folly, Czanek has known the boot of the Storm Draugar since the day he was brought into this world. A child of slaves deep within the bowels of the mighty star fortress, Czanek was brought to the Flesh Pits at the age of three when the screening teams swept through the slums he called home, dragging the male children to the upper levels to be transformed into the latest crop of Chaos Marines.

Czanek was far from an ideal candidate, malnourished and weak, but he had a strength about him, a will that was not matched by the other initiates. He bested all the tests, survived the gene-seeding, and proved himself worthy when he emerged whole from the trials of the Proving Grounds. Czanek began his career as many of the younger Storm Draugar did, long months of training deep within barracks and sparing rings of the Upper Fortress, only broken by the occasional Block War between the great gangs of lower ''Lupercal's Folly. ''It was during those riots that Czanek became noticed by his superiors as a cut above the rest, showing restriction and discipline unlike his comrades. He marshaled his bolter rounds like a miser, and his work with a combat knife was exemplary. Such abilities marked him out for duty upon the Enforcer fleets with his fellow Fuil Óga, where his talents could be put to better use than slaughtering rabble in the streets.

Czanek is the eldest and most level headed member of Squad Claudicos, making him a natural second in command and all round combatant. He is armed with a simple bolter, bolt pistol, and combat knife, but is extremely proficient with these and all manner of weapons. This allows him a surprising amount of control over the battlefield, engaging the enemy on his terms. He also shows a slight tactical flair, having an innate understanding of both logistics and fortifications in general. Much of this is believed to be part of Czanek's bastard gene-seed, a mix of Iron Warriors and Death Guard. While the mix itself is considered stable, it is also what may have affected his psyche in such as way as to breed such a taciturn and dour warrior.

Straga
Born from the hellish crucibles of the Flesh Pits and sole survivor of his brood in the Proving Grounds, Straga is the Storm Draugar ideal of a Chaos Marine. Brutal, unwavering, and possessed of a simple if not strong sense of duty and honor, Straga is a Fuil Óga with much promise before him. As it should be, for he was made with a specific purpose.

While many of the Storm Draugar created from exotic genetic components and monstrous tech-sorcery, few are created with anything above a specific battle field role in mind. Straga was born from Gene-Seed harvested from a great champion of the Revealers Space Marine Chapter, Captain Aren Baserilus of the 5th Company. With this promising blood legacy, Straga was groomed to be more than a mere foot solider or genetically tailored weapon, he was bred to be one of the legendary Roghan Scrios.

But even with his exacting training and gene-seeding, Straga has to prove himself worthy of the purpose he was bred for. To this end, he was assigned to Squad Claudiclos, to learn the ways of battle and war under the wizened Claudiclos Vand. However, Straga's battle lust and urge to prove himself sees him as more of a risk than a boon. Prone to leaping into battle ordered, and acting violently with little to no provocation, Straga is considered a loose cannon by his comrades. However, he is also extremely charismatic, having garnered the comradery of both Lotch and Galfa, and even the grudging respect of Velos. However, Tyr and Czanek both despise him for his foolhardy nature. Claudiclos has some difficulty keeping this would be Fuil Te in check, but manages it none the less with a great deal of expletives and the occasional blow to the head.

Straga is armed with an old Legio Astartes Pattern Shotgun, bolt pistol, and a Combat Knife that is massive even by Astartes standards. Straga's Combat Knife is one of his favorite pieces of wargear, bearing a brutal spiked knuckle guard and a savagely sharp blade, it is ideal for when he gets "stuck in" close combat.

Taglio Martello
Legate of Squad Napagot and dangerous aspiring sorcerer, Tagilo was once a Acolytum of the Frozen Fangs Space Marine Chapter. However, when the Chapter was utterly destroyed by Tyranids during the First Tyranic War, Tagilo found himself and a small band of survivors at the mercy of the Warp as their ship failed to transition out of the Sea of Souls. Madness and evil began to overtake the ship as the Gellar Fields inevitably failed. By the time the Cruiser was discovered by the Storm Draugar, only Tagilo and seven of his Battle-Brothers had survived. Of that number, only Tagilo could be considered sane.

Having turned to various daemons in order to survive and sufficiently corrupted by the influences of the Warp, Taglio readily joined the Storm Draugar, and began his tutelage into the arcane arts of sorcery. Though young an inexperienced, Taglio's powers should not be underestimated. Already he is capable of a wide range of abilities, from warpfire bolts that torch flesh and soul to deadly biomantic warping that leaves enemies a mangled, screaming wreck. However, his crowning achievement was the creation of his bodyguard and lieutenant, Grail. Taglio is also a dangerous combatant, armed with a Force Maul and Bolt Pistol, he can reap a steady toll of souls should he be forced to rely on strength of arms alone.

Considering Taglio's cunning and his power, he was considered as a useful addition to the Enforcer Fleets until he proves too powerful for that pittance of a position. Taglio's skill as a plotter and schemer make him ideal for the sometimes delicate business of maintaining the Storm Draugar's hold on its various client worlds. However, his skill as a commander is questionable, as he is only a few years older than the Fuil Óga he commands. But regardless, his bodyguard and intelligence are useful tools for ensuring the band of murderers under his command stay obedient.

Volk
Cold, ruthless, and cunning, Volk is a beast with no limits. Borne of the vile Flesh Pits, Volk was born to kill in the name of the Blackspawn brothers, and kill he does, very well. While all Chaos Marines are unto gods of the battlefield, Volk is blessed with an almost supernatural skill with the chainaxe and bolt pistol, few can mach his art of the killing blow. It is unknown how he can manage this, but there are few enemies that can survive Volk's first blow, his chainaxe cleaving skulls in twain with ease and ripping the throats of entire swaths of men with one blow. And for the few who can withstand his first expert strike, they face a savage onslaught of strikes and point blank bolt pistol shots.

However, Volk is no blood crazed berzerker, but instead a cold, calculating killer. Volk studies his enemy, learns of their strengths and weaknesses, and then puts them down as swiftly as possible. He is a stoic and pitiless being, cruel and without any mercy to those he considers disposable. He will readily sacrifice his allies for a chance at glory and power, but for now is held in check by Tanglio's crafty ways and threat of his foul sorcery.

Volk was borne of a bastard mix of Gene-Seed, made up of various odds and ends. It would be assumed than that his outer form is as monstrous as his soul, but none save the mad Apothecaries of the Flesh Cult have seen Volks flesh, for his Power Armor fused to his body the day he donned it. Volk carries a particularly heavy chainaxe, weighted for maximum impact damage and penetration upon meeting his prey. He is also armed with a bolt pistol and a bandoleer of frag grenades.

Ogas Katen
A vicious and battle hungry brute, Ogas Katen began life as a child to the warrior cultists of the planet of Brom. From his fifth year he was trained in the militia's of the Holy Order of the Four Pillars, a warrior cult of devout worshipers of the Chaos Gods. It was then, as a trainee of the Heavy Weapons division of the Youth Armies, that Ogas was discovered by the Storm Draguar's agents. Recruited for his discipline and

Grail
Tagilo's "second in command" this sentient suit of power armor animated by thousands of tortured souls is known as Grail. A result of Tagilo's studies as an Aspiring Sorcerer, Grail is a crudely made Rubric Marine. Lacking any of the mastery of the Thousand Sons, Tangilo's creation was made, not using the bound soul of a fellow Chaos Marine, but by binding the thousands of soulds Tangilo had slain with his maul during his times in the Proving Grounds and other gladiatorial arenas. Thus, Grail is made up of not only the souls of inteligent beings, but also the essences of foul monsters, insane horrors crafted by the flesh pits, and tortured warpspawns. Grail is a conglomerate of hate, fear, rage, and every other black emotion. Yet it is akin to an automaton, showing no emotion aside from the rare ghastly howl it emits when in the throes of barely contained battle lust.

Grail's crude construction does offer some benefits however, as, when compared to the Rubric Marines made by the Thousand Sons, it is more durable. While a Rubric Marine need only its seals destroyed, Grail will continue to haunt its armor even if bare scraps remain, its unholy fury and hatred of all that lives sustaining it. However, if substantially damaged, Grail can be temporarily defeated, its essence waning into little more but a dim glimmer. And Grail could be destroyed by any form of holy powers or anti-daemon weaponry. Grail is known to show some vestiges of sapience, but what it reveals is a visage none wish to see. It is borne of a cruel, vindictive hatred and hunger for souls that all but the foulest daemonspawn could hope to match.

Being a wrathful phantom inhabiting a scavenged suit of Power Armor, Grail is a dangerous combatant, generally acting as Tagilo's bodyguard and enforcer. Armed with a Fury Bolter and a Power Sword, Grail's unnatural durability and unrelenting aim make it a tireless combat, practically unstoppable by conventional means. It is also imbued with a small amount of psychic power, able to launch bolts of warp energy and manipulate objects with its raw will alone. However, if it strays outside of its master's locus of control, it will collapse, unable to animate its shell.

Sons of Woe
"There are twenty-one-thousand weak points in Indomitus Pattern Terminator armor, seventy-six of these can be exploited by a standard boltgun. Fifty-four can be accessed by a knife. Forty-nine of these weak points are in the Terminator's blind spots. I know each and every one of these weak points intimately. And I have no blind spots, or weak points, nore am I slowed down by all that extra kit. You should be seeing very quickly why me and my Battle-Brothers don't need power armor to get the job done."

- Brother-Captain Gerhman of the 4th Brotherhood

The Sons of Woe are a ruthless Chapter known for their savage and stoic natures. Borne of the 13th Founding, their origins are shrouded in the mists of millenia gone by. But their actions have ensured that their name remains known throughout the annals of Imperial history, if only to the Inquisition and High Lords of Terra, who have frequently censured the Chapter for their grim deeds. Indeed, the Sons of Woe have a long history of quarrels and disputes with the powers that be and their brother Chapters, being long noted as belligerent and hard headed. And yet, it is this stubborn, stoic resolve that has seen them become a force for all Heretics and would be Xenos marauders to fear, for the Sons of Woe are as fearsome as they are impetulant, striking with speed and precision, ripping out the enemies heart and leaving cold dread where it once beat.

Founding
Being of the 13th Founding, the origins of the Sons of Woe is a mystery, lost to time. The Chapter itself was almost unheard of until they were rediscovered by the Rogue Trader, Douchard Baggage.

Gene-Seed
The Sons of Woe are noted for quite a few strange abnormalities in their Gene-Seed, the least among these the utter lack of any identifying genetic markers, making a Primogenitor impossible to identify. In addition to this however, the Sons of Woe are also noted for their strange "birth marks" which manifest upon the skin of an neophyte during the gene-seeding process. These strange dark blue markings rise to the surface of the skin during an neophyte's first years in the Chapter, and are usually interpreted as having some symbolic meaning by the Chapter's Druids. Such marks reach their peak in color and definition at the climax of an neophyte's gene-seeing, and begin to look more like man made tattoos or war paint. Regardless, they seem to have no greater effect than acting as natural camouflage and holding a certain spiritual significance to the Chapter Cult.

Most outstanding though, is the fact that the Sons of Woe gene-seed cannot regularly form a functioning Black Carapace, with only one out of every ten Battle-Brothers being capable of wearing Power Armor. While most would consider this a grievous hindrance, the Sons of Woe have managed for millienia, their preferred method of waging war clearly accommodating this mutation.

Iron Wings
"Xenos, daemons, traitors, it matters not, they all look the same after you scrape them off your boot."

- Company Champion Fredrik II of the 3rd Company

The Iron Wings are a stout and strong Chapter, forged from the beginning by the harrowing wars of reconquest that followed the infamous Howling in M34, and later by various other bloody campaigns, their name is a byword for courage and fortitude even amongst the Adeptus Astartes. Respected by many of their brother Chapters and considered by the citizenry of the Imperium as paragons of what it is to be a Space Marine, the Iron Wings are often heralded as a noble Chapter, whose past deeds in the name of the Emperor are commended in full. However, the Chapter itself does not allow themselves such praise lightly. They are a dour and driven lot, sworn to their duties and tempered by the continuously grave losses the Chapter has sustained in its long history. They have gone into the very teeth of the enemy and emerged alive, but hardly unscathed. A specter of gloom and death hangs over the Chapter like a leaden shroud, a lasting mark left by the constant war of this terrible Galaxy. Yet, the Iron Wings shall never be found wanting, for as their mantra states, they will forever be outnumbered, but never outmatched.

The Howling
Though their Founding itself was not tumultuous, in a scant few centuries, the Iron Wings would have their trial by fire to prove themselves worthy of Rogal Dorn's legacy. The Howling, the great psychic blast that burnt out vast numbers of Astropaths and left entire sub-sectors ungoverned. A million worlds fell into utter anarchy, and it was the duty of the Iron Wings to bring them back to the fold, by whatever means necessary. For many hundreds of years the Chapter prosecuted thousands of wars of reconquest, developing a taste for jump assault style of combat and honing their ability against heavily fortified defenses. They struck swiftly and hard, leaving no recourse for the enemy but to lay down their arms or die where they stood. However, the Chapter was merciful to those deserving of mercy, who had done things merely to survive in the darkest hours.

So many quickly fought an won wars saw the Iron Wings earn the praise that had come to be expected of the Sons of Dorn, but these battles were not without their costs. The Chapter suffered many casualties, and had yet to establish a steady recruiting world, their numbers began to dwindle. Thus, the Chapter was in a dangerous place when the Imperium once again called out for their aid.

The Nova Terra Interregnum
Though undermaned, the Chapter could not refuse the call to action when the Ur-Council of Nova Terra declared its independence from the Imeprium of Man and effectively split the Imperium in Half.

Lightbringers
"...and on the break of dawn, all gathered to see what had become of the great armies of Tekutmhan... there was but ruin and blood. For the Angels had come and smote them in the night... A flaming blade that cleaved the great armies in twain, and turned their warcries into lamentation. Lo, heed the Angels of Death, for they are the Dawnbearers, they are the Duskbringers, and they shall shatter the earth and skies in their passing."

- Deeds, Epoch 11, Verse 44, of the Imperitor Divincus, the holy scriptures of Datis

A renowned if not somewhat maligned Chapter, the Lightbringers have long fought for the purity and tranquility of the Imperium of Man. Since their inception, they have acted as the Emperor's judgment upon the most damnable foe of the Imperium, the traitor. They were exemplars of such judgment when they spearheaded the great campaign of purges following the infamous Beheading, hunting down renegade Officio Assassinatorum agents across the breadth and width of the Imperium. To this day they continue that manhunt, and some within the Imperium consider them experts when it comes to dealing with rogue agents of the Officio Assassinatorum. However, this reputation and stated mission is mostly a smokescreen, for the Lightbringers use their past deeds and the skills they are known for as a cover for their endless hunt for the Fallen. For they, as all sons of the Lion, are duty bound to find these renegades and force their confessions. Only then, when the last traitor has breathed his final confession, will they be forgiven for the failure of their brothers long since past.

The Beheading
The Lightbringers were founded at the climax of the Beheading, the violent takeover of the Imperium by the Officio Assassinatorum. Though the Lightbringers were not ready for the final great assault on Terra to reclaim the Imperium from these mad murderers, they would be the foremost prosecutors of the violent purges that followed as various branches of the Adepta Terra hunted down the surviving rogue assassins and their puppet masters. They hunted these elusive and resourceful butchers across the stars, from shape shifting Callidus Assassins to roving Eversors, the Lightbringers hunted them down, one by one. The Chapter was granted much in the way of honors and praise for their actions, but such a history lead to the Chapter becoming very distrustful of outsiders and the early development of their fast and brutal style of warfare.