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Genestealer Cult: Legion of the Endless One
HOMEWORLD: Malus Prime, Hive World
DRAMATIS PERSONAE: The Endless One (aka The One, The Starfather, Our Many Armed Liege), Patriarch, above average psychic power and intelligence.
Nicholas Felberg, Primus Ultra, High Warmaster of the Legion, First Talon of the Patriarch. Arrogant, hybrid supremacist, pitiless and ruthless, underhanded fighter. Supremely deadly in personal combat, genius tactician and strategist, wastes nothing, has personal Baneblade First Talon.
Tristan Vogner, Lord High Magus, Voice of the Patriarch. Powerful psyker, master orator and demagogue, competent military commander. Selfless, fanatical, cherishes his closeness to the Endless One.
FORCES: Heavily militarized hybrids and brood brothers, scores of armored vehicles, slowly phasing out improvised weapons as more and more manufactorums come under their control. Rely on 1st, 2nd, Metamorph Hybrids and Purestrain Genestealers to deal with enemy elites, tanks deal with enemy armor. Hybrids and Brood Brothers have high morale. Elite Stormtrooper-style divisions known as Talon Guard, use looted Stormtrooper gear and are highly trained, act as bodyguards and elite Kill-Teams. Talon Guard are normally 3rd or 4th generation but some elite shock assault squads are made up of 1st and 2nd generations.
CULT: The Cult of the Endless One holds the Patriarch of the cult as their savior and the sire of their "new breed", and hold that it is the Legion's purpose to one day spread across the galaxy and breed until all of mankind is touched by the Patriarchs sacred linage. Though originally a Genestealer cult like any other, when the Hive Fleet set to harvest their holdings was destroyed by both the Great Rift and the nascent Ork Empire of Morduge, their Patriarch achieved freedom from the bondage to the Hive Mind, such was the sheer number of minds enslaved to him that the Broodmind became its own entity in the Warp. Powerful enough now to defy the Hive Mind, the Patriarch commanded its followers to slay the surviving Tyranids, it personally consuming the flesh of the Norn Queen and ascending as the sole object of worship amongst its hideous spawn.
AdMech: Forgeworld Polybotes
HOMEWORLD: Forgeworld Polybotes
DRAMATIS PERSONAE: Fabricator-General Sulla Vandred, Defender of the Forge, Guardian of the Sacred Mysteries of the Machine, Harbinger of the War Savants. Incorruptible, unwavering, merciless, Sulla Vandred is the mind and will behind Forgeworld Polybotes continued defiance at the madness, perversion, and treachery that has otherwise consumed the Oghden Sector. Ancient and learned in the ways of sacred war in the name of the Machine God, the Fabricator-General instead retains his current title rather than assuming the mantel of an Archmagos in this time of crisis, for it is apparent that his leadership is essential to the day to day governance of the Forgeworld. It is by his brilliant logistical feats and supreme leadership that the Forgeworld has managed to not only survive this age of darkness, but drive back the encroaching horrors, producing scores of sacred war machines and able warriors to utilize such holy weapons in divine war against the enemies of Man.
Magos Dominus Reiner Hauge, Commandant of the Great Congregation, Protector of the Omnissiah's Honor, Grand Despot of the Indefatigable Host. Commander of Forgeworld Polybotes Battle Congregations, Magos Dominus Reiner Hauge relentlessly leads the machine hordes of the Forgeworld against xenos and heretic alike with equal fervor. He is a driven, fanatical commander, and were he in command of beings made of mere flesh and bone, his exacting expectations would likely be taken for madness. But as he is in command of the nigh endless legions of Combat Servitors, hulking war machines of the Legio Cybernetica, zealous ranks of the Electro-Priests, and the towering likes of the Imperial Knights, his unrelenting commands are heeded without question and almost completed without fail.
Magos Reductor Sui Xi,
Magos Prime Adawolf Fell,
Myrmidax Barabas, The Champion of the Omnissiah,
Grand Master Princeps Dolorous Mede,
FORCES: Forgeworld Polybotes is a highly militant Forgeworld, having long worked towards a revival of Great Crusade and beyond levels of power and prestige the Cult Mechanicus once enjoyed. A martial philosophy of expansion and conquest has seen the Forgeworld secure several holdings in the Oghden Sector, and host to vast gatherings of the War Savants known as the Myrmidons and fanatical Fulgerite Electro-Priests. In their zealous drive to regain lost prestige and power, the forges of Forgeworld Polybotes regularly craft sizable contingents of Imperial Robots for the Legio Cybernetica, the sacred and some would say, dangerous secrets of the construction of such machines of war jealously guarded but freely utilized by the savants of Forgeworld Polybotes.
IG Remnants: Realm of Solias Nictator
Sisters of Battle/Ecclisarchy: Order of the Burning Blade
Orkz: Ork Empire of Badakka Sou
Primaris Space Marines: War Wolves
HOMEWORLD: None, Chapter Barque Starfang
DRAMATIS PERSONAE: Great Wolf Warrick Helfang
Is mostly Codex Compliant, uses Space Wolf formations
Adeptus Custodes: The Solar Phalanx
HOMEWORLD: N/A, HQ on Forgeworld Polybotes
DRAMATIS PERSONAE: Shield-Captain Kristobel Apocloptyos,
Vexilus Praetor Martellus Apleon (Vexilla Magnifica), Hammer of the Franks, Hero of the Alps, Champion of the Kuban Campaign
FORCES: Roughly 40 Adeptus Custodes not counting Dreadnought, Transports and Jetbike Support, Two ten man squads of Custodian Guard armed with Sword and Board, one ten man squad of Allarus Custodian Terminators, One ten man squad of Custodian Wardens wielding a blend of Spears and Axes. Kristobel's five man command squad, two Custodian Contempter-Galatus Dreadnoughts, Two Vertus Praetors (Dawneagle Jetbike) squadrons, one Orion Assault Dropship, two Venerable Land Raiders, and a five-man Kill Team of the Eyes of the Emperor.
SPECIALTY: Spearhead Assault, Area of Denial, Line Breakers
Chaos Space Marine Warband: Twisted Dragons
HOMEWORLD: None, Desolator-Class Battleship Serpenta Superior
DRAMATIS PERSONAE: Exalted Sorcerer Izad Zahhak has pet Chaos Dragon and sword/staff and bolt pistol, is often accompanied by Screamers of Tzeentch. Is looking for an ancient Dark Age era weapon so he may eventually conqure the stars, namely an ancient Sun-Snuffer construct.
Tzaangor Shaman Daevaas has Disct of Tzeentch, acts as Farseer to the thrallband and spiritual adviser to the warband
Scarab Occult Terminator Sorcerer Parizad Turan, Champion of the Thrallband, was rendered blind in combat with Red Corsairs, sees with ghostly warpfire eyes.
Warpsmith Haamed Farsheed has a unit of five Castellax-Achea robots and Disc of Tzeentch.
FORCES: Twisted Dragons Thrallband operates at full Chapter strength, uses Rubric Marine gunlines supported by three squads of Scarab Occult Terminators (Don't forget Hellfyer Missile Racks), Land Raiders, Rhinos, Thunderhawks, and Daemon Engines. Uses Tzaangors, Wulfen, and Chaos Spawn as shock troops and cannon fodder. Cultists and Thrall Wizards are utilized more often as retinues and so on, Daemons are often used as specialist support units for Rubric squads.
Lost and Damned: Helfast Confederacy
HOMEWORLD: Helfast, Hive World
DRAMATIS PERSONAE: Lord Marshal Victor Houser, converted to Tzeentch out of desperation, has retinue of various wizards/demagogues in an attempt to divine Tzeentch's will, is a capable sorcerer in his own right though more of a commander than combatant.
The Diet of the Confederacy, nine of the most influential warlords and renegades in the confederacy who on paper are subservient to the Lord Marshal, in truth each has their own plots and agendas.
CULT: Cult of the Eye Ascendent which is a Tzeetchen cult/Lesser Chaos Cults
FORCES: Majority of Battlefleet Oghden, Large numbers of Traitor Guard, Large numbers of cultist militias and mutant rabble, Chaos Daemons. Has general void supremacy, traitor guard are about the most elite units aside from Chaos Daemons.
Tau Sept: Hort'Cha Sept
HOMEWORLD: Hort'Cha, Tau styled pseudo Industrial World
DRAMATIS PERSONAE: Por'O ____
FORCES: Practices an oddly static form of battle focusing on the deployment of Stormsurge Battlesuits and Supremacy Armors supported by mobile mechanized infantry, Auxiliary light infantry, and Drone swarms. Habit of predatory trade deals and loans allow them a vast pool of annexed Gue'vesa who act more akin to mercenaries like the Kroot than true believers and are more often pressed into combat using modified Imperial technology.
The Bright Order
INTRO/PREAMBLE: The Bright Order are a conclave of Chaos Space Marines dedicated to the Coven of the White Witches, a once minor cult of the Changer of Ways, now a blight upon the whole of the Ipsom Sector. Led by the outcast Sorcerer Zaliach and guided by the will of the enigmatic Oracle, the Bright Order sews death and corruption throughout the Ipsom Sector, ravaging world after world in their pursuit for greater power and favor in the eyes of their lord Tzeetch.
The origins of the Bright Order have their basest beginnings with the ancient and terrible Cult of the White Witch. Originating amongst the ghoulish mutant tribes of the Feral World of Komush, the Cult of the White Witch was the faith of the people of the Hinnre tribe. A people considered chosen by the Changer of Ways, the Hinnre tribe's ruling class was made up of powerful shamans and oracles, who treated with the powers of the Warp for great boons in the endless tribal wars that ravaged the lands. Branded by their patron, they were a race of albinos, prone to hideous mutations and considerable sorcerous power.
But they were little different from their fellows, doomed forever to languish, generation upon generation, amidst the mutated flora and fauna of their Warp Storm enveloped world. That is, until the Changer saw fit to intervene. A force of pirates, bellicose criminals and heretics fleeing Imperial justice, happened upon the benighted planet, and set about abducting the populace to be press ganged into their vile crews. Such depravity would be their downfall, for amongst the gibbering primitives and monstrous Chaos Spawn, there was one who was destined to be the bane of a thousand worlds.
The Tongue of the Changer
The Oracle was, at first, merely a curiosity to the brutish thugs who had so enslaved her. Beautiful, even by the standards of civilized space fairing peoples, the Oracle was often shackled to the captain's command throne. Demeaned to be little more than a trophy, the once exalted sorceress bided her time, using her newfound position as chattel to educate herself as to the nature of the strange vessel she and her people found themselves aboard. For years she plotted, guided by visions of mighty warships that floated upon a black sea, and of the great armored giants that would one day be her chosen warriors. But for now, she had to make due with dullard scum. Though little more than her master's favored pet, the Oracle well hid her true power through shamanism and primitive mysticism, her true power unknown to all but the ships renegade Astropath and Navigator. But the former long had her mouth sewn shut, and the latter was all too eager to dethrone his current master, the mutant's pride often stung by the boastful and insulting words of his ingrate captain. Having her pawns in place, the Oracle had maneuvered her tribesmen into key positions of power over their fellow barbarians, who now made up the bulk of the crew, cowed by their captor's technology, or so they thought.
When the uprising came, it was swift, for the captain and his loyal men had all drunken themselves into a stupor in celebration of a recent raid, and were ill prepared for the Gellar Fields to deactivate in transit to their next conquest. The horrors of the Warp came for the men, but left the Oracle's faithful unmolested. Following the butchery the Oracle granted supplication to the mightiest of the daemonic horde, a writhing pair of Blue Horrors, in the form of a tome bound in the flesh of Bloodletters, a sacred book of sorcerous knowledge long kept by her people. A small price, as now she was the master of a Hellbringer Light Cruiser and its several Iconoclast Destroyer escorts.
The Bladed Sorcerer
- —The High Gothic motto of the Dulhal Raiders
Hailing from the mires and swamps of the Feudal World of Dulhal, the Dulhal Raiders are a specialized force of Imperial Guard Light Regiments, expert skirmishers and saboteurs. Dulhal is a world of industrialized city states, small hives of humanity resting upon the rare few patches of solid earth on an otherwise inhospitable mudball. Conventional forces, such as tanks and standard foot infantry, were long considered impractical upon such a world, as roads built in the swamps invariably sunk back into the earth and tanks swiftly became mired and were often abandoned. Thus, constant war amongst the city states falls to small, elite strike forces trained and equipped for maneuverability and fleets of lumbering airships. Dulhal Raiders are experts at combat within the swamps and masters of both deadly close combat and the art of the ambush. Striking suddenly with sabers and laspistols in hand, Dulhal Raiders leave naught but butchered remains of their enemy in their wake and burning supply convoys.
As experts of guerrilla warfare, Dulhal Raiders come equipped with a variety of light and reliable equipment, from the Dulhal Pattern Knee Mortar to their infamous Retractable Sabers. Armed with such weaponry and their highly specialized training, Dulhal Raiders can operate for months or even years behind enemy lines, relentlessly harassing supply lines and assassinating command staff until the a Imperial force arrives to relive them.
PDF: Dulhal Bog Guard
- "Hmm, a chainsword here, a bolter there... yes, yes... it's all coming together. Oh, and get rid of the head, I have a suitable replacement."
- —Arnot Menhk
Even the mightiest of the Storm Draugar speak in whispers about Arnot Menhk, the founder and leader of the Firi Arsa and contemporary of Hurlok Zahz. Where Zhaz is a careful, measured scientist who methodically manipulates flesh and machine, Arnot is a dangerous madman who regularly desecrates the humanoid form with reckless abandon.
Once an Apothecary of the World Eaters, Arnot Menhk made a name for himself during the Horus Heresy with his mad bionic operations and attempts into what he termed "gene-therapy" or purposely cultivating weaponized mutations within the World Eaters ranks. True to the nature of the World Eaters, he worked only to make his Battle-Brothers all the more deadly, replacing damaged limbs with chainaxes and flamers, augmenting hands and feet into rending talons and roaring chain claws, even trying to enhance and modify the Butcher's Nails. However, his gene-therapy offered the most intriguing results, crafting mutant monstrosities far stronger and more savage than any of their unmodified brothers. While some considered his work genius, most of the Legion saw his perversions as utter abominations and horrendous wastes of gene-seed. He only narrowly escaped death at the hands of his Battle-Brothers during the Istvaan III Atrocity, and defected with the Blackspawns following the bloody work of the Drop Site Massacre.
For many years he was the Storm Draugar's only Apothecary, and was begrudgingly forced to put his more eccentric experiments and augmentations on hold as the Blackspawns could scarcely afford to lose any gene-seed to any of his mad gene-therapy sessions. However, as the Warband grew and more madmen and cast offs joined, he would find his eccentricities indulged as equally eccentric Chaos Marines requested his augments and gene-therapy. He soon became known for his fearfully deadly bionic enhancements and ability to craft deadly mutant appendages, but it was only when his soon to be collaborator Hurlok Zahz arrived that his work became something more than simple augments and mild genetic perversions.
Together, the two rediscovered the ancient research of the old gene-cult of Lupercal's Folly, and refounded it as the infamous Firi Arsa. With his colleague's influence, and the now complete Flesh Pits, he was once again allowed to explore the limits of the Space Marine form. He plied his skills, perfecting his art of surgical enhancements and crafting gene-seed. It was under Arnot's supervision that the first Flesh Pit Janissaries were born, and he personally crafted the very first Fuil Óga with his own two hands.
Arnot Menhk occasionally joins battle with the Storms when rare genetic material can be gained or his bloodlust from the Butcher's Nails firmly embedded into his brain cannot be slaked with bloody surgery. When he does take to the field, he is usually flanked by a cadre of his insane Firi Arsa Chaos Apothecaries. Arnot Menhk strikes with his Needle-Bolt Pistol and brutal Chainaxe, often seeking to capture live victims for organ harvesting and experimentation.
- "THE FRUIT OF THE DOOMLOINS IS DESTRUCTION!"
Ataxerxes was once a member of the Iron Hands whose pursuit of cybernetic perfection went too far in the eyes of his former battle brothers. Consigned to be recycled for parts, he managed to escape death at the cost of his arms. After years of traveling alone, selling his monstrous power to the highest bigger, he was eventually picked up by the Storm Draugar on the black ash wastes of Arkanak after they witnessed him singlehandedly slay the infamous Khornate Chaos Lord, Triblood Ironclaw, and his warband of fifty Berzerkers single handedly. So impressed were the Draugar that they offered Ataerxes a place amongst their foul renegade ranks.
Ataxerxes is a loud and proud individual, never failing to be the center of attention. He wants the galaxy to know the glory that is Ataxerxes Doomloins, Destroyer of Noggins, Debaser of Faces, King of the Curbstomp. He stands tall, with a spring in his step and a murderous glimmer in his beady bionic eyes. Such an attitude has seen Ataxerxes make the Proving Grounds his home on Lupercal's Folly, where he regularly thrashes both beasts, captured warriors, and unfortunate would be Astartes with his mighty thrusts. Thus his fellow Storm Draugar are both in awe and terrified of Ataxerxes, usually letting him take the field alone. Ataxerxes has no qualms with this, for taking to the field alone means all the more glory for himself. Thus, Ataxerxes is the most mighty of the Storm Draugar's various Champions, virtually undefeated and held by both the Blackspawn Brothers and their Draugar Lords as the greatest warrior they can call to the battlefield. When Ataxerxes Doomloins takes to the field, all know that the end has surely come.
Doomloins strides high above his fellow Draugar upon an armored pair of Sentinel legs, his torso encased in a corrupted suit of Centurion Armor, thrusting the brobdingnagian bulk of his body upon his foes. His signature kills involve using massive sword-length spikes of his massive codpiece to shatter the skulls of loyalist lackeys. However, the rest of Ataxerxes' spiked bulk is more than capable of killing with ease, his vox caster mounted Flamer and chest mounted Hurricane Bolter, combined with his wrecking ball esque shoulder pads, forming a formidable arsenal.
Emanuel the Icon
- "Yes! Fly high, oh wondrous black banner! So that the enemies of the Dark Gods may see us! So that they may know our names! So that they may know our blades!"
- —Emanuel leading the charge against the Eldar forces of Craftworld Ke'Lan
The famous Standard Bearer of the 76th Janissary Company, the man known as the Icon began life as little more than a genetic sample set to culture in a tube. But he would grow to become one of the most inspiring examples of mad bravery and zeal the Warband had ever seen. Emanuel's tale is one of steadfast dedication and dogged obedience in the face of insane odds, and such a tale made him worthy of holding high the tainted black banner of the Company.
During the Battle of Firehold, Emanuel was merely a private, armed with only his Hellgun and combat knife, holding the line against the forces of several other Warbands and those of Firehold's xenos overlords. He and his squad were holding the line at a great open plaza in the shadow of the xenos warlord's palace, fighting against both cultists and Chaos Marines alike. They held the line until a brutal artillery barrage ravaged the area. Disoriented, ears ringing, and hellgun cast from him, Emanuel saw that the Company Standard had been cast to the ground in the chaos, its bearer torn to pieces. He then looked behind him, the lesser cultists of the Storm Draugar were abandoning the position in the face of the onrushing enemy tide. That was against orders. His orders were to hold the line. Emanuel would hold the line. He dashed out into the open, taking up the banner as he ran, and with all the power he could muster let loose a great warcry. His voice was said to have been blessed by Khorne himself on that day for it seemed to roar with the force of a thousand war horns, so great that even the enemy were taken aback by this lone man charging their oncoming ranks, banner held high. He dove into the teeming mass of enemy cultists, singlehandedly slaughtering one after the other with nothing but the banner, which, though intended for such a purpose, was also intended as a last resort. But alone the valiant Emanuel could stand no chance, for his enemies were like insects on a corpse. As they surrounded him, ready to pull him to the ground, a booming roar sounded from across the plaza. The cultists of the Storm Draugar had regrouped, and in a great counter charge, rallied to Emanuel's side.
It was due to his great actions that the Storm Draugar won victory on that day, for had Emanuel not overturned the enemy's charge, the force assaulting the palace would have been overrun, caught between the artillery and infantry. For his valor and loyalty, Emanuel was commended personally by the mighty Malak Blackspawn, and rewarded with the position of Standard Bearer for the illustrious 76th Company until death takes him. Clad in his carapace armor and armed with bolt pistol and banner, Emanuel serves as a living example of the Dark Gods favor, and commands the bravery of all who stand before his great black banner.
Nathan "Tactic" Citcat III
- "I always got a plan baby. Always."
- —Nathan to his crewmen prior to hijacking an Imperial Freighter during the Battle of Derune
A sly manipulator and cold blooded murderer, Nathan Citcat III is head of the House Citcat, arguably the largest and most powerful merchant house in all of Lupercal's Folly. Like many, the Citicat House began as little more than a gang within the lower levels of the great fortress, but due to Citcat IIIs cunning leadership rose to become one of the foremost players in the great syndicates that dominate the economy of Lupercal's Folly.
Nathan Horatio Jonah Darius Citcat III has lived on the razors edge since the day he was born to the pirate lord Nathan Horatio Jonah Darius Citcat II. The only bastard son to take up his fathers meager fleet, Nathan was educated by his wealthy father in the ways of void warfare and hand to hand combat. His father was a once a powerful Rogue Trader, but scandal and heretical intrigue left his wealthy house in ruins, leaving only a scattered fleet of renegades and pirate scum. But Citcat II would still hold onto what remained of his once wealthy house with an iron grip, even as he was driven into the River of Exiles for the sake of simple survival.
Thus he taught his bastard son, his only possible heir, all he knew. Swordplay, piracy, the sordid legacy of the Citcat line. Nathan was a quick learner, swiftly adopting his fathers cynical and self serving attitudes and becoming very adept in close quarters combat. Such skills would serve him well, as the Storm Draugar would brutally slay his father and take control over all of his assets after the Rogue Traders ill conceived attempt to capture the automated asteroid mining platform known as Nimrod's Wisdom. Forces of the Third Storm, slew Nathan's father and took him, along with whatever remained of Citcat II's crew, to Lupercal's Folly to being their lives as slave laborers within the forges.
However, Nathan was nothing if not resourceful. At processing, he managed to convince his new overseer that he was far better as a taskmaster than an assembly line worker. While ambivalent about giving a young slave the post, the overseer was nothing if not a shrewd business man, and, having lost one of his taskmasters to a pack of Mournscreams a few weeks prior, gave the boy the position, for only a quarter of the pay of course. Nathan excelled at his post, his duelist wrists making him very skilled with the lash. Productivity on his particular line of the West Sarcanth Manufactorum was markedly higher than the rest such was his skillful application of his tools. None would doubt Citcat III's ability to motivate.
But an honest days work and a working man's salary was not befitting the sole surviving heir to the Citcat legacy, and Nathan sought a way to take back his families former glory. He found his answer in the cesspool that was the Lower Western Mid-level Quarter slums. Here, in one of the poorest districts of Lupercal's Folly, Citcat not only found his early home, but the means with which to carve out an empire. The gangs of the Lower Western Mid-level Quarter, also known as the "Crimson Streets" District, were noted for their sheer ruthlessness. These were desperate men, scraping by on the assembly lines by day, fighting for scraps of power in the slums by night. Nathan knew he could use such men, he needed only to gain their loyalty. And gain it he did.
Nathan started from the very bottom, though on a taskmasters payroll he was easily the most wealthy member of the Mightnight Rockers gang. This allowed him to buy some influence and make his early days as a ganger run smoothly, but where Nathan was aiming to go, a taskmasters money would get him only so far. He proved himself to be a cut above the rest, both a shrewd businessman and an expert with a blade and whip. He quickly rose through the gangs ranks, eventually facilitating their monopoly over all narcotics trade within the Crimson Streets. Within a year he became the gang leader, and within three years he had taken what was little more but a street gang and turned it into one of the most profitable criminal "Families" in the Middle Mid-Level Quarter habs.
The Citcat Family ran all the illicit and legal trade, swiftly and brutally stamping out or buying out all competition. Nathan's influence spread like wildfire, and with the unique brand of militant knowledge and economic savvy that only the son of a Rogue Trader would have, he rode this wave of momentum straight to some the highest echelons of Lupercalian society.
Now Nathan Horatio Jonah Darius Citact III, known as Tactic by close friends and hated enemies, is thrice the man his father would ever be. He is both pirate lord, merchant prince, and noble lord. He commands enough wealth to fund his own personal army and small fleet of warships, and lives in the highest spires of Lupercal's Folly, surrounded by his wealth and opulence. But Citcat III and his mighty House are still the chattel of the Storm Draugar, and Nathan does well to remember that. However, Nathan also knows that the Storm Draugar dare not cook their golden goose, and with the vast sums of wealth he brings in, both from within and beyond Lupercal's Folly, he can afford to occasionally overpay his taxes to ensure that he gets the continued goodwill of the Blackspawn brothers.
Dematoth the Destroyer
- "Onward Battle-Brothers! My belly aches for man-flesh!"
- —The Destroyer leads his squad through Imperial Guard gunlines during the Battle of Targodon
Infamous Legate of Roghan Scrios Squad Tython and Champion of Chaos Undivided, Dematoth Entrax, also known as Dematoth the Destroyer, is a warrior of considerable renown within the Storm Draugar. Dematoth has carved out a reputation as a ruthless Champion and commander, doubtless one of the Chosen of the Dark Gods for his remarkable martial skills and feats in battle. Amongst the first of the now infamous Fuil Óga, Dematoth began life as little more than a child of slaves, torn from his mother's arms and forged into a living weapon. He proved himself more than capable during his trials of the Proving Grounds, and was swiftly given the sought after title of Fuil Te or "Hotblood".
Upon donning the black and purple of the Storm Draugar, Dematoth quickly forged a name for himself. The ruthless bastard scion of Dorn and Sanguinius proved himself to be a warrior of such relentless brutality and savagery that even the Blackspawns themselves took notice. One of the so-called Destroyers most extraordinary feats of prowess came during the Durvaan Raids, in which the forces of the 2nd Storm were set upon by Tyranids. It was said that Dematoth and his Squad were responsible for the slaying of the Hive Tyrant, having torn through teaming ranks of Tyranid Bioforms beforehand and killing the great beast with a single, well placed frag grenade. For his long list of achievements, Dematoth was soon recognized as one of the Warband's elite champions, and inducted into the ranks of the Roghan Scrios.
Dematoth continues to serve the will of the Dark Gods, holding to the tenants of the Storm Cult and venerating the stuff of Chaos itself as opposed to individual entities. To Dematoth corruption and ruination for its own sake is the purest worship he can offer unto the venerated spirits of the Warp. He fights with a savagery and ruthlessness that makes him a paragon of the Storm Draugar mentality, brutally cleaving foes in twain with his Chainaxe Ripper and bringing them down at a range with his Fury Boltgun.
Vermorta the Screamer
- "Yessssss... Bring the noise."
- —Vermorta basking in the bass of his Doom Siren, Screamfiend
A powerful Champion of Slaanesh, Vermorta the Screamer goes by many other black titles, such as the Voice of Perdition, the Call of Ruin, and the Doom Siren of Nellos. Such titles are assuredly deserved, for amongst the ranks of the Storm Draugars Noise Marines, few are as uncompromisingly lethal and depraved as Vermorta. Manic, gluttonous, and ever obsessive, Vermorta is a constantly twitching and cackling hulk of genetically enhanced muscles infused with the most potent combat drugs known to the vile mystics of Chaos. He leads his pack of crazed pleasure seekers through the battle fields of the 41st Millennium, creating a crescendo of violence and pain to slake his bloodlust.
Vermorta was born in the flesh pits of Lupercal's Folly, bred to be the ideal specimen for gene-seeding. However, Vermorta was born with several monstrous flaws. Due to chemical imbalances in his vat while he gestated, an accidental oversight due to a faulty servitor and clumsy maintenance worker, Vermorta's musculature grew almost out of control. Still forming flesh and skin threatened to rip itself apart more than once during his rapid development, and it was only the swift actions of the mad Apothecary, Arnot Menhk, that saved Vermorta's unborn form. Because of this, Vermorta suffers from uncontrollable bouts of spastic twitching, and an overdeveloped musculature, making it almost impossible to control the force with which he applies with his hands. While in most circles, such a creature would be relegated to the ranks of the cultists, Arnot became intrigued by the potential of Vermorta's abhorrent physiology. With his blessing, Vermorta underwent the trials to become a Storm Draugar. It was during these times that the Apothecary discovered that the application of a powerful cocktail of various chemicals and drugs could at least mitigate Vermorta's overactive physiology, allowing the soon to be Chaos Marine a modicum of control over his own body. With his monstrous body under control, Vermorta quickly proved himself nothing short of an ideal specimen. Towering over the other initiates, monstrous muscles bulging and rippling with unnatural force, he easily ripped his competition to shreds with his bear hands. The Vermorta dreaded and feared today began to take shape, being conditioned to take pleasure in violence as every kill activated his surgically implanted auto-injector. With every life he took the constant pain of his writhing body was stripped away, leaving only pure ecstasy. It was also at this time that Vermorta discovered his body could do more than destroy. It could feel, intensely, everything around him. The cool air in the halls of Lupercal's Folly was akin to a stinging blizzard, the warmth from the nearby furnace a scorching inferno, the pale glow-globes instead stinging spheres of brilliance. He slowly learned to take joy in pain as well, for every sensation was one more intense than the last.
By the time he was fully implanted with his bastard gene-seed, hand crafted by Arnot Menhk to best suit his mutant physiology, Vermorta was a monster of such a scale that not even the insidiously wise Apothecary could fully comprehended what he had wrought. On his first deployment, on a minor Hive World known as Vassen Secundus, Vermorta reportedly perpetrated the infamous "Block #12 Massacre" singlehandedly. The crazed Chaos Marine supposedly abandoned his squad in the midst of battle, armed with nothing but a shotgun and a simple combat knife. He wandered the Hive, killing anything that he came across, be they PDF, Guardsmen, or civilians. When his shotgun ran out of ammo, he found a rocket launcher. When that was no more, he used grenades. When those ran out, he resorted to his blade. When that became too dull, he found his hands more than capable. But it was one weapon that changed Vermorta forever. During his rampage, he discovered the remains of a Storm Draugar Noise Marine Squad. Of all their gaudy wargear, one piece in particular called out to him. An ornate Doom Siren, still thrumming with life even after its former master was hewn in half by lasfire. Vermorta felt compelled to don the bewitched relic. It was at that moment that Vermorta finally reached his apex, for at that moment the world was plunged into sensation. Dazzling colors, potent perfumes, overwhelming sensations. But most importantly, the noise. That beautiful, wailing, screaming, roaring noise. He was consumed by it as it washed over his very being, as it swept up his soul in a glorious tidal wave of sensation.
Vermorta was rediscovered by a Storm Draugar armored column, knee deep in the bodies of refugees and guardsmen, surrounded by the smoldering wreckage of what was an evacuation convoy. It was only then that Vermorta realized, solely by omission of his stunned comrades, that he had been behind enemy lines for no less than eight months. Vermorta came to terms with what he was, he was a Noise Marine now, a lustful servant of, as he termed, "The Great Prince of Holy Noise." Since then, he and his Doom Siren, Screamfiend, have sown utter ruin across the stars, blasting out deadly siren calls that surely send scores of beings to their bloody deaths.
Vermorta the Screamer is a powerhouse in battle, his mutant physiology and Screamfiend allowing him to bring death to any who are unlucky enough to fall under his hungry gaze. Armed with the baroque power sword known as Sweet Touch, designed by some of the Draugars finest weaponsmiths, and his elegant bolt pistol, Vermorta kills with a manic hunger and measured sadism that few of his comrades can match. Sweet Touch is a perverse tool of death, drinking deep of the blood of the fallen, and converting that into a sweet ichor within its pommel, which is immediately injected directly into Vermorta's veins with every kill. How this warp tainted blade converts blood into murder inducing drugs is unknown, but its effects on its master are a great boon in battle. Due to his mutant physique, Vermorta is considerably faster and stronger than a Space Marine born of purer blood, this shows in his style of combat. Vermorta was psycho-conditioned for battle, but he lacks much in the way of artful finesse or grace, instead striking like a ravenous animal. He uses his speed and strength to rend his foes limb from limb, their gushing wounds and screaming bringing him great pleasure.
It should be noted that, as rival Champions of Slaanesh, Vermorta the Screamer and Umbal the Duelist have a fierce history of one upmanship. Vermorta considers Umbal to be a preening fool, obsessed with his blade and paints. A true champion of the Great Prince of Holy Noise revels at all times, and cares not for anything but the next rapturous sensation.
Vermorta also takes umbrage from the upstart daemonette, Leshta the Man Eater, finding the daemon to be insufferably smug and competitive. While she is one of Slaanesh's chosen creations, this dose not inspire in Vermorta any less of an urge to blast her smug grin away with Screamfiend.
Emile the Fury
- "Yes, scatter like the vermin you are! Flee! Ahahah! FLEE!"
- —Brother Emile strafing the trenches of the Valhallan 79th during the infamous Torsoth Raids
Known as the most skilled pilot in the ranks of the Storm Draugar, Brother Emile, also known as Emile the Fury or simply The Fury, is a devastating terror on the battlefield. Alone, he pilots the Storm Draugars last remaining Fire Raptor Gunship, Firebreed, bringing swift death and ruin from above with her twin linked Avenger Bolt Cannons and dual Reaper Autocannons.
Emile is a young star in the Warband, created from the flesh pits of Lupercal's Folly with the singular destiny to serve the Blackspawn Brothers. He was found to be ideal for the rigors of Marinehood, and was quickly forced through the regimen devised by the insidious Warpsmith, Hurlok Zahz. Within a few short years, Emile was a fully fledged Chaos Marine of the Storm Draugar, forged in madness and perversion, molded by cruelty and hatred, and driven by the burning blood of the Iron Warriors and World Eaters in his gene-seed. Early in his career, Emile showed a preference for ranged combat, joining the ranks of the Havocs. Armed with but a simple autocannon, Emile racked up a small but noteworthy tally over the course of his first half century.
However, Emile lusted for greater excitement, and found it in even greater and mightier weapons. Soon he moved from the ranks of the Havocs to those of the Warbands pilots and mechanical experts. Such technology enthralled him, armed with weapons of great scale and devastating power. But most attractive was the raw speed and power of the Warbands aerial fleet. Thunderhawks and Storm Ravens, loaded with the might of their arsenals, were the subject of his obsessions. He quickly proved himself an adept pilot, transporting his battle brothers to the battle field and laying down withering barrages from the Thunderhawk known by its simple call sign, Savage 3. For another trial of half a century, Emile proved himself to be one of the Warbands finest pilots, preforming a long list of daring and villainous feats. From the infamous Spire #242 Massacre, to the Battle of Pa'Voi, the enemies of the Storm Draugar learned to fear the skies. But it was not until the Campaign of Slaughter that he was recognized as worthy for his current position. During that crusade across the Tarthis Sub-Sector, Brother Emile scored a mighty tally of kills against both ground targets of the Lightbringers Chapter and local Guard forces and aerial targets over the skies of Hive Terdon and Agri World Sollon.
Such exemplary and bloody handed feats did not go unrewarded. The insidious Warpsmith, Hurlok Zahz, had plans for the young ace. Emile was commended for his feats following the Campaign of Slaughter, and granted the highest honor that could be bestowed upon such a burgeoning pilot. With the Warpsmith's blessing, Emile was granted the right to pilot Firebreed, the Warband's sole Fire Raptor Gunship. Prior to his first deployment with his new steed, Emile underwent various bionic enhancements at the hands of Zahz himself, enhancing his already super human reflexes and targeting skills. These enhancements also allowed Emile to neurally link with Firebreed, making the gunship an extension of his will while he piloted it.
However, during his first deployment, something unexpected befell the young astartes. Firebreed's Machine Spirit had long been corrupted by the influences of the Warp, and had become self aware. With a malicious and bloodthirsty cunning, she attempted to take control of Emile's mind during the Invasion of Creed Majorus. The battle of wills was waged for but a bare span of seconds, but the result would bind the two entities together. Though unsuccessful in overtaking Emile's mind, Firebreed would become linked with his consciousness, the two becoming one in a sense. Now the Gunship could speak telepathically to its new pilot, and Emile could command his vessel even if he were not in the cockpit.
Over the eons, the two would bond as comrades, Firebreed always hungry for blood and battle, and Emile always willing to oblige. Together they dominate the skies, slaying all who oppose them with near impunity. Firebreed is outfitted with her deadly aresneal of nose mounted twin-linked Avenger Bolt Cannons and side mounted twin-linked Reaper Autocannons. She is also blessed by the exalted mark of Tzeetch, which grants her weapons even greater power as they burn through armor and rend the soul. Emile, meanwhile, is rarely on the field, but on the off chance that he is forced to engage on the ground, he is clad in his scavenged power armor and armed with a bolt pistol and combat knife.
Leshta the Man Eater
- —Leshta's catchphrase
A cunning predator in the guise of a lithe temptress, Leshta is a Daemonette like no other. Sadistic, possessive, and vain to a fault, at first one would merely pass her off as little different from the ruthless pack of five other Daemonettes that follow her every command. But then one would discount how truly ruthless Leshta is. Otherworldly lust drives her insane gluttony, for she is obsession manifest, mad hunger and sadistic whims made flesh and bone. To this end, Leshta's flawless master has blessed her with the ability to slake her hunger, if only for a time.
Leshta was first encountered by the Storm Draugar during the ending days of the Cornelius Sub-Sector campaign, summoned by Ingar and his cabal of scorcerous minions to support the Warband against the Vostroyan 43rd during the Battle for Sentinel Prime alongside several other packs of daemons from the other three Chaos Gods. Determined not to be outdone by the minions of her lords rivals, Leshta committed her fellows to the front lines with all due haste, instinct drawing her alongside the ranks of Umbal the Duelist and Vermorta the Screamer, who were engaged in a brutal contest to slay the most of the Emperor's faithful. Little did they expect Leshta to leap into battle before them, gracefully scything down scores of guardsmen with her twin daggers. But it was what she managed with her unique gifts from Slaanesh himself that most awestruck the Chaos Marines. Sighting a particularly handsome guardsman, Leshta let lose her long, whip like tongue, which stuck like Mechanicus grade epoxy to the guarsman's forehead. With a quick tug, his head was freed from his shoulders, face frozen in a state of abject shock and horror as it plunged down into the daemonettes cavernous maw. Stunned, both Umbal and Vermorta were at a loss for words as Leshta smirked smugly at the pair before continuing her slaughter, easily outpacing the both of them.
Since that day, the young Daemonette has been an all too common sight within the ranks of the Warband, securing her stay in the material realm through various willing daemonhosts and constant feeding upon the flesh for mortals. Many a naive cultist has been swallowed alive to ensure she remains to further upstage the two Champions Umbal and Vermorta, obsessing over the two for reasons unknown. It is likely that she merely finds their mixed jealousy and desire for her entertaining, and that the material realm has so many flavors of sentient being to be digested alive and screaming.
Armed with her flawlessly crafted twin daggers, serpentine maw, and prehensile lash tongue, Leshta is easily one of the most deadly Daemons at the Storm Draugars disposal. She is also the most crafty and well known, having a small cult dedicated to her and the guile to remain within the material realm. Not only is Leshta deadly on the field of war, but her ability to appear human and or possess human bodies allows for a wide variety of subtle roles as well.
Hammer of the Night
- "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 again 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. Anuniaq, Steel Sage of the White Devils, ordained minister of the mysteries of the Machine and keeper of the most sacred Truth, stood ready in the center of the Thunderhawk's hold. His hulking, pale white form wreathed in the slowly flashing blood red light of the troop bay. Mechadendrites, outfitted for the mission at hand with a staggering array of esoteric weapons and devices, known to perhaps a select few Magos of the Imperium, held their standby patterns, wrapping about their master like a cloak of adamantine coils. The great mechanical claw jutting from his shoulder clamped to the holds overhead, while his magnetic boots held him rooted in place, indomitable and cold as a glacier. He flexed his Lighting Claw upon his right hand, its chainbladed claws arcing with strange green energy, flashing as its alien disruption field readied itself for combat. His skull helm and the glowing red bionic eyes within its bleached white housing fixated on the main ramp of the Thunderhawk.
At the ancient Steel Sage's flanks, a squad of perfect killers readied their arms. Pale forms, towering over the ridged cyborg-soldiers that stood in formation behind the hulking Steel Sage, clad in bone white armor with only black markings of rank and Clan. Whirring bionics, encased in armored shells, passed over thrumming weapons, who cast a ghostly pale glow and overflowed with mist-like exhaust. Upon each of them, only a single ornamentation broke the otherwise spartan and bare visage of their Power Armored forms. It was not the Aquilla, for those had been stripped from their breastplates long ago. It was not the fearsome Imperialis, the skull symbol of sacrifice and death in the Emperor's name, for those had long been shorne off and melted down into bolt shells and swords. Only a single, gunmetal icon rested upon the left shoulder of every armored form, and tattooed upon the skin of every slave-warrior. It was a snarling, horned visage, an ancient symbol that long predated even the ancient race of Astartes. It was an icon of an age long past, an age of chaos an anarchy, and age brought to heel by a man, and in the end, reinstated in another form by the hand of his son. To many, the diabolic icon was one that chilled the bone regardless of culture, an image so seared into the collective human psyche as to be terrifying no matter its bearer. But to the White Devils, it was merely a ploy, an advantage. Fear is the first death wrought upon the weak and feeble. It is the death of the mind. The next, and final death, would be the death of the flesh.
Anuniaq and his men felt the algorithm of the Thunderhawks machine spirit long before the customary countdown, the Serf pilot counting down the seconds before planetfall as only a matter of habit, not irregular, but Anuniaq found himself mildly annoyed by such a waste of calories. It was inefficient, as were many things wrought by frail, impudent, human hands. Even those such as the White Devils Serf-Infantry, who had been rigorously bred and trained, and even had the kindness of the removal of a great deal of their pathetic flesh, were still as all man. Wasteful.
The Thunderhawk alighted within the dilapidated streets, crushing both loose rockcrete and charred skeletons under its bulk. Without delay, the boarding ramp at its nose fell to the ground, the impact upon the cracked and broken rockcrete roads echoing throughout the dead holy city. Out came the strike force, Anuniaq at the fore, his Cryotech Kill Squad forming a loose flank guard around the block of thirty Serf-Infantry, a formation long practiced by the Astartes, a holdover from the days when the Legions marched alongside mortal men in their Emperor's Great Crusade. The formation held, weapons at the ready, as Anuniaq surveyed the ruins that surrounded them. Red eyes passed over the ruin and long decayed carnage, the scene of bedlam and war coming unbidden to Anuniaq's mind.
He could see the PDF as they were, before their lasguns melted to slag in their hands and their flesh was peeled from their bones by living flame. The hulking form of a Chaos Marine stomped into view, Axe-Rake raised as he approached the writhing men. He watched as their screaming faces gave way to a unit of Guardsmen, fleeing for their lives, Bloodletters hot on their heels. One fell to the ground, leg cleaved off at the knee. Anuniaq watched as the Daemons ripped the man to screaming shreds. Then came the final vision, Anuniaq could see the pair of Chaos Marines, crashing through the walls of a now collapsed building, one clad in silver and crimson, the other in black and purple. The purple clad one bore a daemon blade, burning with the fires of the beast within, but the crimson Legionary leveled his bolt pistol as he lay prone upon the ground. The vision receded as Anuniaq's machine eyes fell upon a discarded MkII helmet, twisted and mangled into a spike laden daemonic visage by untold time within the cursed River of Exiles. Anuniaq stooped to lift the helm that lay at his feet, and observed the gaping hole through the forehead, which lined up perfectly with the gaping exit wound at the back of the helm. For a moment Anuniaq looked into the hateful lenses of the helm, the vox caster drawn into a perpetual snarl with steel teeth bared at the universe. Anuniaq let the helmet fall to the ground as his second strode to his side with the second unit of the strike force, watching as the Thunderhawks soared back into the bleak ash-laden sky and the Serf-Infantry scout unit broke with the strike force, their cloaks whipping in the wind as their five man unit vanished into the rubble and ruin.
The cloaked form of Anuniaq's trusted officer stood at his side, chainmail cloak undulating in the wind as he let his Grav-Gun hang casually in the grip of his bionic left arm. His helm, obscured by the gunmetal hood drawn over it, glared with one burning red bionic eye. A static burst of ancient machine language hissed from under the hood, a simple status update;
"The location is secure sir. The probes detected minimal life-sings, a few small organisms, vermin most likely. However, atmospheric interference and chemical saturation likely stunted the probes ability. I would recommend we wait one hour for the reconnaissance unit to report back before advancing."
Anuniaq let forth a response burst; "Thirty minutes, Miki."
Miki shouldered Grav-Gun, letting his chainmail cloak part to reveal his battle scarred Power Armor and the Power Sword and Bolt Pistol that hung at his belt;
"Sage, haste is not advisable, hostile units could be lying in wait. Or tracing our unit in an attempt to secure the archotech for themselves."
"I am aware Sergeant, and have considered the data. However, we have an estimated seven Terran days before Imperial forces arrive to retake the planet. And we have no data on potential incursions from any non-Imperial force. Any losses on the part of the unit will be unlikely to reach unacceptable levels of attrition, given the limited likelihood of substantial resistance remaining alive after the Phosphex strike. Speed is more efficient than caution in this scenario."
With a weary nod, Miki submitted to the orders of his superior and returned to his formation. For thirty minutes the strike team stood utterly motionless, bionics and genetic enhancements allowing them all to hold their combat ready poses for days at a time, let alone the mere passage of half a Terran hour.
- 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
- 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
- An Inquisitorial team, led by an Ordo Malleus Inquisitor
"What do all men want?"... "Immortality. Why else do men dig graves and place stones upon them? Why else light great pyres? All men fear that one day they will be forgotten, they clutch feebly at means with which to remain remembered, to remain alive. It is a child grasping for the flame, not knowing the severity of the burns. I have been awake for two thousand years, I can never rest, never close my eyes, never stop the killing. I am immortal, in every sense of the word. I hate it. I hate every moment of it."... "Ah yes, damn Nurgle and his two-faced gifts! I should declare it from the mountaintops no? Fool. To condemn the Plague Father is to be the Ant condemning the rain for washing away his home. I use this gift as a means of mercy, do you not see? Saving those two souls was cruelty, a moment of foolishness. The only true kindness is death, eternal and blissful. One day, I hope, someone will be kind enough to grant me it."
- "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 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, all others must fall.
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.
- "Obedience to the Creed! Faith in the Omen! Unity in the Word!"
- —Dhak Zen, The Oracle, Champion of the Host
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. At first such a failing was cause enough for much of the Host to consider falling upon their own swords, a final act of desperate repentance for so displeasing the Dark Gods and their Primarch. But Uldan preached of a better way, a path of redemption and and retribution. Theirs was not to be the swift victory that their former commander Nethruias the Black had envisioned, but a slow grueling crusade, a trial of both faith and ability. They were to be tested by the Dark Gods, and were now expected to show their true worth as Bearers of the Word.
To this end, the Everchosen are relentless in battle and unfailing in their devotion. They believe that the Dark Gods take special interest in their every word and action, that every moment they live they are being weighed by the merit of their deed and faith. As such, only the purest examples of worship are viable, only the most fanatical action acceptable, and only the most devout faith worthy. The Everchosen do everything for the glory of Chaos and the Legion that has cast them out, all of it a great and solemn plea for forgiveness and redemption.
But this fanaticism is tempered by the weariness of the Everchosen, and thus, while they fight with a zeal that is unbreakable, they also fight with a mind inured to loss and shame, a mind that wishes to never know such a wholly devastating defeat again. Thus the Everchosen are known for an interesting combination of pragmatism and fanaticism, a drive to redeem but also a drive to survive, to keep burning the only flame of True Faith left in the whole of the River of Exiles.
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, the innumerable scourge of the Sons of Kruger, and ruthless tenacity of the Black Hammers.
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 first line, 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 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. As Uldan himself hailed from this Chapter and rose under the command of Tangrel Cho, the death of his close friend was said to have weighed heavy on his soul and still does to this day.
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 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 done battle alongside 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 of the largest concentrations of Legion Destroyer Squads and Ashen Circle. However, the Chapter's history was a chequered 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. Lo'Char hailed from this Chapter, and to many was the epitome of the Chapter's culture.
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 aggression 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 dedication to spreading the faith of the Word Bearers. 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 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 created in Everchosen gene-labs, while others have joined from other warbands. 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 often consider their own agenda "in line" with the needs of the Host.
The Fourth War Host, The Host of the Twisted Spear
Noted as extremely proficient line fighters and masters of siege-craft, the so-called Host of the Twisted Spear is a venerable vanguard force, lauded for their fervent tenacity. The Host of the Twisted Spear is made up of a great deal of "pure" Sons of Lorgar, the gene-seed from the Trinity slowly disseminating through the ranks so that one day the whole of the Everchosen will be Word Bearers in both deed and blood. However, these younger Legionaries are full of zeal and prone to hot headed action, unlike their more mixed brethren, who are converts of strong but tempered conviction. This has formed a rift within the Fourth War Host, with the younger half generally forming the front line fighters of the War Host while the elder converts manage the heavier equipment in support. Internal strife between the two is far from unheard of, though rarely does it escalate to the point where blood is split, as they are all followers of the One True Word.
The Host of the Twisted Spear is led by the infamous Dhez Kahar, the Lance Lord himself. A ruthless veteran of the Traitor Legions, rumored to belong to the Black Legion in eons past, Dhez Kahar is a brutal disciplinarian and ruthless commander. He has molded the Host of the Twisted Spear into a living bulwark of cold hate and murderous fury, leading the vanguard from the front, killing with impunity with his Power Spear, The Weeping Spear.
The Fifth War Host, The Host of the Flaming Claw
Ruthless, relentless, and spiteful beyond reason, the Host of the Flaming Claw is the Everchosen's premier Assault Host of the Outer Brotherhood. Boasting fearsome ranks of Berzerkers and Raptors, the "Flaming Fifth" is a beast of blades and fire, smashing deep into the ranks of the enemy and rending flesh from bone in a zealous fury. Though the signs of Khorne worship are plentiful, the Host of the Flaming Claw has yet to venerate the Blood God above others of the sacred pantheon, holding rather violently to the edicts of Lorgar in that all should be worshiped as parts of the greater whole of Chaos. The Host of the Flaming Claw has been noted as one of the more anarchic of the War Hosts, with internal strife and rivalry being the norm as opposed to the exception. This is due in part to its Captain, the fallen Blood Angel once known as Amitiel, now known under his new Colchian name as Lor Kuron. Captain Kuron regularly espouses ideals of survival of the fittest and the philosophy that might makes right, and thus supports internal conflict between his Legionaries in the hopes that such conflicts will weed out the unworthy under his command.
The Sixth War Host, The Host of Consecrated Stone
A host of ruthless back breakers, the Host of Consecrated Stone is a primarily mechanized force of Legionaries,
The Seventh War Host, The Host of the Blessed Phalanx
A Host of heavy weapons specialists and mechanized Legionaries
The Eighth War Host, The Host of the Burning Banner
Blackguards and iconoclasts, the Host of the Burning Banner are the Outer Brotherhood's most ruthless line fighters, second only to the Chapter of the Ever Burning Pyre in sheer tenacity and dedication to the creed. The Host of the Burning Banner stride forth into combat, the catechisms of the Book of Lorgar inscribed upon their flesh and armor, hymns of the holy Word on their lips as they execute the will of the Dark Gods. They are relentless in their cause, and nothing short of death or the orders of their superiors can halt their murderous advance. Theirs is a slow but sweeping march, taking time to burn down icons of false worship and execute those who cower in their hovels, beseeching their dead God upon Terra for deliverance. As indomitable as a glacier, the Host of the Burning Banner marches, and leaves nought but dead and damned in their wake.
But the Host of the Burning Banner are at their most dangerous within the void of space, being experts in ship to ship combat, they are marines in the truest sense of the word. It is here in the void that their slow and methodical approach is most viable, as they sweep every deck and corridor of the enemy ship, bringing death around every corner, slowly surrounding the terrified crew as a noose slowly tightening around the throat of a condemned heretic. Their Captain, a survivor of the Great Crusade and fellow Son of Lorgar, Kom Valthran, was once a Captain within the Chapter known as the Quillborn, Kom Valthran and his holy Company were sent forth to reprimand the Everchosen eons ago. However, the Company found only death and ruin within the River, and were reduced to a handful of Astartes by the vile Storm Draugar. When he finally met the object of his Company's mission, Kom instead joined the Everchosen in their crusade for redemption and vengeance. An expert in naval combat, Kom founded the Host of the Burning Banner in the image of the Quillborn, for they were to be as the Word itself, unyielding and indomitable, immovable as the very truth of the Warp.
The Ninth War Host, The Host of Black Blood
Masters of line combat and forward operations, the Host of the Black Blood acts as both a vanguard and scouting force, utilizing sizable numbers Chaos Bikers and specially trained Chaos Marines who are experts in guerrilla combat and ambush. They are the flexible front of the Everchosen, their specialists and forward operators striking the terrible truth of the Word into the hearts and minds of the enemy with their savage ambushes and night attacks while the rearguard sweep forth, bolters and blades in hand, bringing low all who would dare remain to oppose the most sacred Word of Lorgar. Legionaries of this War Host are known for their many blood rituals, omens of loyalty and solidarity as proscribed by the Book of Lorgar for those Legionaries who take up the cloak and knife in place of the holy bolter. The Host of the Black Blood is led by the enigmatic convert known only by the translation of his Colchian title, Sar Hothel, or the Last Word. In spite of Sar's mysterious ways and possible ties to the Alpha Legion, there can be little doubt as to the purity of his loyalty, for he has long since lost faith in the ways of the the Alpha Legion and instead endeavors to find peace in the wills of the Dark Gods.
The Tenth War Host, The Host of the Sacred Chains
The most elite and devout Legionaries of the Host of the Everchosen, the Hallowed are a force of Chaos Terminators that form the upper-most brotherhood of the Everchosen. Once they were a proud force of the so-called Anointed, the elite Terminator Armored force present throughout the Word Beareres Legion and the upper echlon of each Host. However, even their like were laid low in the disastrous Siege of Lupercal's Folly, being the vanguard of the assault, they were overwhelmed and all but destroyed by the forces of the Storm Draugar.
However, they continue to serve the cause of Chaos Undivided under their new master who has imbued them with doubly new purpose and zeal. Though they are much fewer than the requisite two-hundred most units of the Anointed found within the ranks of the Word Bearers, the Hallowed are without a doubt some of the finest warriors within the whole of the River of Exiles. Each is a veteran of the Long War, a warrior of such zeal and skill that not even the most capable warrior of the ancient races of Eldar and Necron can not afford to overlook their ability in combat. Furthermore, the Hallowed are outfitted with the finest weapons of the Host, daemonic tools of murder and bedlam so powerful that they sew death as easily as they breath.
Currently the Hallowed number only fifty strong, separated into three squads of ten and one squad of twenty. While they are not the only Chaos Terminators within the Host, they bear the old steel grey colors of the Imperial Heralds, a pattern they have borne since the days of the Great Crusade under the command of then Chaplain Nethruias, a strange symbol of solidarity against Lorgar's reforms. Though the meaning of the refusal has been lost, it now exists as an icon of their status amongst the Host of the Everchosen.
The first three squads are each under the command of the three high commanders of the Host, with the First Squad being the direct honor guard of the Master of Rites himself, Uldan the Everchosen. Then the Second Squad are enforcers and bodyguard of First Acolyte, Frel Kul. The final Third Squad are traditionally the bodyguard of the Coryphaus, but as the Hymn-Bearer insists on instead being guarded by his hand picked Iron Heralds they instead serve the dark will of the infamous Zahak Lo, the so-called Iron Acolyte and chief Warpsmith of the Everchosen.
The remaining Fourth Squad are under the command of the great Dhak Zen, the Champion of the Host, Holy Oracle, and technically Captain of the Hallowed. Though their liege is less a commander of the remaining body of the Hallowed and more of an elite enforcer of the will of the Everchosen and strike commander, his position within the Host as a religious icon and symbol of aspiration for all faithful battle brothers makes their role equally unusual. Part bodyguard, part strike force, and part vanguard, the Fourth Squad serve as the entourage of the Oracle, following him into battle and enforcing the will of his prophecies. In theory, they should be subservient to the will of the Dark Apostle and his First Acolyte, but in practice, the Fourth Squad serve Dhak Zen's word as if it were the word of the Dark Gods themselves, which they fervently believe it is. Thankfully, the Oracle is a loyal Legionary to the core and thus no contention has yet arisen amongst the ranks of the Hallowed and the Hosts high command.
The Iron Heralds
The honor guard of Jul Kahradk, comprised of Legionaries from both the ranks of the Trinity and the Outer Brotherhood. The Iron Heralds are often considered an oddity in the very stratified structure of the Everchosen, comprised of not only of one marine from each of the War Hosts, but also promoted to their prestigious position on the basis of merit and ability as opposed to seniority or outward devotion to the creed. Often, members of this ten man unit have ranged from ancient veterans of the Long War to recently seeded novices who have consistently proven themselves above and beyond the rest by actions on the battlefield.
The reasons for such a diverse unit are twofold. First and foremost, Jul Kahradk, like much of his Chapter, is known for his pragmatism. While he certainly respects the various traditions and edicts of the Host's culture, the Hymn-Bearer tends to prefer function over form, and thus shuns what he considers the wasteful use of elite Hallowed Terminators as honor guard. Jul believes that brothers of such high caliber are better off on the battlefield, bringing the Word to the heathen and heretic, not defending a man who considers himself of little consequence, as his redemption will only come when the Gods decide to take him into their company upon his death in righteous combat. Secondly, Jul Kahradk is the Coryphaus of the Everchosen, its premier strategist and high general, foremost commander in matters of the militant persuasion, leaving the Dark Apostle and his First Acolyte to focus primarily on matters of faith and devotion. But equally important is the Coyphaus' duty to gauge the spirit and moral of the Host itself, to be simultaneously one with the Host's rank and file and yet above it. He exists as the voice of the congregation, the bearer of the very spirit of the Host. To this end, Jul has surrounded himself with men that epitomize their War Host in ideal and action, those who could advise him as to the collective psyche of the Host by their own experiences and ties to their own Battle Brothers. In this way, Jul and his Iron Heralds are akin to the Warrior Lodges of old, a congregation in which all are equal as Sons of Lorgar, and where the Hymn-Bearer is the first amongst equals.
But regardless of their varied methods and experiences, the Legionaries who make up the Iron Heralds are no less dangerous, for they are armed with the finest the Coryphaus can provide, to stand not only as his bodyguard but as examples to their fellow Legionaries in combat, together embodying the combined will of the Host itself. In essence, the Iron Heralds and their liege battle as if they were Legion, combining the sometimes disparate methods of the great War Hosts into a single cohesive unit, united in their faith and devotion to the point that internal strife between members of the Iron Heralds is all but unheard of.
Uldan the Everchosen
- "As surely as the Dark Gods reign eternal within the blessed realm of the Warp, so I shall crush all who stand against the Word. Hear me now, heretics, blasphemers, and false worshipers, bend at the knee now in supplication, or know forever the condemnation of the Urizen."
- —Uldan the Everchosen delivers his ultimatum to the people of the Exile Sector
Frel Kul, First Acolyte
- "You will bow before my power, or you will die screaming. It matters not to me, for either way, it is the will of the Gods."
- —The First Acolyte prior to converting the Callidus Assassin now known as Jezebel
Jul Kahradk, The Hymn-Bearer
- "They think to surrender. Grant them Lorgar's absolution then. One bolt shell for the men, a blade stroke for the women, and a brand for the children. Ave Verbum."
- —The Hymn-Bearer sentences the adult population of Hive Scarthoros to death during the infamous Dalharian Wars
Dhak Zen, The Oracle
Zahak Lo, The Iron Acolyte
Kol Paron, The Great Ancient
- —Jezebel speaks regularly in High Gothic, the most common utterance is, "I obey."
A traitorous Callidus Assassin
- "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."
- —Clan 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.
They were also unpopular with many of their fellow Space Marine Chapters, as are many Iron Hands Successors, for their cold and bellicose natures. Often the White Devils would shun Chapters outside of their gene-linage, holding them as inefficient and worse, overly dogmatic when it came to the edicts of the Codex Astartes. Eventually, the White Devils even began to drift from their cousin Chapters, viewing their zealous adherence to the more quasi-religious teachings of the Cult Mechanicus as uncomfortably akin to the ancient tales of ignorant tech-zealots of Old Terra whome the Emperor smote with the Legions of old. By the time of the Nova Terra Interregnum, the White Devils were essentially alienated from all but the odd Mechanicus Sect known as the Glaciem Scolares, who had formed to study the archotech buried deep within the ice of their homeworld of Dieslerok.
Their homeworld stationed in the easternmost regions of the Segmentum Pacificus, and well known for their adherence to the Imperial Truth, the White Devils allied themselves with the Ur-Council of Nova Terra. They considered it not a choice of sides, but a matter of duty, for they saw the Imperium as corrupt to its core by the influence of ignorance and zealotry. For the entirety of the Time of Twin Empires, the White Devils, alongside their allied Chapter, the Fire Lions, fought against the forces of the Imperium in support of the separatists. Eventually they were forced to flee when the Segmentum once again fell back into Imperial compliance, and with the loss of their homeworld, were forced east. Now they are one of the many bands of Traitor Astartes that inhabit the famously volatile Exile Sector in the center of Segmentum Ultima, continuing to wage their war against the Imperial Cult from the hellish regions of the Warp Storm known as the River of Exiles.
The Ice Men Cometh
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!"
- —Orhga Clan Captain Aukaneck, The Howling Blizzard
- "And lo I cast the specter of deathly winter upon a burning land, and though they scream, am I not kinder for it? Is life in such a place a fate much worse than the chilling cold of the grave? Am I not justified? Am I not merciful? Am I not kind?"
- —Brother Sinaaq, Cryotech Kill Squad Heavy Weapons Specialist, reciting a line of War Poetry
Holding to the ancient ways of the Iron Hands even in their exile, the White Devils have always been organized into Clan Companies, which are much more autonomous than the average Codex Company. Generally numbering at one-hundred rank and file Space Marines (excluding officers and specialist units such as the Cryotech Kill Squads) and a corresponding number of vehicles and Serf-Infantry. Clans are allowed to take on their own recruits from their respective Serf pools, and are generally allowed to practice whatever internal policies or traditions they wish so long as they are not counter to the overall will of the Warband's ruling body, the Steel Council.
The Steel Council is the real leadership of the Warband and its administrative body. Ruled over by a conclave of Steel Sages from each Clan Company, who are analogous in practice to the Iron Fathers of the Iron Hands, the Steel Council is both the final authority on all subjects within the Warband, from cultural practices to weapons development. All internal conflicts between the often feuding Clan Companies are usually brought before the Steel Council, who decide the proper course of action depending on age old edicts and ancient clan law set down in the tome known as the White Dictate. Council rulings are usually unanimously supported due to the sheer respect each White Devil holds for their Steel Sages, but dissent is not wholly uncommon. Usually, such naysayers are dealt with via the Steel Council's elite enforcers, the Cryotech Kill Squads.
The Steel Council has the power to nominate a member of the Warband, traditionally from the ranks of the Cryotech Kill Squads, to the office of Clan Lord. (though on rare occasion a member of the Clan Companies has been considered and even voted into the office) The Clan Lord is the overall military commander of the Warband, wielding power in a fashion not unlike a Chaos Lord. However, the Clan Lord is still subject to the will of the Steel Council, and his elite Cryotech Kill Teams will not hesitate to dethrone him if he dares go against the will of the Council.
(Assault Clan, very aggressive and in your face, tends to be the vanguard with Assault Marines backed up by Bikes with Close Air Support, has a cadre of stolen Nephilum Jet Fighters renamed Imp Jet Fighters, works very well with Hortak as they respect their sturdy constitution and aggressive tactics, HATES Weldkat for their artillery spam and what they consider wasteful usage of their infantry as either bait or mop up, generally dislikes Miki as they consider their style too static and reliant on superior firepower as opposed to just taking down the enemy in close combat)
(Front Line Fighters and Vanguard, lots of sturdy infantry units and semi-mobile fortifications, stoic users of combined arms, tends towards Razorbacks, Terminators, Dreadnoughts, Centurions, and Tacticals/Breacher Squads, like and work well with Orhga, considers their up front and cqc style useful and commendable in terms of saving resources, gets along with Bishl as they have similar styles that overlap and support one another, HATES Weldkat for the same reasons as Orhga though generally more on the use of ordinance than the overt sacrifice of infantry)
(Support Clan, generally focus on armor hunting and bunker busting, field considerable numbers of Centurions, Tanks, Termies, Devastaors, and Breachers, tend to use scorch the Earth polices to flush the enemy out, tend to be cruel and calculating, work well with Hortak due to overlapping tactics, though they consider Hortak's generalist style as more of a weakness than strength, like Miki, as both Clans utilize heavy firepower up close and personal with the enemy, can stomach Weldkat's excessive use of artillery and ruthless tactics, seeing merit in them)
(Support Clan, but unlike Bishl tend more to Tank Hunting, Anti-Air, and anti-infantry than the bunker busting of Bishl, field lots of Devastators and Centurions, along with quite a few Dreadnoughts, Artillery and Tanks, works well with Bishl due to similar tactics, dislikes Orhga, seeing them as blood hungry adrenaline junkies and has an ongoing feud with Fluud due to suspicions that they purposefully fed them bad intel that almost got them wiped out during the Nova Terra Interregnum)
(Armor and Artillery specialists, shock and awe and target saturation are their bread and butter, field tons of tanks and artillery as well as Devastators and heavily augmented Combat Servitors, tend to be the most mechanical and analytical of the Clans and consider combat nothing more than pure mathematics, willing to accept the most losses so long as the victory is mathematically sufficient and will therefore sacrifice their own and other Clan forces readily, infamous for various "friendly fire incidents", generally despised by the entire Warband save for Fluud and Bishl, who more or less tolerate them, has a kindred spirit in Tyreti though both vehemently disagree with the others tactics, hates Orhga and Hortak for being inefficient with their slash and grind philosophies, which they consider wholly inferior)
(Scout and Fast Attack, field the most Bikers and the only remaining Land Speeders in the Warband, readily utilize a sizable bunch of Assault Marines and specifically designed Fast Attack Servitors and units of Serf-Infantry airborne and infiltrators, generally considered the Black Sheep due to their very aloof nature and general disregard for the other Clans, tolerates Weldkat because they feel they make the best use of the intel they are given, regards Orhga well as their tactical styles mix but considers them obnoxiously hot headed, feuding with Miki who they consider stupid for misinterpreting their intel and nearly getting themselves killed, takes no blame for the event)
(Meat Grinder to the Hortak's steady and fluid advance, Tyreti prefer the use of infantry and tanks to form an unbreakable advance that tears the enemy to pieces, fields sizeable units of Serf-Infantry and Combat Servitors as well as Tacticals, Termies, and Breachers, dislikes Hortak in spite of similar tactics because they consider Hortak soft, thinks Weldkat is philosophically ideal like them but consider their reliance on armor and artillery wasteful as infantry can deal with most combat situations in a more conservative and swift manner, likes Bishl for their focus on fortification killing as it supports their infantry style very well, extremely bitter about the loss of Clan Urtval who were their close allies)
These Clans were wiped out during the Nova Terra Interregnum and are likely to never be rebuilt. Their seats at the Council aboard the Harbinger of Winter sit forever empty but remain nonetheless as a symbol of respect, a symbolic gesture most uncommon for the ruthlessly practical White Devils.
(brought down by Fraternis Templar, ice bombed the planet after fighting to the last man)
(defeated defending the homeworld, destroyed what archotech they could not get off the rock and used the harshness of their world to their advantage as they butchered about 90% of the attacking force)
(wiped out by multiple Unforgiven chapters over the course of several months of defensive campaign, effectively rendered three extinct via attrition)
Created in the years following the Chapter's settlement of the pitilessly cold Death World of Dieslerok, Cryotech Weapons represent a powerful arsenal of archotech weaponry.
The White Devils have had the honored office of Steel Sage since the old days of their founding, a natural evolution of the long honored Iron Fathers. Steel Sages were both ministers of the mysteries of the Machine Cult and ruthless educators in the Chapter's cold philosophy of revulsion and spite towards the weaknesses of flesh and bone. Steel Sages are considered
Cryotech Kill Squad
An elite band of the Warband's fiercest Battle Brothers, the Cryotech Kill Squads are the elite enforcers of the will of the Steel Council, armed with the strange and arcane weaponry forged from the archotech discovered deep within the catacombs of Dieslerok. Armed with weapons that 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.
Bred and conditioned to the exacting standards of their cold and ruthless masters, the Chapter Serfs of the White Devils serve their lieges with unquestioning devotion, both on and off the field of battle.
The Gangs of Lupercal's Folly
House Von Dalv
The Sarkaso Family
The Creed of the Sweet Rose
- "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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Ork Teef Necklace
1 Tau Scalp
1 Kroot Eye in a Jar
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.
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.
- "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."
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.
Beauregard is a tall, lithe individual, borne of a gangly, avian like slenderness that lead some to assume him frail or sickly.
- "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!"
- —Capitano Du'Pont Regialian moments before what would be known as the Massacre of Sturmvater River
Hailing from the supremely wealthy Civilized World of Graili in the Segmentum Solar, the Grailian Guard or Grailian Foot are some of the finest armed and armored Imperial Guard forces in the Galaxy. Famous for their gilded armor and fearsome reputation as heavy infantry, 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 pompous 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 their world. This has left the Grailian Foot supremely well armed and disciplined, but naive and cocksure. Thus, the Foot are deadly but unreliable troops, prone to panic and grievous acts of incompetence in the face of a canny 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 gilded suits of carapace armor can weather hails of weapons fire and their master crafted weaponry can wreak a terrible tole amongst even the stoutest enemy.
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 and thrive in the aftermath. 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. Bolstered by teaming hive cities, the great gilded factories of Graili began to churn out the mighty tools of governance, weapons.
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 due to the rapid maneuvering of their opportunistic leaders, 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.
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 guild 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. Deadly skirmishes both in ritual combat in the rolling hinterlands in the wastes between hives and brutal gang-like hive wars were the standard by which all Grailian nobility lived, and betrayal lurked around every corner, with virtually every clan of merchant-princes and banker barons utilizing small armies of spies and assassins.
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 Lukini 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.
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.
The Horus Heresy
Grailians, by the supremely wealthy nature of their homeworld and even neighboring systems still under their dominion
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.
Recruitment and Replenishment
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 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.
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,
Short Stories of Lupercal's Folly
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.
Of the Night
He who Hunts Monsters...
The Death Dealer
The Man Eater
The Crimson Storm
The Back Breaker
The Eye of Luna
- "BUTCHERY! GLORIOUS BUTCHERY!"
- —The Oath-Breaker
The Iron Lord
The Grand Captain
The Soul Binder
The Old Wolf
The Son of the Dead
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:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
- —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 millennium 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.
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.
2nd Exile Wars
The Sons of Woe are noted for quite a few strange abnormalities in their Gene-Seed, the greatest amongst these being 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. Raven Guard linage is also suspected however, due to the Chapter's tendency towards hit-and-run style attacks and their instinctual knowledge of guerrilla warfare.
In addition to this, 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.
- "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.
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.
Woe Primarus is host to a vast array of deadly predators, from the mighty Dark Forest Bear to the silent Canopy Jahkal, 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.
- "Remember, leave one alive, so that he may tell them what he saw on this day."
- —Scout-Sergeant Claudio prior to the infamous Torchmuches Raid
While some might accuse the Angels of the Hunt of having embraced the primitive culture of their homeworld with too much gusto, most already consider the Sons of Woe a lost cause. Presumably founded in the dark days of the 13th Founding and virtually unknown to the Imperium at large until M35, when they were rediscovered by Rogue Trader Edwin Valentine. The Chapter was immediately placed under intense scrutiny by all branches of the Adeptus Terra for a "reintroduction" period of at least two-hundred years, during which the Chapter's infamy spread like wildfire. For, while they were undoubtedly loyal Astartes, the sheer barbarism of their warrior culture and savagery of their conduct saw them all but marked for immediate termination. It was only the Chapter's remarkable ability to end previously rampant threats and strike terror into the hearts of even the most vile madmen that saw them spared the fires of the purge.
The Sons of Woe hail from the dark and forested world of Woe Primarus, which rests near the northernmost border of Imperial Space within the Exile Sector. It is from this world that the savage Sons of Woe have waged an endless war of xenocide within the black reaches of the northern space since time immemorial. Utilizing swift assaults and ruthless ambushes the Sons of Woe struck utter terror into the hearts of nigh hundreds of Xenos species, to this day their livery being the essence of terror for some surviving alien civilizations that had faced their wrath previously. Some within the Inquisition cite troubling similarities with both the Night Lords and Space Wolves in terms of battlefield decorum and doctrine, though their tactics are more akin to the White Scars or Raven Guard in terms of likely linage.
The Sons of Woe themselves are stoic and aloof, rarely fraternizing with their fellow Astartes save for the mandatory moots of the Justicarium, whose fold they were essentially forced into at gunpoint. (a fact they resent to this very day) However, in spite of their impersonal attitudes and battlefield barbarity, they have come to be valued by their fellow Astartes and select members of the Inquisition for their impressive cunning and resourcefulness, and thus have the respect of the Justicarium if not its outward approval.
- "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.
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, during the Chapters first foray into the infamous Exile Sector. Having heard that the regions infamous warp storm, the River of Exiles, had recently retracted, creating a region of space contested by both the forces of Chaos and the crusading forces of the various Shrine Worlds that bordered the River.
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.
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.
Order of the Charnel House
|Order of the Charnel House|
Order Majoris of Origin
Order of the Sacred Rose
Heavy Weapons, Seige Warfare
Crematoria (Cemetery World)
- "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,