User:T42/Sandbox

Boom. Welcome to the Sanbox.

Haunted Shell
"For whome the bell tolls, come now, answer Nurgles call, children of the ditch and pile. Come now to my call, the forgotten of War, of Famine, of Pestilence. Rise once more in his name, and know battle once more."

- Ishmael the Restless, evoking the power of the Bell of the Lost

The pale Thunderhawks roared over the silent wreckage of Umbasa, the once great holy city of Gascione, a shining gem upon a beacon of faith, now little more than a thrice scorched ruin.
 * the plot consists of the White Devils strike team
 * landing on the dead world
 * and sifting through the ruins in search of the ancient holy relic weapon known only as the Night Hammer
 * said to have been wielded by a great Imperial Army General
 * during the Great Crusade
 * and supposedly blessed by the Emperor Himself
 * the true story is a little less flattering
 * but regardless its archotech
 * and the White Devils wants it
 * so they come to the dead planet
 * first the rock was pillaged by the Storm Draugar
 * but then the Everchosen came
 * and the two turned the planet into a War World for three months
 * then both took their leave when the Imperial Navy showed up
 * the IG and Navy tried to salvage the planet which was left overrun with cultists and daemons
 * but then decided to just blast the crap out of it
 * then the Ashen Hand showed up
 * surprised the Navy
 * wiped them out
 * and then stamped the place into
 * utter
 * ruin
 * burning everything with Phosphex
 * rendering it
 * completely uninhabitable.
 * and destroying most relics of value in their iconoclastic rage
 * Then enters the White Devils
 * They land
 * sift through
 * and find the Night Hammer
 * ONE problem though
 * the Wraiths have come to the dead world too
 * and want the Hammer as well
 * not to mention a certain entity also stalks the planet

Everchosen
"Look at them, blasphemers, heathens, backwards heretics, all fighting amongst one another. Disorder, ruin... utter waste. The Dark Gods demand more from their faithful. They demand focus, an inseparable unity in faith, a host undivided. We must make pure the faith of this sacred scar. My brothers, it is not enough that our houses of worship stand in this sacred place, it is that all others must fall."

- Nethruias the Black, First Master of Rites of the then Host of Nethruias

The Everchosen, also known as the Condemned of the Urizen, are all that remains of the once mighty Host of Nethruias. Once, they were three mighty Chapters of the Word Bearers Traitor Legion, sent on a holy mission by Lorgar himself to secure the River of Exiles as a holy place and strategic bastion against the Imperium of man in the Galactic East. But the Host of Nethruias ceased to be following the Siege of Lupercal's Folly, their ranks ravaged and most of their leaders slain, what remained was condemned by the newly founded Dark Council, and cast from the fold of the Word Bearers until such a time as they redeemed themselves in the eyes of the Dark Gods. They took up the mantle of the Everchosen, and in their faith they believe that they were singled out by the Dark Gods, that they were chosen to undertake the ever difficult and bloody crusade of conquest that they wage daily against their fellow traitors within the River of Exiles.

Thus they stride forth, borne in ashen grey and bloody crimson, fighting for redemption and for the glory of the Gods. They seek to strike down all the false worshipers and bastard cults that pervert the purity of the Urizen's Word. They see themselves as holy crusaders, come to unite the endlessly feuding and warring bands of the River of Exiles under the banner of True Faith and earn their redemption in the eyes of their Primarch. To this end they mobilize their considerable forces, the remains of the three Chapters and other renegades commanding a force of nigh millions of devout cultists and snarling daemons. It is not enough for the Everchosen that they stand supreme, it is first that all others must fall.

Gene-Seed
The Everchosen's gene-seed is irredeemably corrupted by the fell energies of Chaos, but the effects depend on the exact linage of the seed within the Legionary. The Chaos Marines that make up the Trinity have had their gene-seed separated in specific gene-banks aboard the Hosts mighty flagship, ''Verum Verbi. ''This gene-seed is pure Word Bearers seed, untainted by any mixing with the seed of other Legions. However, due to the nature of the Chaos, this "pure" gene-seed is prone to minor mutations and irregularities. The bulk of the Hosts gene-seed however, is mixed and malformed, prone to vile mutations and insanity. That being said, the Everchosen's gene-seed is still more or less functional, by the blessings of the Dark Gods certainly.

Warband Cult
"Obedience to the Creed! Faith in the Omen! Unity in the Word!"

- Dhak Zen, The Oracle, Champion of the Anointed

Zealous and conservative to a fiery extreme, the Everchosen are fundamental believers in the Word of Lorgar. Every passage of the Book of Lorgar is the immutable truth, infallible and unquestionable at all times. There is no room for interpretation, no place for question or doubt. This dogged adherence to dogma was borne of the Everchosens bloody defeat at the Siege of Lupercal's Folly, for many cited their fault as a lack of faith and devotion, and thus they were punished by the Dark Gods for their hubris.

Organization
The Everchosen is a mighty Host, though not as vast as they once were, their tactical prowess and discipline, combined with their teaming ranks of devout cultist canon fodder, make them one of the most formidable forces within the River of Exiles, second only to the ferocity of the Storm Draugar and ruthless tenacity of the Black Hammers.

The Trinity
The inner brotherhood of the Everchosen, the Trinity are all that remains of the old Legionaries that served under Nethruias the Black. Their ranks once made up the whole of the Host, three Chapters, each a thousand strong. They are all veterans of the Long War, having fought in the Shadow Crusade, survived the Siege of Lupercal's Folly, and thousands of battles since''. ''Though now each Chapter numbers no more than roughly one-hundred souls, the Trinity are considered the elite of the Warband, true Sons of Lorgar and most devout of faith. Their ranks make up the first three War Hosts of the Everchosen, and are known for their sheer hatred of the Storm Draugar.

The First War Host, The Chapter of the Ever Burning Pyre
Led personally by the First Acolyte Frel Kul and noted as the most mighty of the Trinity, the Legionaries of the Ever Burning Pyre are warriors of unparalleled faith and devotion, noted as the elite of the elite within the Everchosen. Often considered the vanguard, the Ever Burning Pyre possesses the finest line fighters in all the Host, firm and adaptable, capable of bringing death to the infidel in countless blessed ways. In the days of the Great Cusade, the Ever Burning Pyre were noted for such tenacity and competence that they were regularly held up by Lorgar himself as an example to the Legion, capable and full of zeal no matter the enemy or situation.

They were at the forefront of the Siege of Lupercal's Folly, fighting back to back against the faithless Storm Draugar. It was only when Nethurias fell in battle and the ancient weapons of Lupercal's Folly came online that they fell back from the front. Though divided as any during the chaotic moments that followed as Uldan and Lo'Char bickered over command, the Ever Burning Pyre's Captain, Tagrel Cho, took decisive action, and followed the command of Uldan the Spear. Thus, the Ever Burning Pyre were the ones to cover the retreat of their fellows, and were credited with saving the Host from utter destruction as the barbaric Storm Draugar surged forth to run down the Word Bearers. Tagrel Cho fell in battle, defending his battle brothers as they piled into the Dreadclaws.

In spite of such valor, the merit of which was lauded by Uldan the Everchosen as he took command, the Chapter of the Ever Burning Pyre were most ashamed of their defeat. In mourning after the death of their beloved Captain, the mass excommunication that followed almost broke the moral of the Ever Burning Pyre. Their faith was shaken, for now they were cast out from their Legion and surely forsaken by the Dark Gods. It was only Uldan the Everchosen's words of repentance and redemption that saved many from falling upon their swords. Now they are the most zealous and relentless of their Host, led on by the ferocious First Acolyte, who too came from their ranks, the Chapter of the Ever Burning Pyre continues to exist as an example of dedication and tenacity to the whole of the Everchosen.

The Second War Host, The Chapter of the Blade of Truth
A Chapter of such age and merit that Lorgar himself was said to have commended them on several occasions, the Chapter of the Blade of Truth predated the arrival of Lorgar and were long considered some of the more aggressive iconoclasts of the old Imperial Heralds, known to have some very large concentrations of Legion Destroyer Squads and Ashen Circle. However, the Chapter's history was a checkered one, having been noted as an area of religious contention amongst the Word Bearers during their conversion to Emperor Worship, and again to the True Faith of Chaos. Warriors of the Blade of Truth were always known as stubborn and conservative, a reputation they are still quite known for. Many a time, the Blade of Truth has seen purges of their own ranks, as devout brothers were forced first to convert their fellows to the False Faith of the Emperor, and later forced to dispatch them when their Genefather discovered the True Faith. Regardless, the Blade of Truth has always been steadfast and reliable, their aggression and unity unquestionable. Uldan the Everchosen himself came from the ranks of the Blade of Truth, rising to the rank of Chaplain during the Horus Heresy and later taking up the mantle of Dark Apostle.

During the Siege of Lupercal's Folly, the Blade of Truth fought deep within the bowels of the fortress, facing off against Storm Draugar defenders in brutal close quarters fighting. They fought with all the zeal the Sons of Lorgar were known for as they brought fire and blade down upon the faithless curs. However, the rout caught them flat footed, and their casualties were nothing short of monstrous. The Siege of Lupercal's Folly would damage the Chapter's long honored unity as several hundred of their number followed Lo'Char to certain death rather than retreat. An even more devastating blow came when nearly half of the surviving Chapter, taking umbrage with what they considered a cowardly retreat that cost them their ties to the Legion, revolted against Uldan the Everchosen, breaking off from the Hosts ranks and forming the Ashen Hand.

However, such a history of loss and betrayal has only hardened the Blade of Truth to the most extreme levels. They are by far the most zealous and ardent followers of the exact words of the Book of Lorgar, taking a very dim view of any interpretation that does not fall in line with their fundamentalist views. Though they are but one hundred, they fight with the zeal and fury of a whole Host, relentlessly fighting for purity and redemption, purging all they see as unclean from their sight. It is this reputation for orthodoxy and agression that has led to the Blade of Truth becoming both a vanguard, and an internal police force, ensuring the purity of the other War Hosts ranks.

The Third War Host, The Chapter of the Iron Shroud
Once, the Chapter of the Iron Shroud was considered amongst the most adored of Lorgar's sons, often lauded for their stalwart bravery and sheer tenacity. The Chapter of the Iron Shroud was noted as particularly effective against foul Xenos, purging the unclean faiths of the alien and raising up the true Word of their Primarch. The Iron Shroud took the Legions tendency to rely on utter and overwhelming force to its logical extreme, becoming renowned for the lethal proficiency of their Legion Support Squads. Their ranks also boasted a sizable motor pool and few Chapters of the Word Bearers could boast an equally sizable cadre of Dreadnoughts. If the Ever Burning Pyre is the Everchosen's core, and the Blade of Truth its lance, then the Iron Shroud is the deadly hammer blow, bringing low all that stands before them in a biblical salvo of heavy weapons fire and artillery. It is due to this inclination to such superior firepower and the unrelenting will with which the Iron Shroud fought, that their Tech-Marine core became renowned as some of the finest in the Legion.

However, the Iron Shroud found their weapons and armor little comfort during the Siege of Lupercal's Folly, for even acting as the rearguard their ranks took a fearsome savaging when the ancient weapons of Lupcercal's Folly came online. Even worse were the casualties sustained providing cover for their retreating allies, for while the Iron Shroud followed Uldan as opposed to the mad ravings of Lo'Char, many of their Battle Brothers were caught flat footed and overwhelmed by the sheer ferocity of the Storm Draugar counter assault. Were it not for the actions of the Great Ancient, Kol Paron, and his cadre of fellow Dreadnoughts, the Iron Eight, it might have been the end of the Iron Shroud. But the losses at the hands of the foul cowards were nothing compared to the shattering word of the Urizen, the Host had been excommunicated, cast out for its colossal failure. This hit the Chapter of the Iron Shroud the hardest of all.

To this day, the Iron Shroud daub themselves in ash and segregate themselves from their fellow Legionaries, caring not for brotherhood any longer. Instead they spend every waking moment training, prepping their wargear, readying the tanks. At all hours they are in solemn contemplation, and never do they remove the black veils of chainmail they wear about their faces. For while in ancient times of pride and victory, their veils of iron would shine with bright silver, now they dawn only the black mourning veil. For to the Iron Shroud, they are already dead, to their Legion, to their Primarch. All they have left is atonement through the utter ruination of the enemies of the Word. Coryphaus Jul Kahradk, The Hymn-Bearer, and overall voice of the Host, came from the ranks of the Iron Shroud, and his dour and harsh mannerisms are the hallmarks of the Chapter. It is for such cold and harsh countenance that Uldan selected Jul, for such a ruthless and unbreakable commander shall ensure undying devotion amongst the ranks.

The Outer Brotherhood
Considered as the "Lesser" ranks by some within the Everchosen, while others prefer to hold them as Brothers regardless for their faith is pure, the so-called Outer Brotherhood are the Hosts remaining six War Hosts. They come from many paths and various genetic lines, some having been born by the Everchosen, while others have joined only recently. Regardless of their origin, all are devout and faithful converts, immersed in the ritual and tradition of the Everchosen. Therefore, one can expect their dedication and discipline to match that of the lauded Trinity, though some may be considerably more ambitious than others, and consider their own agenda "in line" with the needs of the Host.

White Devils
"We have never changed, never deviated from our sacred duty as Space Marines. But you, you weak, impotent mortals, you have surrendered yourselves to superstition and blindness. He brought you into the light, and in only a few thousand years, you spit upon His grave. And for that grave insult, we will show no mercy."

- Lord Irdrviris the Cold, the Twice-Slain, Chapter Master of the White Devils

The White Devils Warband have long been a brutal specter of murder and heresy within the Exile Sector, but they were far from always the band of renegades and hereteks they are now. Borne of the Third Founding, the White Devils served the Imperium for millennia, dutiful and loyal for untold centuries, fighting nigh endlessly to stomp out the forces of the Archenemy.

But, unlike many, the cold and brutal White Devils still held to the edicts of the Imperial Truth long after their Founding, and swiftly grew unpopular with the Imperial people at large for their theistic purges. Regularly the White Devils would stomp out any and all Emperor Worship they came across, considering such actions as nothing less than the greatest insult to the departed Emperor baring only full blown betrayal. They held that the Warp and Daemons were merely constructs of poorly understood natural phenomena and nothing more, and that the religious resurgence within the population of the Imperium was a symbol of how far gone mankind had fallen without the Emperor to guide them.

A Blizzards Fury
"Faith, what need have we for faith? Are we not sons of the Emperor? Borne of his blood by way of the mighty Ferrus Manus? Does not the blood of the Greatest of Iconoclasts flow in our veins? What value should faith hold with us? None, we are the Sons of the Gorgon, and we shall cast down your primitive icons and idols. We will crush them with our hands, as the Primarch did, and as he will once again when he returns!"

- 1st Captain Aukaneck, The Howling Blizzard

Ice Sage
The White Devils have had the honored office of Ice Sage since the old days of their founding, a natural evolution of the long honored Iron Fathers. Ice Sages

Cryotech Kill Squad
An elite band of the Warband's fiercest Battle Brothers, the Cryotech Kill Squads are a continuation of the ancient Legion Destroyer Squads, armed with the strange and arcane weaponry of the Ice Sage's design. Armed with weapons that generally harness extreme cold as a means of swift and agonizing death, a Cryotech Kill Squad is considered an elite special weapons unit, specializing in the elimination of enemy vehicles, monstrous creatures, and heavy infantry.

Quotes
Miki- Little

Sinaaq

Amaqjuaq

Iluliaq

Tartok

Amaguq

Qimmig

Taqukaq

Tatkret

Shtiya

Nertornartok

Qigiq

Tuluwaq

Nunataq

Denigi

Saghani

Anuniaq- hunter of knowledge

Anyu

Kappiataitok

Tiquana- adopted

Arjalinerk

Makpigat

Sirmiq- Glacier

Maguyuk

Sakhrut Dynasty
"Sacrifice. That is why my Dynasty was built upon. It is what made the frail and weak Necrontyr into the almighty Necron. It is what allowed us to strike down our hated enemies. It is what made us masters of all. Now, they talk of undoing all that we have worked for, all that we have become. The Idiot King wishes to see us return to fallible flesh and bone, for our minds to once again be slaved to instinct and emotion. He rejects the gifts of the Gods. I will not return to the feeble flesh and the weak animal mind. They have taken my legacy, they have taken my name, but they will never take the honor of my Necrodermis."

- Old Bones, Phaeron of the Sakhrut Dynasty

The Dynasty of the Forgotten King, the Empire of the Exile, these are but a few names given to the infamous Sakhrut Dynasty by their fellow Necrons. Once a mighty Dynasty lording over hundreds of worlds, the Sakhrut Dynasty is little more than a cluster of five worlds surrounded by a cordon of dead solar systems, a charnel empire of deathless legions ruled over by a soulless warrior king. Now little more than slaves to the ceaseless hunger of a half-dead god, the Forgotten King rallies his legions to harvest the damned souls of the River of Exiles, his Lords and subjects reaping a bloody toll and humbling even the mightiest servants of the Dark Gods.

The Sakhrut Dynasty's fall from grace is one all Necron know, for they not only treacherously expanded their borders via the dishonorable takeover of allied Dynasties during the chaotic War in Heaven, but also sided with the C'tan during the Silent King's rebellion. For this they were hunted to almost total extinction, the handful surviving only because of the Silent King's order that all Necron slumber until the Galaxy was fruitful once more. Having betrayed the will of the Triarch and dishonored their race, the Silent King's final punishment was severe, the Phaeron of the Sakhrut Dynasty would have his very name stricken from all but the Silent King's mind, so that he could nevermore claim his rightful titles and honors. Such a punishment was so great that even to this day, the Necron only mention him as the Nameless or Forgotten King, the Eternal Exile, whose treachery was so great that not even death could absolve him of such sin. But now, the Forgotten King awakens, and under the orders of his black patron, the C'tan known as Bhat'Gol or the Obsidian Monarch, he now marches to reclaim all that was lost, and take his bloody handed vengeance against both the race that scorned him, and the ancient enemy that rendered what remained of his empire a dilapidated ruin.

They are an anathema, a blight of soullessness and implacable order within a raging storm of madness and corruption. Their leader is feared even by these most depraved of souls, and they give him a name befitting his eons of slaughter. They call him simply, Old Bones, the destroyer and life taker, he who renders even the greatest of empires to nought but tombs. But all the more fearsome is the horrific beast they hold in reverence, the Transcendent C'tan known as Bhat'Ghol, or the The Obsidian Monarch. A murderous and craven Star God and patron of the Sakhrut Dynasty. With every damned soul taken by the blades of the Dynasty the ancient Star God gains strength and sentience, slowly being reassembled by its loyal subjects. One day, the Sakhrut Dynasty may once again march across the stars, Old Bones at their head, harvesting the souls of the galaxy to feed the endless hunger of their mighty patron, who imbues them with such power as to make them nigh unstoppable.

Dynasty Culture
"My Honor is My Loyalty."

- The traditional Sakhrut Dynasty motto

Considered craven and covetous by their fellow Necron, most have written them off as lawless snakes, caring not for Necrontyr honor or rites. However, this is only partially true, as the Sakhrut Dynasty hold to a different interpretation of honor. Having long been disadvantaged by their larger and more powerful rival Dynasties in the eons before the arrival of the Star Gods, the Sakhrut adopted the underhanded and ruthless tactics they did simply to remain independent from the influence of the other Dynasties that would have seen them snuffed out.

However, to the Sakhrut, nothing is more binding than an oath, for within their treacherous and ambitious ranks, ones word is all the loyalty they have. It is in this concept that all of the honor of the Sakhrut Dynasty was poured into, and therefore, while no Dynasty could trust the Sakhrut to follow the edicts of the Triarch, those few who knew the Dynasty well knew that their word was a bond stronger than any Necrodermis.

Thus, it was not treachery that forced the Sakhrut Dynasty to side with the monstrous C'tan, but their only honor they ever had. For, as with all Necrontyr, the Sakhrut had sworn themselves to the C'tan in exchange for the power to pursue their vendettas, and the Sakhrut would sooner die than abandon their honor.

Unlike a great deal of Necrons, the Sakhrut Dynasty have embraced their cold Necrodermis bodies, continuing to shun the weakness and folly of flesh and bone. For the fatalistic and ambitious Sakhrut, this sacrifice has brought them all they have ever wanted, power, immortality, godhood. To them, the price payed was acceptable, for their ambition was boundless, and only the gifts of the Gods can ensure their power is secured for all eternity. They also stalwartly believe that the Star Gods are their only hope at curing the madness that slowly infects their people, for only the power of the almighty can cure the likes of the Destroyers and Flayed Ones.

Veilblades
The most trusted and valued warriors of the Sakhrut Dynasty, Veilblades are both a Necron Lord's trusted bodyguard and merciless enforcers. Blurring the lines of bodyguard and assassin, Veilblades have served the Sakhrut Dynasty since the days long before the discovery of the Star Gods. Once the Phaerons most trusted Deathmarks, Veilblades eventually supplanted the more traditional Lytchguard, protecting the Overlord from the shadows with murderous ease. They were a Sakhrut Lord's unseen hand, the executioners of his will, striking out against his enemies and defending him on the battlefield. They were feared by all the other rival Dynasties, who knew all to well that the treacherous and ambitious Sakhrut would never balk at sending forth their assassins, and while the Sakhrut Dynasty's Deathmarks were indeed many and fearsome, they paled in comparison to the might of the Veilblades. They were ghost warriors, they who would strike form the shadows and leave, not only their target dead, but in true Sakhrut fashion, leave the targets intimidate family, retainers, and even loyal pets in bloody shambles. For as it was once said, the Sakhrut send Deathmarks after their rivals, but Veilblades are sent after their rivals heirs.

When the biotransferrence came about, the Veilblades continued much in the same function, though now, with the reality defying technology of the Star Gods at their disposal and their new metal forms, they became a force very much like their infamous reputation. Capable of phasing in and out of reality at will and given the relentless forms of Necrodermis, the Veilblades became the most devastating warriors at the Nameless King's disposal. Veilblades wait in their pocket dimensions until requested by their liege, either springing to his side in the thick of battle, phasing into the midst of the enemy, intercepting reinforcements, attacking behind enemy lines, or even assassinating the enemy commanders, nothing is above the ability of these ancient death dealers.

Outfitted with a Necrodermis chassis similar to that of a Lychguard, lacking in ornamentation but not in bulk or durability, the Veilblades are built for brutal close combat, designed to phase into the thick of battle and annihilate the shocked enemy. To this end, the Veilblades come armed with a wide variety of powerful weapons. There are three generally recognized configuration of Veilblades:

First is the more traditional Shroud Phalanx, pairing the killing power of the Hyperphase Sword and the impenetrable defense of a Dispersion Shield, the Veilblades both defend their lord and ruthlessly hack his enemies to pieces. A Shroud Phalanx can also be deployed in specific locations across the battlefield in order to corner the enemy, catch them between the murderous advance of the Dynasty's relentless Warriors and Immortals and their own mighty shields.

Second and most infamous formation is the Veil Phalanx, armed with their trademark Veil Stave, a twin bladed Necron Warscythe, an Veil Phalanx brings brutal and precise death to the enemy in a merciless barrage of impaling thrusts and rending swipes. Armed with this ancient tool of murder, a unit of Veilblades cut through even the mightiest enemy like a scythe through chaff, leaving only ruined corpses in their wake. The reach and killing power of the fearsome Veil Stave also makes it ideal for dealing with larger, more imposing targets, such as armored vehicles and monstrous creatures.

The third and final known formation is the terrifying Jakal Phalanx, which combines the monstrous strength of the Necron's Necrodermis shell and the brutal flensing blades of the Sakhrut Dynasty's infamous Jackal Talon. Armed with a pair of these bladed, flame spewing gauntlets, an Immolater Phalanx sews utter devastation in a ferocious and sudden assault, bathing the confused enemy in eldritch flames and carving down what terrified few remain with ruthless efficiency. These terrifying weapons strike fear into the hearts of the enemy and sew confusion amongst their ranks, making the Jackal Talon ideal for slaughtering tightly packed units of troops.

Old Bones, the Forgotten King
"They have forgotten me, Sukotholos, stripped me of title and name. These, savages, they call me Old Bones in their fear, they think me some monster from the void, little different than the animals they worship. So be it, this shall be my new legacy, I shall become Old Bones, and I will reeducate these primitives in the the lesson the Necron taught them long ago. I will teach them fear, proper fear, not this pale imitation they have so long grown accustomed too. Ready your men Vargard, and send my message, Old Bones is their master now, and he will humble their pitiful little gods."

- The Forgotten King awakens

Vargard Sukotholos, the Shroud
"Thy will be eternal."

- Vargard Sukotholos obey's his Phaeron without question

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. This also makes him a terrifying interrogator, as he will make clear his intent to butcher his victim alive until they talk, and makes it very clear that even if they expire, he will just find another set of loose lips.

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

1 Tau Scalp

1 Kroot Eye in a Jar

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 lighting 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. He has been enhanced with various sensory equipment, making Angron a living bio and warp detector, capable of hunting down both xenos in disguise and daemons. He is also warded against the touch of the warp, to ensure that no eldritch trickery can throw him off the path of his prey. 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 Kordak, a harsh and violent planet of unending war and hardship. He killed his first man at the age of twelve, and by his nineteenth year was an accomplished warrior and hunter of the Latouka tribe. Dingo pressed into the Kordakan Guard at the age of twenty one and never looked back, excelling in various theaters of war against the enemies of man.

He would tour around the Galaxy for seven years, becoming a hardened veteran of the Kordakan 34th. Dingo was content with the life of a Guardsman, his meals were regular, his comrades were all of the Latouka tribe, and his actions ensured that he pleased the Emperor daily with the grizzly slaughter of his enemies. But one faithful deployment would change all of that.

The Battle for Karantaan was an unmitigated disaster, resulting in the deaths of millions of the Imperial Guard and the near destruction of the Iron Wings Space Marine Chapter. Dingo and his kin were deployed in the midst of this failing campaign to put their ruthless skills to use against the Chaos Space Marine Warband known as the Children of the Twisted Lash. The campaign would drag on for the better part of a year, with the casualties mounting until the arrival of a Ordo Malleus Inquisitor known as Set Brandus. A stalwart servant of the Emperor, Inquisitor Brandus utilized his knowledge of the Daemonic to assist the beleaguered Guard forces, and singlehandedly began to turn the campaign around. During one of these key battles, Brandus was struck to the ground by a Chaos Raptor Champion. Looking death in the eye, the Inquisitor readied himself for the end, but then watched with awe as a squad of Kordakan Infantry rushed the hulking agent of the Dark Gods. The pitched melee ended when the final Kordakan left alive in the squad struck the Chaos Marine dead with a point blank shotgun blast to the throat, tearing its head from its body. In all his years, Inquisitor Brandus had never seen such ferocity in the face of the Chosen of the Dark Gods from mere men, but before him stood a savage that had done just that and emerged alive. Surely it was a sign from the Emperor almighty. Dingo was that lone savage, and on that day he earned quite the promotion.

The following years Dingo spent as an acolyte to Inquisitor Brandus were eventful ones to be sure. As part of a ten man team of Inquisitorial agents, Dingo traveled the Galaxy, hunting down xenos abominations and cleansing worlds of ancient evils. He became the party's main enforcer, deadly with a lasgun and even deadlier up close with his knife and punch dagger. However, this too would end. During a routine mission to root out a potential cult within the spires of the Hive World known as Tarsius V, Dingo's party met a grizzly fate when the encountered a massive Chaos Spawn, borne of the cult leader. Only Dingo survived, having his spine crushed and ribs shattered, it would take the finest medical experts in the Segmentum to save his life. But live he did, and as the sole surviving acolyte, proved himself worthy of joining Inquisitor Brandus' retinue. As Inquisitor Brandus was quite the lone wolf, Dingo became his sole companion and protégé. For the better part of eight years Dingo would serve as Brandus' Interrogator, being his enforcer, bodyguard, and assassin. Dingo learned much from Inquisitor Brandus, and also picked up on the Inquisitors more direct style of investigation. While Brandus was not one to flash the rosette lightly, he certainly never delved so low as to sneak and disguise his identity, he simply approached every investigation as he would a woman, with poise and awareness. Unfortunately, Dingo's idea of courtship and Brandus' idea of courtship are worlds apart. Regardless, Inquisitor Brandus eventually found Dingo worthy of the office of Inquisitor, and after an extremely tense Inquisitorial moot, Dingo was finally an Inquisitor.

Dingo fell into the ranks of the Alien Hunters from there, having an affinity for tracking down and eliminating those who would cavort with the alien and the dreaded heathen beasts themselves. While more direct than his master, he most certainly knows when the time has come for the stalking to begin, and sometimes must dawn the guise of a lowly mercenary or gunthug if he is to learn more about his prey. Therefore, while more forward, he is noted as only slightly less proud than his mentor.

Beauregard Teach
"I don't like 'em, scary fuck. We Inquisitors are a weird bunch, that's part of the job, but that Beauregard... that fucker... he's a different kind of scary. The kind of scary that makes daemons go crawling back to the pit they came from."

- Dingo

A dreaded figure even amongst the ranks of the Inquisition, Inquisitor Beauregard Teach is a dreadful hunter of both daemons and heretics alike. The sole survivor of the Partan Daemon Incursion, veteran of close to a hundred years of daemon hunting, Beauregard Teach is a man to be feared.

Appearance
Beauregard is a tall, lithe individual, borne of a gangly, avian like slenderness that lead some to assume him frail or sickly.

Mason
"A man with no face, a man with no soul, a man with nothing to lose."

Voltaire
"Do well, and you will have no need for faith."

- Voltaire, the Revolutionary

A name that is both echoed and whispered throughout the annals of the Galaxy, the Chaos Space Marine known only as Voltaire is an infamous specter of rebellion and ruin. Determined to sew heresy and unrest throughout the Imperium of Man, Voltaire and his handful of vicious followers slither through the stars, establishing cults and spawning insurrection across the width and breadth of the Imperium. His goals are unknown, but his threat to the Imperium of Man is undeniable, and thus Voltaire is hunted across the stars a revolutionary with but one apparent cause, sew utter chaos.

The Ancient Education
A band of ruthless and cunning killers, the Ancient Education are Voltaire's chosen acolytes and warriors, less a warband and more a cell of deadly renegades brought together under their leaders mysterious cause. They are made up of fifteen Astartes and several hundred crewmen of the Chartist Merchant Ship Devotion's Own Reward, this cell of sleeper agents and cunning cultists travel through Imperial space, planting the seeds of heresy and rebellion on every world they set foot upon.

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 Capitano 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 supremely 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. Thus, the Foot are deadly but unreliable troops, prone to panic and grievous acts of either incompetence or insubordination in the face of a capable foe. That being said, should a Regiment be led competently and tempered by the stern hands of the Commissariat, there is very little they cannot achieve, 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 Days of Silver and Gold
The Long Night left many worlds in utter ruin, with most collapsing into utter anarchy at the fall of mankinds pre-Imperial governing bodies and empire. But Graili, being a world of great natural bounties, wealth, and a hub of commerce, managed to weather the storm with nary a scratch. Graili was always home to wealthy and powerful trading and banking clans, and though the Galaxy fell apart around them, the cunning and ambitious lords of Graili banded together to turn a profit from this chaos.

The Grailians maintained trade with the several other inhabitable worlds of the Graili System, and eventually annexed them through both military pressures and economic maneuvering. Thus, the Grailian Confederacy was born, a loose collation of the wealthiest and most politically influential Clans based on Graili herself and the newly acquired territories within the system.

As the power of the Confederacy grew, so did the might of their armies. Having managed to abstain from the utter anarchy the vast majority of human worlds were plunged into at the time, the merchant-marine fleets of Graili and the sizable armies aboard them were a force to be reckoned with, armed with both powerful archotechnology and crafted to standards allowed by the sheer wealth of their empire.

Over the eons before the rise of the Imperium of Man, the Grailian Confederacy built a respectable empire, and became an economical powerhouse, trading with the other various barbarian and xenos kingdoms that surrounded them.

However, all was not well in these days of plenty, for the greedy and over ambitious clans regularly made war upon one another as well as enemies from without. Clan feuds and wars would regularly rock planets to their core, the constant threat of mutual annihilation from the savage outer empires being the only deterrent from all out civil war. Assassination and espionage were the standard by which all Grailian nobility lived, and betrayal lurked around every corner.

Eventually, the precarious position of the Grailian Confederacy would crumble, with the death of one man.

The Clan Wars (The Great Vendetta)
On the eve of the end of the Unification Wars of Terra and the First Founding, the Grailian Confederacy was sundered into a bloody civil war the likes of which would spell the end of an era. Two rival clans, the Lucini and Agranii, would go to war with one another, dragging all other clans into this conflict via the convoluted alliances and partnerships tied to all clans. The Lukini and Agranii had been bitter foes since the first days of the Confederacy, and were undoubtedly the most powerful and influential in of all the clans.

This great war was spawned by the death of one man, Christoph Armondo Lukini XV, younger brother to Alfonzo Cordii Lukini II, the head of the Lukini Clan. To this day none can say for sure that the Agranii were truly involved in the assassination, but regardless they were the ones targeted with various reprisals. It was the assassination of Vincent Hillarii Agranii, infant son of Luka Hillarii Agranii III, head of the Agranii Clan, that would finally spark all out war between the rival clans.

Known by Grailian historians as The Great Vendetta, the massive civil war split the Confederacy into three major factions, the Lukini, Agranii, and the treacherous Plazii. The Plazii had long been considered the third most powerful clan, always shadowed by the glory of the Lukini and Agranii. The Plazii patriarch, Franchesko Plazii, played both sides of The Great Vendetta before betraying his erstwhile allies and taking vast swaths of the empire for himself. Later on it was revealed that the Plazii Clan was responsible for the death of Alfonzo Lukini II's brother, in a bid to pit the two clans at one another's throats and open the way for Plazii influence. To this day, to be of the Plazii lineage is a sign of inherent treacherousness and evil.

The Great Vendetta would continue to rage for several hundred years. Various alliances were broken, remade, and broken again as various clans vied for position and vengeance against ancient rivals and upstarts alike. Such bloody and destructive times saw to the utter ruination of the wealthy and opulent cities of the Grailian Confederation, and opportunistic techno-barbarian and xenos empires took this as a chance to humble the Grailians who had so long lorded over them with their wealth, striking back and taking their outermost holdings.

The Great Vendetta would only come to a close with the arrival of a power far greater than all the clans combined, and all that was set wrong by one man would be set right by one man.

Pax Imperium
The Emperor, flanked by his son Horus and the might of the Legio Astartes, arrived in what was the Grailian Confederacy in the early days of the Great Crusade. However, the God Emperor had hardly to raise his blade before vast swaths of the Grailian Confederacy pledged their loyalty to His Imperium. Though proud, the Grailian people had grown tired of ceaseless war and ruin, and the Emperor promised that should they kneel before him, such mindless war and conflict shall never again lay low all they had built.

So it came to pass that the Grailian Confederacy was absorbed into the Imperium with only minor conflict, with only a few blocs of clans resisting with violence. The Emperor dissolved many of the more powerful and unruly clans, while leaving those who served the Imperial cause to retake power. In the end, the Emperor would bring peace and stability to the Grailian people, at the cost of their autonomy and extra-planetary holdings. Or so one would think.

The Great Crusade
With the Grailian people still reeling from the aftermath of The Great Vendetta, the Emperor agreed after much negotiation with clan representatives to withhold any form of taxation or recruitment into the Imperial Army for at least two hundred years. The Emperor's graciousness may have been misplaced however, for the clans merely used this period of grace as an opportunity to re-seize most assets of the old Grailian Confederacy the Emperor had redistributed to the Imperium at large. Through brilliant political maneuvering and age old Grailian espionage they began to retake what the clans saw as rightfully theirs, Emperor or no. Within mere decades the influence of the clans spread throughout their old territories and even beyond. By the time the Emperor called upon the sons of Graili to serve in the Imperial Army, the Grailian Confederacy was once more in all but name, and due to the established space lanes of the Imperium, was now more wealthy and powerful than ever.

However, they were still beholden to the Imperium of Man, and thus contributed greatly to the Great Crusade in both terms of manpower and funding. The great merchant-marine fleets of Graili followed with the Imperial Army bringing both their guns and savvy merchants to the breadth and width of the Galaxy.

Culture
Grailians, by the supremely wealthy nature of their homeworld and even neighboring systems still under their dominion

Sex
Beholden to Grailian military traditions and social norms, the Grailian Foot is an all male army. Women in Grailian culture are usually relegated to purely domestic tasks, and are expressly forbidden from military service. Naturally, this

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.

Grailian Pattern Mk4 Hellgun
The standard weapon of the Grailian Foot, the Mk4 Hellgun is a devastating weapon, capable of spewing a vicious barrage of rapid, accurate, and armor piercing lasfire. Masterfully crafted, durable, and dependable, the Grailian Mk4 Hellgun is a weapon the likes of which the rank and file Guardsman of other Regiments would kill to have.

Grailian Pattern "Reagali" Bolter
An exquisite weapon manufactured to the exacting standards of the Grailian Arms guilds, the Grailian Pattern Bolter, also known as the "Royal Bolter" in Low Gothic, is comparable to the like used by the Sisters of Battle, supremely deadly and always a sign of great status. However, the Grailian model tends to be semi-automatic, requires an even greater deal of maintenance than either the Astartes or Soritas grade models, and deteriorates quickly in difficult weather conditions. So while the Grailian planetary government is wealthy enough for almost any Footman is able to requisition the weapon, most prefer the Mk4 Hellgun, due to its reilabilty.

Grailian Pattern Mk8 Heavy Autogun
The standard squad support weapon of the Grailian Foot, the Mk8 Autogun is a special heavy weapon and the most common next to the Mk4 Hellgun. A hefty and powerful weapon, the Mk8 Heavy Autogun can lay down a withering barrage of high caliber fire that is certain to rip infantry to shreds and riddle light transports full of holes. While considerably heavy, it can be fired on the move as well from a braced position.

Grailian Pattern "Corpo Crepa" Shotgun
Known as the "Body Cracker" in Low Gothic, the Grailian Pattern Shotgun is a large, high gauge weapon. Capable of blasting an Ork into chunks, this triple barrled shotgun is a monster in close quarters combat. However, the Body Cracker has considerable range, and its heavy shot can easily kill a man from a few yards away. Being a breech loaded shotgun, it can leave the user quite vulnerable while reloading, usually requiring covering fire from his comrades.

The Armies of the Four Pillars
Hailing from the savage forests and fields of the Votive/Agri world of Brom, the Holy Armies of the Four Pillars is a military alliance of the various techno-barbarian clans, brought to war againts the Storm Draugar's enemies in the name of glory and the Dark Gods.

The Before Times
In eons past, Brom was a feral world inhabited by various savage tribes. Here, amdist the swirling vortex of the Maelstrom, the great tribes of old made war with one another in the names of the ancient Panthon of the Four Stones. The people were as animals, armed with only base stone instruments and few tribes knowing the life giving tool of destruction and life that is fire. But they were many and fierce, their world shaping them into a strong and warlike people. But then the grey Storm Warriors came, and brought the tribes to heel. They were the messangers of the Gods, and they brought the Clans into the ages of technology and war amongst the stars.

The Age of Carving
Named for the establishment of the Holy Order of the Four Pillars, the peoples of Brom went from savage tribes armed with but stone age weapons to barbaric, semi-civilized clans, armed with both iron weapons and tools of modernity. Great holds and towns were built, the fields made fertile, and the beasts of the land tamed. But most importantly was the founding of an organized clergy, who took the old oblisks of the Gods and carved them into sturdy visiages of the Dark Gods. Civilization, in all its brutal trimmings, had come to the peoples of Brom.

The Age of the Pillars
Now, with their great Clanlords and Storm Warrior masters, the Clans of Brom became devoted warriors, bringing the faith of the Four Pillars to weak and indolent worlds with equally weak and indolent people. They burn the cities of the False One, and take his peoples women and children as slaves. Great wealth comes to the Clans, and the Holy Order of the Four Pillars regularly muster the Armies of the Four Pillars to the sky ships of their masters, young men eager to do the holy work of the Gods and bring glory to their clans. Surely this is the best of ages, for there is plenty and war, what more could the peoples of Brom ask for?

Culture
The Clans of Brom are a barbaric and savage people, living in huts and squalor even as their armies are armed with the lasgun and chainsword. Their lives are nothing but war and toil, fighting off the mutant hordes and great beasts of Brom while simtaniously making war upon their nehibors for land and glory. As a base and primitive society, the hiarchy is simple. The young men of the clan fight, while the women, children, and elderly tend to the fields and livestock.

While the Clans quarrel with endless wars and alliances, the Holy Order of the Four Pillars ensures that all pay their taxes in way of livestock and crops. Before the Storm Draugar the only relgious authority the peoples of Brom had were wandering shamens and mystics, men of great faith and power but belonging to no tribe. Now they are their own tribe of sorts, united by the Storm Draugar's Dark Apostles into a theocratic governing body that oversees the clans and ensures that they are acting in accordance to the will of the Gods and their chosen agents. The Holy Order of the Four Pillars is named for the four great warpstone pillars that it's mighty citidel and city of Bromia are built around. Once the great mootstones of the Dark Gods, the preisthood of the Order carved the jagged blocks of stone into refined depictions of the four Chaos Gods. Sacrilige to some, a sign of solidarity and faith to others. The Pillars act as symbols of the Brom's leap into semi-civilized existance and the order brought by the great prophet Ingar Blackspawn and his mighty brother Malak Blackspawn.

Thus the people of Brom are supremely relgious, holding to their war like faith of the Four Pillars with a fanatic furvor.

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 lighting 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 Theif
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 lept, 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. For only a few blissful seconds, he was somewhere else. He drew a deep breath of cool, fresh air. Felt soft grass under his bare feet. But when his eyes snapped open, he saw only the bleak blackness of the endless city, ugly gargoyles and twisted spies piercing a smog filled sky. He pulled the pin on his parachute, a simple and primitive tool in such times, but legal and easier to find than a Grav-chute. As the sudden snap of the unfurling parachute yanked him out of his free fall, Gregory managed a glance over his shoulder. The enforcers were drawing their weapons, autopistols and stubbers, they could never hit him at this range, already his black wings of cheap fabric were taking him far out of their domain. Still they tried, the distant staccato of their guns mingling with the howling, acrid winds of the mid level towers.

Gregory moved quickly, Bernard's men knew full well that their lives depended on tracking him down. Unfortunately for them, Gregory was an old hand at this, and knew that only the most desperate would follow him into the fringes of the Western Middle Quarter.

As he rounded another corner on the crowded streets, Gregory's left hand instinctively delved into his left trouser pocket.

"Still there..." He whispered to himself. The fist sized, rectangular object would seem of no consequence to most. But to Gregory's employers, this little chunk of smooth stone was worth triple it's weight in mona. It radiated a warm pulse as his hand closed around it, and he the corner's of his vision began to blur.

"Trócaire milis!" He bit his lip as the warm sensation shot suddenly up his arm and smashed into the bottom of his brain. His vision distorted into a blast of vivid color and warmth wholly took over his being.

"Yeah... that's some of the good stuff." He muttered as he tore his grip away from the hunk of Premorock. Refined Premorock no less. The Roquefort Family had been experimenting with new formulas as of late, easily muscling in on the Montskew's and Graveport's business with their new product. The drug trade on Lupercal's Folly was always cutthroat, but lately the Premorock business was getting more and more competitive, what with the new Warpstone veins found in the Lowdowns and more of the Lowdown gangs getting involved. The Middle Sec families had to step up their game.

The Blood Lord
"Don't talk down to me like that! I've always been a murderous bastard... you all know that. This is no surprise to anyone, simply the admission of truths we have all liked to keep locked away. Now, if its all the same to you, Chapter Master... get the fuck out of my throne."

- Krethnan Bloodlord

The King Killer, an ancient Styx-Class Heavy Cruiser, slowly glided through the void, her barbarous fleet of fellow cruisers and smaller raider craft swarming around her like a hungry pack of void sharks. Her ancient and battle scarred hull glinted briefly in the glow of a distant star, her ebony hull shining like brimstone. Her battle scared form was festooned with all manner of foul icons and displays of her monstrous master, great iron symbols of the Dark Gods welded onto her armored carapace, swarms of radiation bleached skeletons pinned by great steel bolts, accursed warp lighting leaping about her hull.

She moved with cold, murderous intent on the small orbital station that hung before her, pathetic defense fleet of three cruisers holding formation with their scrapped together escorts. Merchant vessels haphazardly turned gunboats the lot of them. Hungry eyes looked upon this smattering of resistance, and The King Killer 's bridge resounded with an all too familiar laugh. It was a throaty, brutish sound, like a bear trying sound like a man.

"They think to fight with this!?" The boorish voice roared between guffaws as various forms scrambled about the bridge, bringing The King Killer 's weapons online and calling the attack craft to muster.

"Mo'Loth! Do you see this insult?" The hulking figure upon the command throne bellowed to the beastly form that stood at his side.

The monster addressed glared at the holographic projection of the defending fleet, his great red eyes narrowed in a predatory glare. He saw every flaw in the formation, every weakness... he could practically taste the fear of the doomed crewmen upon those feeble ships. A brutish snort left his bovine snout, and he turned his great horned head to address his liege;

"Indeed, Lord Krethnan, a grievous insult." Mo'Loth's booming baritone rumbled.

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 Armies of the Four Pillars, a warrior cult of devout techno-barbarian warriors of the Chaos Gods. It was then, member of the of the Youth Armies, that Ogas was discovered by the Storm Draguar's agents. Recruited for his sheer ferocity and fanatical devotion to the Dark Gods and their messangers, Ogas was taken to the Flesh Pits of Lupercal's Folly, and remade in the image of the agents of the Dark Gods.

A ruthless fanatic always eager to prove himself to the Dark Gods and his superiors through strength of arms in battle, Ogas

A heavy weapons specialist, Ogas bears with him a mighty Autocannon, bedecked with the skulls of fallen enemies and bearing a massive blade across the length of the barrel with which he may skewer those who stray too close as he blasts his enemies to peices.

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 a Rogue Trader in M37. The Chapter claimed to have been serving the Imperium for thousands of years, and were unaware of their supposed absence. They even claimed that they had maintained their regular gene-seed tithe, citing the Imperial representative that came to gather the tithe as a Departmento Minutorum representative known as Captain Drahcuod Eggab. The Departmento Minutorum has absolutely no record of any such man working under their authority, and with the grievous crime of gene-seed theft on an absurd scale on his name, this Eggab character is now subject to a massive bounty, hunted by both the vengeful Sons of Woe and other agents of all branches of the Adeptus Terra.

The Sons of the Dark Forest
In spite of such a rocky reintroduction into the Imperium proper, the Sons of Woe continued to serve as they allegedly had for millennia, warding off the vast numbers of traitors and xenos that regularly spilled forth from the nearby River of Exiles. The Chapter claimed to have guarded this violent and derelict region of space for untold eons, as any heretic would doubtlessly attest. Dubious as to the Chapter's purity however, the Imperium assigned several agents of various Imperial organizations to oversee the Chapters "reintegration". While there were small rumbles of discontent, the Sons of Woe complied without interference.

For several years the Chapter was scrutinized by Mechancius, Minitorum, and Inquisitorial agents. Some voiced concerns of both potential corruption, while most simply vented frustrations with the Chapter's extremely unorthodox nature. Accounts abounded with the Chapter's sheer savagery and brutality unto the Enemies of Man, their wanton butchery and callous disregard for any of the famous Astartes martial pride and honor earning them the bile and distrust of most of their overseers. Frictions between these overseers and Chapter command sewed the seeds of belligerency that have since flowered into the distrust and general disregard for the authority of other Adepta. But to a few, more liberal minds, the Sons of Woe were a unique and valuable asset to the Imperium, a rare weapon that can strike legitimate fear into the hearts of even the blackest heretic and most ferocious xenos. It was fortunate for the Sons of Woe that such a few were considerably powerful and vocal individuals, for the Chapter narrowly escaped liquidation on the words of these radical men and women. The Sons of Woe realize only that these individuals ensured their Chapter's Emperor-Given autonomy, and therefore consider themselves indebted to these powerful agents and their various causes. And the Sons of Woe always pay their debts.

Druid
"There are a great many creatures like you. Madmen who seek to bend the forest of stars to your will. You want power. You crave infamy. You feed off the suffering of all. But you do not understand, here you face the sons of the Dark Forest. Men of Oak and Ice. You think the great tree will bend at the knee for the likes of you? The Dark Forest kneels for no one."

- Ludwig Grímsdóttir, Arch Druid of the Sons of Woe

Much like the White Scars Stormseers and Space Wolves Rune Priests, the Sons of Woe's Druids blur the line between practiced psyker and tribal shaman, channeling the power of the Warp and combining it with the primeval influence of Woe Primarus. Calling upon the primal force of Woe Primarus' foreboding forests and the grim beasts that populate them, the Druids conjure powers of awesome and dreadful might, summoning forth ethereal revenants and smiting the foe with grim powers that border on occult sorcery.

Druids are naturally the more stoic and aloof of their brothers, their constant need for discipline and spiritual connection to the very soul of their homeworld driving them to stand alone or only congregate with their fellow Druids. It is not out of some form of elitism or dislike of their kinsmen that lead them to such practices, but the nature of their craft. Thus they are dour and plainspoken individuals, even amongst the already stoic Sons of Woe.

Considering the rarity of a functioning Black Carapace, there are usually several of the Chapter's Druids who cannot wear Power Armor, and instead wear a highly specialized form of Scout Armor with a Circlet of Power. A Circlet of Power is a simple looking device that is often surgically implanted onto the Druid's skull, forming a modest crown of sorts. Though appearing as a simple band of iron, it is in fact a powerful Psychic Hood, capable of both enhancing the wearers powers and protecting them from psychic or sorcerous assaults.

The Sons of Woe's Druids are capable of a vast array of unique and powerful techniques, some of which have borne their own strange sub-disciplines within the usual psychic disciplines. The most notable abilities are as follows:

The Red Oak: Utilizing a strange and horrific form of biomancy, the Druid calls upon the wrath of the Dark Forest itself, twisting the enemies muscle and sinew into wood and bark. The foe screams in agony as their bones break and reform into branches and flesh rips and reforms into solid wood. What remains in place of several foes is now a small grove of dripping red saplings, draped in the torn and bloodied remains of the foes war panoply.

Familiar of the Forest: The Druid calls upon his foes fears and the power of his own soul, summoning forth a ghostly apparition to aide him in combat. The shape of this wraith depends upon the Druids symbol of internal strength and spiritual power. Many familiars manifest as great beasts of Woe Primarus, though some take on the form of a long dead Battle-Brother, a mentor or close friend of ages past. Though appearing as an ethereal entity, enemies will quickly notice that its claws or blade are just as real as the Druid's own.

Wicker Man: The Druid summons forth his bitter hatred and measured fury upon the foes very soul, forming brittle needles of stinging nettle within the core of the enemies body. These burning splinters burrow their way to the surface of the skin. Within seconds the opponent is little more than a moaning, shambling mass of stinging nettle quills. It is at this point that the spines suddenly set alight, wreathing the enemy in empyrean flames, burning away the last of the foe and finally exploding in a hail of flaming shrapnel.

Warboar Cavalry
Woe Primarus is host to a vast array of deadly predators, from the mighty Dark Forest Bear to the silent Canopy Jackal, but none are so belligerent and hard headed as the great Black Boar. Brought to Woe Primarus in an age long before the Imperium by marauding Orks, whose feral descendants still rove the great forests and plains of Woe Primarus, the Black Boar is found all over the planet. Having adapted quite well to the perilous and savage world, the Black Boar of Woe Primarus is much swifter and more aggressive than its cousins found across the galaxy, having grown lean and mean in order to better fend off and escape predators.

The Black Boar is found both in wild herds and in domesticated packs in both Greenskin and human warbands on Woe Primarus, the native tribes quickly seeing the utility of the beast. As Woe had no other creatures to act a suitable beasts of burden of war mounts, the Black Boar is as ubiquitous amongst the human tribes as it is within the Greenskin bands.

It is no surprise then that the Sons of Woe continue on the traditions of their homeworld, and they too ride into battle upon these ferocious swine. Warboar Cavalry provide the Chapter with a rapid means of transportation in areas where the terrain is too rough or unstable for even the rugged warbike, and in situations where a Land Speeder could not stay close enough to the ground or be able to maneuver safely. Also, the Black Boar is a surprisingly stealthy creature, used to stalking silently though the perpetually dim forests of Woe Primarus. Whats more, when the time comes for battle, the Black Boar is a mighty sight to behold, goring and trampling its foes in a brutish onslaught while its experienced rider kills with bolter and blade.

Battle Brothers who ride upon these mighty but foul tempered steeds tend to be of a similar disposition, known for their bellicose natures and bloodlust. Thus one can expect a Warboar Cavalryman to be just as, if not more, ferocious than his beastly companion. Unlike the Orks who first brought the Black Boar to Woe Primarus, the relationship between a Son of Woe Warboar Cavalryman and his mount is not one of brutal domineering, but a bond forged by mutual respect. Battle Brothers tame Warboars in much the same way as the Greenskins, wrestling the beast to the ground and forcing its obedience. But from then on the two will form a rapport of sorts, a trust borne of shared combat and respect for one anothers prowess in combat. Therefore, should one be injured on the field of battle, it is not likely for the other to abandon their companion. All too often, the Warboar will fight to the bitter end to safeguard his rider's body, goring any foolhardy enough to stand against the grief-mad beast.

Gurmanic Punch Dagger
A staple weapon of the savage, semi-nomadic tribes of Woe Primarus' main continent of Gurmania, the Gurmanic Punch Dagger is both a totem of their homeworld and a barbaric weapon in the hands of the Sons of Woe. Generally a gauntlet or knuckle duster forged with a single great spike featuring an edged blade on the knuckle facing side of the spike, the Punch Dagger plays a similar role to the standard Astartes Combat knife, a practically ubiquitous tool for close combat and general utility. The Punch Dagger is oft considered superior to a Combat Knife by the Sons of Woe, for its easy application and the fact that it leaves the hand free still to operate guns and other melee weapons. It is also considerably more deadly against heavily armored opponents, as its spike easily punches through armor, an advantage any bladed weapon lacks.

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. However, White Scars are often cited as a very likely Primogenitor, due to the Sons of Woe's savage and bellicose nature.

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 and black 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 millennia, their preferred method of waging war clearly accommodating this mutation.

Maverick Lords
"Our cousins think us strange, first they see our trophies and icons of home, and think us savages. Then, after the battle is won, they hear our war poetry, and think us civilized. Truth is, we are what we are."

- Brother-Sergeant Yatsuhiro

A young and fierce Chapter borne from the checkered legacy of Jaghatai Khan and his White Scars, the Maverick Lords are a Chapter known for their wily ways and reckless independence. Many consider them dangerous radicals, their irreverence for both the Codex Astartes and the authority of the other Adeptus Terra making them many enemies. Still, their loyalty to the Emperor and his subjects, not to mention their considerable record of both victory and selfless service to the Imperium keeps them from being thrust from the Imperial fold.

Culture
Young, rowdy, fond of copious amounts of food and drink, and utterly without discipline off the field of battle, most onlookers would consider the Maverick Lords a disgrace to the Adeptus Astartes. They are well known for disregarding other Imperial authorities, and are often openly dismissive of their comrades in tactical meetings. All too often, the boorishness of Chapter Representatives has sparked fistfights and riot amongst their allies. This has led the Imperium at large to write off the Maverick Lords as uncouth savages, good natured but utterly impetulant, a blight upon the esteemed reputation of the Emperor's Angels of Death.

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 undermanned, 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. As Sons of Dorn, the Iron Wings could not stand idly by while such things took place, and made ready for a crusade. At only five-hundred battle-brothers strong, the Iron Wings chapter fleet dove headlong into the now contested territory, and began thier long and bloody war.

These were dark days for the Chapter, for they had all sworn oaths that they would not cease fighting until the Ur-Council was brought to justice. For almost two-thousand years no one heard of the Iron Wings, save for rumor and myth. Most thought them dead, outnumbered and outgunned, defeated by hordes of rebellious heathens. But then, one hundred years after the fall of Nova Terra, a Rogue Trader vessle beset by former rebels turned pirates bore witness to the return of the Iron Wings.

The Iron Wings Chapter Barque, Halberd of Heaven, translated out of the Warp, battle scarred and damaged, but more than ready for battle. The Chapter fleet drove away the pirate scum, and made their first official contact with the Imperium in over two-thousand years. The Chapter had taken considerable losses in their great crusade against the damned traitors, but had managed to stay afloat by pressing orphans of their wars into their ranks. Regardless, the Chapter hardly numbered over three-hundred, and were in desperate need of ammunition and repairs to both their ships and wargear.

A Knights Castle, an Angels Rookery
It was several decades later that the Iron Wings would finally find a world to call home

Chapter Fleet
While the Iron Wings do not have a particularly large fleet, it is nonetheless supremely powerful for their Chapter Barque, the Halberd of Heaven, is a warship the likes of which few whole fleets, let alone other lone vessels, can match. Built to house practically the entirety of the Chapter upon their inception, the Halberd of Heaven is a mighty warship, bristling with weapons of all sizes and classes, capable of both savage broadside salvos on both enemy vessels and planetary bodies. Some would compare her might to that of the Gloriana-Class Battleships of the Great Crusade, but in truth her ferocity is not without many weaknesses. Her guns, though mighty, lack a certain close range punch, making her vulnerable to fast and heavily armed cruisers and other such craft. Thankfully her hull is thick and her shields strong, and she has a mighty core of Strike Cruisers and Escort craft to defend her.

The Iron Wings tend to utilize their fleet with the same level of fury as they would their Poleaxes, in one brutal blow, seeking to utterly unmake the enemies forces. With the raw power of the Halberd of Heaven and the guns of the famous Strike Crusiers, Angel of Justice, Star Dragon, and Hammer of Andraste few enemy fleets can manage to close the distance before being utterly torn asunder by their mighty guns.

Unique Wargear
Kordovan-Pattern Poleaxe: An archaic weapon from the long since defunct Forge World Kordova, the only known surviving models of the Kordovan-Pattern Poleaxe are made by the most learned Masters of the Forge of the Iron Wings. Known as the most prolific users of this one handed variant of Poleaxe during their first crusades during the Howling, the Iron Wings managed to save some of the secrets of its design during the Fall of Kordova, with current models being reverse engineered from the Axe of Ashes, the sacred weapon by which all modern Kordovan-Pattern Poleaxes were designed from and the chosen weapon of the Chapter Master.

The Kordovan-Pattern Poleaxe is a versatile and brutal power weapon, being both a spear, axe, and Thunder Hammer in one. It achieves this via a very advanced disruptor field, whose ancient design is now lost to all but the finest Chapter Artificers and wizened techpreists.

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 Divinicus, 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.

Dawnbearers
"...and lo the sun rose upon the plains of Omagodden, and the dawn doth revealed what remained of the Arch Master's armies. There was but blood and smoldering ruin, smote to a man by these warriors of the Throne Eternal, struck down by they who brought forth the deadly dawn."

- Deeds, Epoch 45, Verse 888 of the Imperitor Divinicus

The Dawnbearers are the Lightbringers

Duskbringers
"And as the sun set, and night came upon them, the Warriors of Ephesties did set up camp for the night. But at the baying of the twilight hounds, did the shroud of doom come upon them. ...for there was not a man alive who could resist these giants of steel and fire, and they were all swiftly put to the burning blade. Lo did the shroud cover them, and their screams and lamentation became silence. For these ones brought the dusk, and with it, death."

- Deeds, Epoch 11, Verse 36 of the Imperitor Divinicus

The Lightbringers whole 2nd Company is given over to the infamous warriors known only as the Duskbringers, an elite unit of the Chapter's fast attack specialists. More or less identical to the Ravenwing, the Duskbringers clad themselves in black robes and paint their armor a grim gunmetal grey, only their right shoulder pad bearing the icon of the Lightbringers. Finally, they adorn both themselves and their mighty mechanical steeds in icons of death and retribution, skulls, shattered bits of enemy armor, captured weapons mounted to the bike and power armor as trophies of war. This makes them at first appear out of place amongst the otherwise regal ranks of the Lightbringers, but regardless they are held in supremely high esteem by their Battle Brothers, considered equal to the mighty Dawnbearers.

The Duskbringers themselves are a stoic and insular group, often choosing to be apart from their rank and file brethren or alone in contemplation. Many Duskbringers even refuse the company of their fellow Duskbringers, preferring the company of their select Chapter Serfs or the cold presence of combat training servitors. Many attribute this aloofness and grim aura as a result of the utter dedication the Duskbringers hold in their hearts, longing for battle and duty and nothing more. But in truth, all Duskbringers are troubled souls, tormented by the wretched truth. All Duskbringers are initiates to the Chapter's Inner Circle, and have only recently learned of the truth of the Fallen. The shame and disillusionment push many to the edge, and for some, there is simply no chance of a return to normalcy. They spend the rest of their long lives tormented, knowledge of their forebears secret shame almost driving them mad with grief and doubt. Thus, they seek only to hunt down each and every Fallen, relentlessly they throw themselves at this task, caring not for life and limb, seeking only justice and forgiveness for the sin of betrayal that sits heavy on the blood in their veins.

Ruthless hunters and fearsome executioners, the Duskbringers are considered by some to be just as potent a tool of psychological warfare than they are a conventional one, their dark robes and death iconography regularly striking utter terror into the hearts of their enemies as the great charge of bikes and blades falls upon them.

Craftworld Sor'Tevan
Once a gleaming dagger in the arsenal of the Eldar race, Craftworld Sor'Tevan or, "Warrior's Way" was utterly destroyed in M38 by the combined forces of several Chaos Space Marine Warbands, used as a crude weapon of war in a final assault on the Shrine World of Oresphus II. However, her legacy and way of war survives within the massive Corsair Fleet known as the Last Lance, led by the former Autarch turned "Lord of the Outcasts" Adamn'a Tenkin.

The Fall
Noted as part of the most early mass exoduses undertaken by the few Eldar who foresaw the oncoming destruction of their empire, the Craftworld Sor'Tevan managed to make to what is now known as the Segementum Pacificus, escaping the great psychic armageddon that was Slaanesh's birth. However, the Craftworld had encounted a great deal of xenos horrors and other barbaric empires during their travels, having fought tooth and nail for their survival.

The Last Lance
"Gods? Where were the gods when Sor'Tevan was assaulted by barbarians? Where were the gods when they burned our cities, ate our children, raped our land? Where were the gods when they took my Isentharal from me? From now on, we make our own way."

- Adamn'a Tenkin, the Lord of the Outcasts

What remains of the population of Craftworld Sor'Tevan or "Warrior's Way" and one of the most formidable Eldar Corsair fleets in the known galaxy, the Last Lance is a fearsome collection of corsairs and pirates that maraud across the stars, striking fear into the hearts of their victims and taking great volumes of plunder. But they are no murderous band of pirates, no craven force of raiders, they are survivors, once proud beings now forced to scavenge on the scraps of the universe like a jackal.

Order of the Charnel House
"From ash we come, to the ashes we take them, to ashes we return. All is but charcoal, waiting to be set alight. All is but ash in the wind, blown by the cruel and capricious winds of fate. Only the Emperor grants us solidarity, and that is in the blissful termination of our service to Him in death."

- Cannoness Superior Aritta Immon

Grim judges of the damned and treacherous, the Order of the Charnel House are a Lesser Order Militant of the Adeptus Sororitas. Hailing from the hallowed ash fields of Crematoria, the Order of the Charnel House take upon themselves the mantel of the Emperor's reapers, delivering death to his foes and ushering his fallen faithful into His glorious company. Blessed with their unrelenting aim and clad in their ashen armor, the Order of the Charnel House prosecutes their endless crusade against the enemies of Man, never fearing death, for they believe themselves to be already dead.

Order of the Blessed Viper
"Strike suddenly, coil around the enemy, and crush them."

- Canoness Preceptor Siza Nomvula

Zealous and savage in the prosecution of the Emperor's enemies, the amazon warriors of the Order of the Blessed Viper hail from the Feral World of Nyoka, the planet of serpents and the final resting place of Saint Uriel. Dedicated to the Cult of Saint Uriel the Serpent Tamer, the Order of the Blessed Viper wages war in the image of their Saint's patron beast, striking swiftly and ruthlessly at the heretics who tempt the Emperor's divine fury. Riding into battle upon their Vesper-Pattern Assault Bikes or flying into battle with their jump packs, the Order of the Blessed Viper bring swift and bloody death to the enemies of the Emperor.

Order of the Crusading Hammer
"Look at them, these disgusting savages. Look how they beg and plead. These heathens are not worth the soot we have layed upon them. Burn them. Burn this mongrel world. Burn it all until it is clean."

- Sister Superior Svetka Sulbad

Hard and ruthless crusaders and bearers of the light of Pax Imperium to the darkest corners of the Galaxy, the Order of the Crusading Hammer is a mighty Fleet Based Order Militant of the Adeptus Sororitas. Borne of a fanatic tenacity and zealous iconoclasticsm, the Order of the Crusading Hammer crusade endlessly across the galaxy, seeking to cast down the heathen faiths of both xenos and barbarian and raise high the righteous cathedrals and temples of the Emperor upon their ashes. All that is alien and not of the Emperor is sinful, and must be put to the torch. To this end the Order of the Crusading Hammer has a vast fleet at its disposal, as well as vast amounts of dedicated sisters, especially their fearsome Celestian cores and battle hungry Dominion squads.