- "I eat the brains from my enemies' heads, I proudly wear their scalps - I burn their towns to the ground; to me the prisoners bow!"
Cain 'Michael' Allin (born early M37, died 999.M41) was the last Chapter Master of the Brotherhood of Man and Grand Imperial Admiral of the Brethren of Spite. Once the Captain of the Brotherhood of Man's 2nd company, Cain led a coup against Chapter command and caused a three year civil war that devastated the Brotherhood. Once the dust had settled, Cain would remake the remains of the broken Chapter into the piratical raiders known as the Brethren of Spite. He would lead the warband for the rest of his life.
Cain was a profoundly arrogant and eccentric individual possessed of a crude but dominating sense of charisma that allowed him to sway many Astartes to his will. He never felt any degree of loyalty to any of the Chaos Gods, and seemingly had little interest in Daemonhood (instead pursuing base carnal or violent pleasures). Cain was, despite his seeming anti-intellectulism, a keen strategist and understood well the logistic constraints of his warriors.
Cain sustained critical injuries in mid M.40 during a battle with his future lieutenant (and wife) Drow Thel. Crippled and dying, Cain was saved only by the efforts of his personal physician, Orion Strasse. While the surgery saved Cain's life and even provided him with new, Daemonic powers, Cain's mind and personality begin to rapidly degenerate.
This resulted in Cain's colossal mismanagement of the Brethren, sparking a coup by Drow Thel resulting in the collapse of the Brethren of Spite into multiple splinter factions. Cain would align himself with a group of Chaos followers but would later find himself abandoned on a backwater Imperial world named Spiuq QR. Cain would meet his end soon after, murdered by a band of adventurers sent by his former physician, Strasse.
“Die Mutie Scum” is scrawled in red lettering on the burnt out habitation block wall, next to torn and scorched posters of PDF soldiers and advertisements for bars and music. Xaphon walks alongside me with streaks of blue light running up and down his force stave, the fire from the hab blocks lightning up his blue armour and cream robes. On my other side is a Sergeant who’s name I can’t quite remember but that doesn’t matter because I can just address him by title. He’s wearing cream coloured MIV power armour with all of the Imperial icons filed off. The Sergeant scans the area around him, Plasma pistol (which is honestly a nicer design than mine) partially raised.
We’re moving along a bombed out street which our Basilisks shelled for days’ nights straight. There’s thirty of us supported by two hundred or so renegade Guard who surrendered a few days ago, giving us all of their equipment in exchange for being allowed to live. They aren’t very impressive fighters and personally I don’t like any of them, there’s not a single pretty girl or woman among them, and they are in all honesty meat shields.
Sweeping the area for loyalists, I feel the dirt and concrete shatter beneath my boots. The guard fan out ahead of us, easy bait for snipers, and mines which would never be used by Space Marines. My men follow behind them and keep their bayonets ready. I can hear the rev of a chin axe and Xaphon is in a total stopper now as he tries to scan for enemies or “detect them” with his powers. At one point he just freezes and I’m forced to nudge him to see if he’s still awake, resulting in him freezing up and almost whimpering “don’t do that,”
Then Bolter fire flies over head and I spin in place and launch myself in its direction, bringing up my plasma pistol and sending blue blazing balls of super-heated energy rolling towards the enemy. The blue lights up the darkened hab block and illuminates the dust covered, rusted armour of my assailant. I dodge his next shots and the second volley of plasma pistol fire blows off his head, sending his headless body crashing to the earth.
I’m clad in my custom MkIV power. The helmet is custom made with a new face guard, new crystal eye lenses and reinforced cerimite plating to increase both durability and protection. My armour is, in general, the best you can get. The reinforced knee guards ensure my bionic implants are now fully integrated alongside the armour ensuring maximum mobility. This does not help however, when I am tackled to the ground by one of my former subjects. Wielding a long, serrated dagger, nothing fancy or interesting, he aims it at the soft armour of my arm pit and tries with all his might to drive it into me.
I grab his arm and bring up my Plasma Pistol, aiming it at his head. My side arm is an ungraded Plasma Pistol with advanced coolant systems and heat dampeners designed to ensure maximum safety and fire power, so when I blow the head from my attacker’s shoulders with three blasts (only needing the one) the ensuring venting is now harmful to me. I also carry a customised power sword, which comes in handy when yet another loyalist hound rushes me behind.
With a customised blade and power supply, the initial swing of my sabre splits the face plate of the Space Marine without effort. Of course, the light weight ensures that my next flurry of attacks that slice open his stomach armour and cut his throat are easy to make. He collapses to his knees and with a firm kick his head is sent flying leaving me to search for my next target. I find him. A loyalist with a heavy bolter is pinning down Xaphon. The Librarian has thrown up a shield of ethereal light around himself while the loyalist satisfies himself by gunning down my men and cultists, so I charge at him. He spins on the spot to try and gun me down but I side step his fire and bring up my Plasma Pistol and his top half is reduced to ash in a matter of three or four bursts.
I find myself standing in the dirt and rubble of the building, gunfire all around me. My men are moving between the ruined buildings, the renegade guard now splattered across the grey concrete. I can see the ranks of the loyalists rapidly thinning and how they are still wearing the cream coloured livery of my own men. I bring up my pistol and scream ‘Gun them down, leave no loyalist alive,” but I don’t really feel it myself and while I blow the heads off another pair of Space Marines I glance up at the burning sky and how the Spire of the Hive City is now alight.
Losing interest, I roam forward and direct my power sword at the last few loyalists, screaming another command I’m not sure I totally remember and urge my men on with an enthusiastic response in the form of grunting and shouting “Forward, Brethren!” Our fire becomes erratic and loses any coherency as we drive them back into the dirt and rubble. More of them come at us, emerging from the ruins and trying with all their might to drive us back. I’m hit a few times, finding myself stumbling through the smoke and ash, swinging in any direction and eventually hitting something which I continue to hack at. Luckily I find it is in fact an enemy, who is now a selection of thick red chunks. The smell of blood and ash is intoxicating.
Then it goes quiet again and I find myself standing there, unmoving. Fighter craft zoom overhead and I remember why we were here. I remember this is the last time we will be hunting down loyalist hold outs, because this was the last one. I feel warm blood trickle down from my side, where I’ve been struck a number of times and I can hear the servos in my right leg jam and stutter. Strasse can probably make a new one, but I’m not fully certain of his reliability anymore.
Out of the smoke comes Xaphon, nursing a headache and dragging himself forward with his force stave which is now damaged and crackling with warp light. He bows his head for some reason and starts speaking in a mix of gasps and coughs,
“Lord Cain, it is done,”
I forget where I am for a second but pull myself back as I realise my Brethren have gathered around me. Fifty or sixty of them. Silently, they raise their daggers in a salute and bow their heads before falling to one knee. Xaphon does so last, actually falling onto both knees and dropping his stave and it’s a hysterical sight and I struggle not to point and laugh. I’m able to, if not with some difficulty, drag my power sword up and raise it into the air. Blood runs down it’s silver surface and strikes my face mask.
I arrive at the bridge in refitted power armour and with a new leg. Strasse, who I do not trust, nor do I like, has assured me it is perfectly operational but it feels slow and heavy and I know I’ll have to tinker with it for it to properly function. The bridge of Spite 1 is large, well-lit and crowded with my men, entertainers (all girls with great bodies) and some of the traitor guard. The moment I step into the bridge I’m given this collective nod from them which throws me off a bit because of how they all swivel towards me on the spot at the same time as if it was rehearsed. Girls, who I cannot touch because I will probably crush them, wink at me and blow kisses and I nod mechanically, at them. I think “What am I going to do? I’m a 7’7 killing machine.’
Someone I don’t know grabs my arm and there’s a strange burst of terror but I quickly calm myself. I turn around and find it’s Strasse who is glaring at me through his helmet’s ruby red eye lenses. Strasse is a hunched and awkward figure who shambles around and has an awfully shrill voice. He’s gripping my arm tightly in his cybernetic limb, staring at me intently and this close I can see the full extent of his cybernetics. His face mask is bland while he mounts various optics and eye pieces, that zoom in and scan my face and probably x-ray me or something. The small pistons and wires that make up Strasses neck. I can see them pump and crackle,
“The men expect a speech, sir.”
I try to hide my revulsion at the thought of public speaking (I don’t know why though, because Strasse knows I do and that’s the only reason he’s done this) and nod once I see everyone in the room is now focussed on me. I consider tearing out his mechanical innards and drenching myself in his oil-blood vital fluids but move away and star walking towards the second deck, which is serving as a makeshift podium. With my custom power sword (which I’ve lengthened and added a second power battery to it) drawn and being dragged across the floor, and my new Thunder Wyrm skin cape drapped over my shoulders (custom made and tailored of course) I appear as if like a warlord of old.
Taking my place on the podium, I realise I’m standing between two scantily clad women (there’s more dancers in cages) and I almost seize up and think for a second about killing both but decide to go on speaking anyways hoping they don’t notice. There’s also music playing, blazing, blaring, screaming and it’s orchestral and victorious and suddenly it all hits me and I almost waver but I steady myself. It begins to dim and I stand up straight. My sword is held my side and look down on the Space Marines and other renegades with a stern gaze hoping that by pretending my anxiety doesn’t exist it won’t affect me.
For around 15 to 20 minutes I ramble on about the Imperium being a rotting corpse and how most of it is pretty much based on lies or something (I improvise a lot and in general, lie a lot) and eventually there’s a resounded applause and gun shots are fired into the air and I see Strasse nodding, imprinting a look of hatred onto his non-existent face and it pleases me so much I laugh like a maniac but no one is actually paying attention. Xaphon then moves into frame and greets me, smiling, or probably smiling because he’s still wearing a helmet. He’s almost limping and blood is seeping from his mouth guard but I don’t say anything because I don’t really care,
“Excellent speech Chaim,”
“Cain, its Cain,” I correct him. He doesn’t notice, just dabbing his face plate with a large cloth, a thick rage stained red,
“So what do you have planned for us next, Chapter Master,” I’m almost sure he’s smiling at me like we’re good friends and this is some sort of buddy talk but personally Xaphon is stupid nit wit with not much to say or any opinions of value. Ignoring this I laugh and pat him on the shoulder and say, “A lot!” and wink at him despite the fact he can’t see me. He then walks off without saying goodbye.
I look for Strasse again, probably so I can laugh at him, but he’s slipped away. I sigh, take a drink from one of the entertainers passing me and thrust it into my face plate and hope some of it drizzles into my vox grill before one of the dancers starts speaking to me. She is moving, speaking, making gestures, and she takes one of my thumbs (which I cannot help but laugh at) and she guides me out of the bridge while I mutter “okay”.
Brotherhood of Man is no longer fitting, I think, the girl mewling on my bed. I'm fully armoured again and sitting at the edge of the room, half asleep in the corner while she rolls around, out of her mind on whatever we snorted or something. I'm thinking names. Brotherhood of Man well, it's just not very distinct. I can think of at least six or seven other Brotherhoods of Man or Humanity or something. We're not really a Brotherhood either, the whole 'brother' thing came off as creepy to me. That and I killed our last Chaplin with his own right arm (still clutching his weapon, I might add).
So what do we name ourselves in this competitive market? I can't tell, I'm not sure. The anxiety reignites the drugs which were being filtered out of my system. I try to think of a them other than "piracy", something distinct or firm about our group. We love murder? Yeah. Brotherhood of Murder? No that's shit. Conclave of Slaughter? The Crimson Slaughter?
I stand up, wander around, pacing the length of the room as I try to think of something. The girl keeps making noise, something akin to coughing and vomiting, something maybe in-between that. She rolls out of the bed laughing before returning to the mid way vomit sounds and I find myself fixated on her, not out of any attraction but more out of a strange fixation with just how strange her drug induced spasms are. I move closer.
"So do you ... do you?" I stop, realising it's useless to ask her for suggestions. I pick her up with one arm, throw her back on the bed and return to pacing. I probably didn't break anything.
I think back to why we turned traitor and I distantly remember something about being bitter. Is that a theme? Can we be "The Embittered Army"? No, we can't really be bitter forever. What's another word for bitter? I'd say we're spiteful. We were spiteful. But spite sounds good. Brethren of Spite. Yeah it's keeping the brother shit, but I think it fits. Actually, it works.
"Brethren of Spite," I announce, looking over to the girl who seems to be waking up, "How does that sound?"
She blinks, rubs her eyes, and says something akin to "Pretty good."
It's our third time doing this. I think we're doing pretty good. We're needing to up our game but really, it's just a game of getting more than you expend in the process. I'm sure we can do that.
The dread claw, or death claw, or whatever these things are called, is not sleek or physically appeasing in any sense. It's large, dull, jagged object that has four pincers that jut out of it's cylinder hull. It basically launches out of our ship, embeds itself in their ship and lets us in. It also has a chance of murdering us in the process, probably the reason Strasse advocated it's use.
As we hurtle through space I start to think of ways to placate Strasse and his pettiness. A bigger lab? A bigger title? Some sort of sex slave because he's always whining about how lonely he is. Then I realise he'd just end up killing it and complain like a child when their pet dies. Also I doubt he'd feed it and he'd just try to put it back together after cutting it up or something.
So as our vessel embeds itself in the enemy vessel, pulling open the hull for us to pour in, the men become restless and wild. I draw my power sword and shout over them something about how we will take no prisoners and be known as the most terrible pirates around, or something like that. We're competing with like two hundred other groups in this area of space alone, but the Space Marine factor puts us ahead tremendously.
We charge inside of the Imperial vessel, firing wildly at anything in sight. The defenders are well armed, actually they are very well armed. Clad in sleek, white carapace armour that can take a bolter shot or two before it's usefulness is expended, they take a few of my men down in the first few minutes as we exchange fire. Their weapons project blue - blue las bolts. It's weird. It's new to me. How have I not seen this before? My thoughts drift back to Strasse and how petty he is, and how it's a problem and how I'm getting complaints. Complaints.
One of my Space Marines, armed with a couple of guardsman issue melta guns starts firing all over the place, melting (pardon the pun) through the ranks of the Imperial naval soldiers and through sections of the hull. I'm worried for a few moments that could be dangerous, but I lose interest as the Imperials pull back from this section of the ship. I manage to kill a few more with pot shots and a few seconds later a second Dreadclaw bursts through the hull. A dozen or so human grenadiers flood into the room, securing the perimeter alongside my beige (it's cream, but people don't like me calling it that so now it's beige) coloured Astartes.
But yeah, back to Strasse. He's a bit of a pain. I mean, he's done some nice work, like the acid throwers (which, while simple, is effective), the reinforced power armour and the early super soldier projects. One of them wanders past. Jinx. It's this hulking man, a frame of metal around his body with thick scrap armour and pipe work all over. He makes some grunts, looks in my direction, then wanders off.
But for all that stuff, Strasse is still a pain. It's the ego really. I'm find with egotism, but only if it's refined. If it's well refined. Strasse's isn't. I've tried to help him, but he's always been like this. I remember before this, before we were like this, there was that incident with the stapler. That frakking stapler.
We've moved into another room and we're already pinned by an automatic las turret of some form, dozens of blue tinted laser bolts striking our position from behind a thick barricade of metal and plastasteel. There's barricades all over the place and it's well fortified, but I find myself screaming commands over the sound of gunfire and pointing my power sword towards them (the enemy, that is). I've already received a message we've taken the engine room and we're about to flank these bastards, but I keep on shouting anyways.
Maybe I should try shouting. Would Strasse react better to that?
I’m in ever crowded, ever busy, every noisy bridge of ‘’Spite-1’’ (my current flag ship) and it’s like some sort of insane meet up all the time. There’s girls – slaves in the typical ‘alluring’ outfits, soldiers, waitresses dressed like rabbits (what is it about rabbits) – then there’s officers (Astartes, humans and xenos are split off into their own clichés) and then there’s just the technical type that blend in with the gun metal grey and blinking lights of the environment.
But I’m totally out of it on – well something and I’m thinking about ‘’Spite-1’’ (that’s such a stupid name). It’s an aging Astartes Battle Barge that remains pretty useful, since it still is a Battle Barge but I want – I need something new. Something that’s going to really get across the message I mean business. I don’t want to ‘fit in’ – isn’t being a renegade the opposite of that? I mean do I even care about not fitting in? Scratch that do I fit in in the first place? What do I fit into?
Anyways Strasse or something that looks like Strasse wanders up to me with a collection of shady looking Tech Priests who ware oil stained, drab crimson robes and have dim green optics that stare out from behind their black hoods. Staring into me (or past or through me, since they do have x-ray vision of some form) they wait for Strasse to speak,
“Lord Cain, we have found something that might be of interest to you,” one of the Tech-Priests began to project an image of some sort of ship from it’s optics, a flickering green image that spun in the air like some sort of sprite,
“We found it in deep space, something drifting, something ancient,” I don’t know why but Strasse does this where he tries to talk like he’s in a novel or book. He won’t just get to the point. I feel angry for a moment, angry enough that I almost snap, but I just slip back into boredom and can’t be bothered,
“It is an Ark Mechanicus, and it could possess some very interesting artefacts, as well as resources, and possibly act as a new fortress or base of operations. Such vessels are rare, with only a small smattering of them across the galaxy.”
“Well,” I say, trying to be involved before remembering I do actually want a new ship and this new ship looks, well, impressive,
“How long until we can like, grab this thing?” I mutter under my breath. Then there’s this silence and Strasse just looks at me as if I’ve done something wrong,
“Well, if we depart now-“
“We’ll depart now then,” I bring up my com and start trying to get to Sheila, my secretary, “Shelia, I need a boarding party of forty, maybe fifty – make it fifty, Astartes and prepare them for close quarters combat,”
Strasse again gives me this deathly, angry look. I didn’t do anything.
With a contingent of forty Terminator armoured troopers, we touched down in one of the derelict ships massive hanger bays. Strasse claimed he’d mapped out most of the ship with probes but as always I wasn’t too ready to accept that he’d done anything of the sort and was assuming that this lot were the former crew of this wreck Strasse had likely found on one of his various expeditions. Strasse was now likely hoping he and has new pals could drain our resources to fix it up and flee or maybe they’d try ambushing us or something. I couldn’t be certain.
The hanger is massive, with our ragged, rusting drop shit immaculate compared to the mess that we we’re marching into. The thick layers of dust, the collapsed walls, the frayed wiring and ruined infrastructure. There was a mix of shuttles and other space craft in the hanger bay, all in varying states of decay and disrepair. There’s a scuttling sound near some of the vents and instantly I know we’re being watched. Our sensors light up like like no tomorrow and Strasse is trying to claim it’s ‘space debris’ or some noise while the Tech Priests (who have moved into the centre of the Terminator guard) look spooked.
Then something that looks like a Tech Priest is hanging from the roof, but it’s robes are ripped and torn, the metal of it’s cybernetics black and orange with rust and its skin rotting. The optics of it’s eyes, a dull red, narrow on us as it dropped to the floor, crashing down on one of Strasse’s little cabal. We don’t waste time and blow it to pieces with a volley of combi-bolter fire that leave a smoking ruin of cooked skin and burnt metal. The bubbling mass sprayed across Strasse who let out this fucking screech and I burst into laughter and I struggle to breathe and I’m watching as this 7’1 something Tech Marine is coated in acid and starts screeching.
I pull myself back to reality when I realise more of these things are starting to pull there way out of gutters and vents and well, there’s a lot of them so we of course start shooting. A single bolter round can go through two, maybe three, and the bodies begin pilling up and the sheer brutality of it baffles me for a few moments before I realise how ridiculous this is. The Tech Priests (our ones, not the feral things) join in and start roasting the creatures with great arcs of lighting and I think – that’s cool. Strasse is a little shit and is left melta gunning the things.
It takes me a few more moments but I realise there’s likely a lot of these things and we’re going to get bored doing this, well, I am.
Rebuilding is going slow, which is no surprise. It’s a large ship. A massive ship. The biggest I’ve ever seen, and the slaves just can’t keep up with it and we’re having to raid every world we can find for more. Not just humans, we’ve got Orks and other aliens as well. I’m watching from a balcony in one of the colossal engine chambers as a couple hundred slaves begin moving into place new equipment and machinery while Strasse awkwardly directs them, and I think how much better it’s been since Strasse has been distracted by this process. I’m hopeful that eventually the slaves will revolt and Strasse won’t be saved in time by the others, since the other Tech Priests we have are pretty good at their job and don’t spend hours measuring out future laboratories. Also who needs six chambers to act as crematoria’s?
But none of that matters because this is taking too long and we’re already attracting attention. I can’t be bothered abandoning such a find nor can I be bothered defending it, but I hear whispers – whispers among Strasse and his cabal. They know a way to fix it faster than they say they do, but they won’t speak of it or claim to know nothing. It’s getting frustrating, but I have to admit I need them.
I go back to watching the slaves move like a tide, but then one of the red robed Tech Priests appears besides me. He’s like all of them, shabby dressed, green glowing eyes and gunmetal coloured cybernetics,
“Lord Cain, we have discovered something – something in the ship. It should be here,”
I hate how they do this “I’ll talk like I’m in a novel or holo-tape” thing but I’m forced to play along because I can’t risk upsetting him, so I let him continue, making sure he knows I’m paying attention,
“It’s in one of the cargo bays, I think it might of interest to you.”
Travelling across the ship is a long, boring process that leaves me tired and seeking a drink or something. The hallways of the ship are massive, in some cases large enough I could have parades through them, trailing tanks and artillery behind. Even the smaller halls and maintenance tunnels are huge, larger enough for a couple Astartes. Anyways, the Tech Priest (who doesn’t give his name) speaks the entire time, and I catch most of what he says, after asking him,
“So how did you uh, get kicked out of the Mechanicus?” to which responds (with an ire filled look, which softens) “I sought knowledge?”
At this point in the story, I should also say that we’re riding in a Rhino. Yeah, it’s pretty nice actually,
“And I don’t understand why that would get you kicked out,” I reply a bit dully, realising it’s irritating him but he doesn’t stop because his ego is probably fucking huge,
“Well, it’s because the PRIMATIVES and PHILISTINES don’t want real knowledge, they’d rather toil around in the mud and mess because real knowledge and real power which TERRIFIES the HERD.”
I now know I’m in for a real fun journey now.
By the time we reach our destination, the Tech Priest has rambled for a solid forty minutes about how the HERD has denied him all his life goals and how only a free MAN can have true knowledge. He’s handed me three or four books he’s written (I’ll almost certainly read all of them and have a break down in the process) but I manage to tune in when it comes to something important,
"So as you now realise, embracing the mysterious energies of the warp has granted us access to all knew technology, but it also gives us access to what I'm about to show you now Lord Cain!"
We'd stopped in a large shuttle bay, it's massive of course, with old dusty shuttle craft shunted out of the way so we can move alone. There's ships literally pilled up waiting to be disassembled. More servitors and slaves are working to try and pull it apart but stop and bow their heads as I path and the Tech Priest (who's name I've either forgotten or he hasn't mentioned) pass, and he's still going. I keep nodding as we move towards a massive set of doors, and I start noticing a lot of yellow tape and what looks like digging equipment piled up - as if it's for an expedition underground. There's piled masonry as well, and the door is coated in a thick dust. White crates marked in red with "SENSITIVE" are scattered all around the doorway, some have clearly been broken open.
Okay so now I'm freaked out, pretty certain that this caused whatever those feral tech things were, especially when I see the blood and oil splashes on the doors. They disappear as the doors slide open, revealing a long hallway illuminated by flood lights and more white crates. Some have been broken or torn open, revealing more masonry. Old bricks, the kind a castle on a feudal world. I pick up one of the blocks, give it a look over before I toss it back into a crate. The Tech Priest seems to narrow his eyes at this, but loses interest.
- "I seek the dying, sick and deformed, all who would taint the species. Stabbing and choking and burning and drowning, I exterminate subhuman feces! To every problem an answer must lie, to this I have a solution!"
Before his ascension to Daemonhood, Cain was a tall figure. Standing at an impressive 12ft, the Chaos Lord was said to have had sharp, well defined features before his head and helmet bonded. Cain was further disfigured by the Eldar Banshee, Drow Thel, who proceeded to do the same a second time as a Champion of Khorne. Cain possessed a well-built figure, with his considerable frame bolstered by his reinforced Artificer Armour. Further mutation caused his Power Armour to become a thick exoskeleton.Cain now stands at almost 15 foot tall. His armour and flesh combined into a Daemonic visage of molten blood and cerimite skin, Cain appearing a fiery demigod among his host of Chaos Space Marines. Vents and gouges within Cain's body make him like a walking furnace, the air around him torrid.
Personal Life and Characteristics
- "Drool dripping out, my tongue hanging south, saliva flowing free. My eyes full of lust, my balls gonna bust - give yourself to me. Thirst I can't quench, c'mere, you wench, there's something I need!"
Cain was recruited from one of the many worlds claimed by the Brotherhood of Man as a young boy, likely around the age of 9. As a Tactical Marine he stood around 6'8 and was well known for his sharp features and long, black hair. Cain's appearance remained much the same as a Chaos Lord, by which time he had come to wear a Power Fist on his right arm (named Dead). He adorned his helmet with antlers, often wore a large cape and carried himself with a vulgar air of regal authority. Cain also often carried a power sword named Euronymous.
Cain's appearance changed radically after his duel with Drow Thel. A slash from her power sword fused Cain's helmet to his face, while a Plasma Grenade removed his right arm and a large chunk of his torso. Strasse's surgery would seal Cain inside of his armour. This added significantly to his build - in part to host Cain's new cybernetics and life-support systems. He came to stand around 10ft tall, his right arm replaced by a rebuilt Dead. With his new and improved body powered by bound warp entities, Cain began to mutate at a rapid pace.
As he changed, Cain's faceplate would split along the middle, his jaws and mouth fusing with the 'beak' of the MK. 4 armour to produce a fanged maw of adamantium teeth. Cain's internal life support systems began to fuse with what remained of his flesh, eventually turning into a thick, molten liquid magma.
Powers and Abilities
- "Can you see, can you see the real me?"
Cain's main asset is his durability, a result of his half Daemon state and Astartes origins make Cain an incredibly hard man to kill. Getting close to Cain is a challenge in it's own right as his body is constantly flaring with torrid warp energy and excess radiation that he struggles to contain, a result of Cain's to remain on the material plane. Cain's strength is also a testament to his Daemonically enhanced power, with the Chaos Lord easily capable of smashing or tearing through Power Armour, flipping a Leman Russ or pealing through a star ships hull. Combined with Cain's honed combat abilities, this primal strength is honed into a terrifying skill.
Drow Thel and Cain's relationship could be referred as strained at the very least. While now in his employ, Cain has not forgotten Drow's actions on the Maiden World in the early days of the Brethren of Spite, his ego wounded for all eternity by her actions. While Cain's initial vendetta on the Banshee has long since passed, with Drow enslaved to his service for the rest of his or her days, Cain still delights in tormenting the fallen Eldar for amusement or pleasure. Despite his almost inert hatred for Drow, she remains his second in command, and public executioner of any whom might seek to dethrone the Pirate lord.
Cain's crew show an exceptional loyalty towards the Chaos Lord, despite his apathetic attitude towards them. Both are however, driven by the same needs and desires, while the Brethren of Spite attribute much of their success to Cain's leadership , and hold him in great reverence. Of course, this had not stopped certain individuals from attempting to take their place at the head of the Brethren, though so far Cain has proved quite adept at dealing with them.
- "The Emperor they preach about in the Imperium is a phony impostor – just a crutch for the cripples to lean on. Fuck that weak shit! I am the man to deal with."
- — Cain
- "A Daemon Prince? You? Cain, you can't be serious. What? No no it's not- look alright I just don't see the appeal...wait could you repeat that? Immortality? Honestly? You could just get Orion to examine a sample of my blood......why not? Sexually transmitted disea-oh go fuck yourself."
- —Erusar, upon hearing that Cain wished to become a Daemon Prince[src]
- "Cousin you could perhaps fein even a little adoration for chaos? Just because you do not care does not mean that the Dark Gods do not. Even beings like us are but specs of dust in the glory of their majesty. Everything that you are you owe to them."
- —Valkyura Warpschild, admonishing her "cousin" on his faithless ways.
- "A good solider, if he could just make peace with Strasse the improvement in the unit's esprit de corps would make the force truly worthy of commendation."
- —from Apollo Vahagn's review of War Effort personnel.
- "This Cain is insane, seriously insane. He propositioned me, in the middle of fight yet! I almost took him up on it, what can I say it's been a while. What do you suppose would happen if a so-called Imperial Saint got it on with a Daemon Prince? I drink much more of this I may hunt him down and find out."
- —St. Athaliah the Flame to a bemused pleasure world bartender.
- "Are you kidding me!? This Pirate was rewarded by the Gods with Godhood of his own, while I, a faithful servant of their will, am still Mortal!? This is an insult to my ambitions! Well.... I suppose the Gods needed a more unknowing sock-puppet."
- "We've actually got a lot in common once you get past the whole Chaos versus Imperium thing."
- —St. Athaliah the Flame on Cain
- "He's on fire, I'm on fire, it could work - or we could destroy each other...but hey, what a way to go!"
- —St. Athaliah the Flame mulling over Cain's proposal.
- "You scare me. And I'm not just saying that because I suffer from acute daemophopia and your mere presence is causing me to go into psychoanalytic shock. You genuinely disturb me to the very core of my being."
- —Echo, trying (and failing) to talk the stress away
- "He calls my doubles defective because he just vaporized one with his breath? Well of course. If I were a 15 foot monstrous juvenile tool, everything would be a defective nail to me as well."
- "Someone, who shall remain nameless, asked if we were related. We are not, nor have we met. Whether they were trying to be funny or if they were trying to insinuate something, I don't know. On a side note, did you hear rumours that he tried to date that flaming saint person?"
- —Saint Eros Bloodshot, after he was given a file on Cain with the attached note 'Are you two related?'.
- "Now this is a guy I could get a pint with."
- —Dolfdir of the Crusaders Once Crossed
- "You pollute everything around you Cain, we will end your reign of darkness!"
|Brethren of Spite|
|Pre-Civil War||Cain · Drow Thel · Orion Strasse · Xaphon · Pol Rumkowski Anderon|