Name: Alexander Atreides Age: 322 Gender: Male Race: Bionically Enhanced Human Height: 5' 11" Weight: 177lbs Appearance: Equipment: Nemesis Daemon Blade: The Daemon bound within the weapon grants the name it carries, known to mortals as Nemesis, and doubles as a cruel parody of the weapons wielded by the Grey Knights. While its origins are lost, as to when and where it was forged and bound (And Nemesis itself does not impart such knowledge), it is clearly an old weapon, older than its current wielder, and an archaeic design. It is a daemon weapon, however, and is bound to the soul of it wielder, channeling the wielders malice and hate into each blow, the more felt for an enemy, the more powerful beyond a daemon weapons normal force each swing shall carry. Corrupted Bolt Pistol: Overexposure to the warp has left this bolt pistol, originally a Guard pattern issued to officers, tainted and corrupt. Each round is coated in empryean flames, causing each round to have the unnecessary effect of causing flames and stubborn fires in addition to each bolt round detonating upon impact. Bound Carapace Armor: Enscrolled with sigils of Chaos Undivided, one would think the aid of the Dark Gods aids this armor, and its wearer, in doing superhuman tasks. They would be mostly wrong, while some blessings have been bestowed upon the armor, it is a forging crafted by the finest Warsmiths one could find, capable of matching Astartes Power Armor blow for blow, while remaining in the appearance of humble carapace. Custom Breaching Charges: Take several dozen krak grenades, meltas bombs, and other, far tamer methods of demolition, and fuse them into one insane, volitile combination of explosives stuffed into one bag. This combination are called CBC's, or Custom Breaching Charges, by the siegemaster and those he leads. Powers: Corrupted Bionics: Iron within, Iron Without! Having undergone over 300 years of warfare, Atreides has been wounded and nearly slain countless times, only to be rebuilt stronger, more powerful, more durable than the last. Being tainted by the warp, the augmatics and flesh have no bounderies between one another, metal fusing with flesh, healing like flesh, but not breaking like weak flesh. Tainted Auspex: Imbedded into his head, and sacrificing an eye, Atreides can swap into many visual modes, from tracking weapons fire and rangefinding, to various spectrums of vision invisible to the unaided eye. Rank Among Chaos: Siegemaster Bio: Men and women captured by the Iron Warriors suffer one of two fates. Slave soldiers, or just slaves. Alexander Atreides does not remember what Imperial holding he was born on, if any, but all he does remember is his induction into the slave soldiers of an Iron Warrior Grand Company. The traitor marines barely noticed the mortal warriors used as cannon fodder and suicide missions, and that was how it always was. But, one raid on a fortified keep changed that. The planet burned, its name lost to the annals of history, and one last bastion of Imperial Might remained. Gathering the remaining slave soldiers, all veterans or blessed by the Dark Gods to survive, they were issued their last task of the invasion. Open the gates, and let the Iron Warriors claim their prize. Atreides had authority over the others, naturally taking over leadership of such scattered men and women, and led them on their invasion. No gods whispered dark promises of power or success to these slaves, nothing was offered to them as Alexander Atreides stormed the keep's grandest hold, while the other slaves died opening the gates to the city. And if only the slave soldier had known his own father was the man leading the defense, and was the man Atreides slew with his own bare hands. Fate had conspired to allow this man to see the dawn of another day, and for good reason. Even with the gates swung open, the small detachment of the Grand Company that sent them were nearly wiped out by the defenders, and it was childs play to bring them low. Atreides was free, reporting back to the Grand Company, alone but successful. He began to make a name for himself, leading countless sieges and raids, each engagement earning another scar, another bionic replacement, another deed done in the dark gods names. But he had little desire to utilize slaves and mercenaries, he had his eyes on far more useful forces, as few Iron Warriors would willingly swear themselves to a former slave soldier. The fall of the 122nd Astrais Legion was a simple, but devious one. Atreides posed as a newly commissioned officer, arriving and quickly filtering out the commissars through 'Unfortunate Enemy Actions'. Instructing the now unpoliced regiment, it was easy to spirit the best of them away for his own personal use, and from those select few found worthy, would aid the Siegemaster in laying claim to both the title, and many victories for the Dark Gods. Aligned: Undivided Retinue: 50 Renegade Grenadiers, 15 Renegade Engineers, 15 Renegade Special Weapon Experts

Approved

Name: Kallax The Divided

Age: 3,231 years old

Gender: Male

Race: Chaos Blessed Human

Height: 17 feet

Weight: 7 tons

Appearance: Kallax's body is...chaotic to say the least, no pun intended. When he ventures into realspace sections of his body take attributes from the four gods of chaos.

Head: Corrupted by Grandfather Nurgle, a large horn pushes through the remnants of his helmet as pus, mucus, and blood leaks from his empty sockets. Occasionally a long, diseased tongue will slither out of a hole where a mouth should be.

Left arm: Bronze armor stained with ash and blood. Fairly normal save for the hand which has grown larger, red, and clawed.

Right Arm: "Enhanced" by the prince of pleasure. The arm ends in a large pincer that, when opened, unleashes a mass of tentacles that dance with electric energy.

Torso: A single large eye in the center of his chest, always darting about wildly until Kallax has something to focus on. His back is dominated by a large pair of wings, always changing from bloody and burning, perfect and feathery, plague ridden and foul, or confusing and bright.

Legs: Powerful and sturdy, ending in taloned feet not unlike the Raptors under his command.

Equipment: Daemon Sword, Daemonic hide.

Powers:
- Right Arm of Kallax: Beyond being a mass of barbed tentacles and a pincher to boot the arm can release a cone of energy that lights the nerves of those in front it alight, causing the most exquisite agony a mortal can feel. The lucky ones die quickly. (Acts as a heavy flamer)

- Eye of Kallax: The great eye in the center of his chest allows Kallax to periodically release either a long range laser, cutting through armor like butter or a shorter range bolt of pure plasma. (Lascannon-meltagun, promise not to abuse)

- Wings: Farily simple, allows Kallax to fly into the heat of battle and land atop his targets.

Rank Among Chaos: Daemon Prince

Bio: Kallax's was never a truly remarkable being, always over looked by people who were slightly better or more capable. However what most people never thought was that the dog they never paid attention to would have the biggest bite. It all started with one system, four hive worlds and an industrial planet. It was here,the Chelladren system, he would gain ascension.

Now take in mind that this isn't the first time Kallax had conquered a planet, this would just be the first he attempted something on this scale. Kallax started by implanting four cells of cultists in each planet, one for each god of chaos. In unison they began to stoke the flames of hatred, hedonism, disease, and trickery in all of the hive worlds until eventually each fell to chaos. The people who resisted were exterminated if they were lucky, the unlucky ones were used as sacrifices or for the whims of Slaaneshi cultists. Inevitably however, the fun had to end and the Inquisition came.

Unfortunately it was help that came far too late, while the hive words fell to chaos Kallax himself had been creating shrines along the fifth planet and turned it into a great conduit. In one moment 500 psykers were sacrificed upon the very alters they created, causing a great psykic backlash that rippled throughout the system and activating the shrines purpose of tearing the very souls out of the inhabitants bodies. Kallax dedicated the whole ordeal to Chaos itself, in the process gaining ascension. The last the Inquisition saw of the Challedran system was it being pulled into the warp.

Aligned: Undivided

Retinue: 5 obliterators, 18 Slaaneshi Warp Talons, 16 Khornate Berserkers, 12 Plague Marines, 12 Noise Marines, 4 Chaos Sorcerers, 250 Undivided Marines, 4,000 Chaos Cultists divided equally between the 4 Gods.

@[pathfinder] so far It's interesting. I have never heard of blackened lungs, but I will research ok it. Though I will say that his history will need to detail how he gained these gifts and armors we weapons etc.

Oh snap, you won't find nothing on blackened lungs as its something I made up. I'll get rid of it if that's a problem.

Name: Major Varl Age: 75 Gender: Male Race: Human Height: 5'11” Weight: 180lbs Appearance: (Images (no anime) or written. Written needs to be AT LEAST two hundred words. ) Equipment: Varl himself wears the same uniform from his days in the Imperial guard. Instead of the simple black trenchcoat like his men he dresses more akin to a regimental commisar. Thick black leather coat with a deep crimson trim around the cuffs, collar and all hems and edges to give him a suitably sinister appearance. Even a peaked officers cap with the sam crimson trim on the brim but instead of an aquila he has the symbol of his prized regiment. Some extra bulk is added to his frame because of the masterwork, reinforced carapiece suit worn underneath this coat afford him a great degree of protection and mobility. In lieu of the usual 'one eyed' helmet worn by his men he usually wears a blank faceless mask. This mask is strong, durable and armoured enough to absorb aside a las-pistol blast with nothing more than a scorch mark. Which only serves to make the faceless and expressionless mask look as if it is sneering in rage in response to such an offence. He is also known to wear a variety of other masks. All faceless and all reinforced but with various designs. Some simply different colours and others depict snarling deamonic and beastial maws and faces. Others still can have strangely beautiful or terrible scenes and images engraved on them/ Some simple, others mind boggling in their purpose and why such a man know for his ruthlessness would bother with. And others of breathtaking detail in honour of worthy enemies, fierce battles and accolades won by him men and command. Almost as if this is his incredibly odd collection. He will never show his face publicly if possible and none of his men speak of his decision or answer any questions about his appearance to outsiders. For melee weapons he wields a curious piece. Much like lightning claws commonly seen on the wrists of champions of both chaos and the Imperium Varl's gauntlet. Each finger is taloned in exquisitly wrought and engraved metal. With a smaller blade on each knuckle to make the piece seem even more deadly and odd. The actual glove part that fits snugly over his arm is made of the leathered hide of a chaos fury. The same fury who's essence and soul live in the very blade. The kind of work that would only be found or attempted within the broken reality of the warp. Though these finger tips are deadly in their own right they themeselves are not the chief danger of the weapon. Five blades make up the claw. Each one long, wide faced and stiletto thin. They curve wickedly to extract the most pain and spill the most blood of it's victim. The outer most edges of four such blades are razor sharp and seem to keep an unearthly strong edge to themselves. Despite the thinness of the blades they puncture armour with laughable ease and can parry the blows of power weapons and other artifacts. The inner edges are serrated and barbed to cause the most pain and hemoragging possible as they are pulled out of the victims body. The outer edges of these blades are also visable (and touchable) all down the back hand and wrist of the wearer. The two center blades are the longest, straightest and most deadly while the two on the outer edges are shorter, more curved and talon shaped and also extend on slight obtuse angles. The fifth blade is far more unique and less less of a blade and more of a thin metal spike that at first glances serves no purpose or function other than to inconvenience it's wearer. This is partly true as this spike actually is meant ot pierce into the users fore-arm as they wield it. Letting the real strength and fury of the deamon trapped within lend itself to it's master. This can and has easily overwhelmed some people and turned them into mindless savages void of anything more complex than the most base primal instincts and needs. Much like the nature of Furies themselves. But also like furies to one who is strong of mind or maybe just dam stubborn enough they can hold back and stem the overwhelming tide of rage and influence from the deamon, for a time at least. And those with truly driven and disciplined minds like varl. Or maybe even just those the gods feel like gifting can find themselves usurping the daemon. To overpower it instead and tame it for his will. Only taking and allowing what power he wants it to. And a fact known only to it's owner or to the odd man fortunate or mis fortunate enough to be close to the weapon to inspect it would notice that these blades, Esepcially the fifth backward facing one almost seem to retract and extend at times. Varl can certainly feel it burrow deeper into his forarm when he calls upon the strength of the daemon and those who get stabbed can almost feel the blades themselves curve just that much more like fingers tightening on their prize. For ranged warfare he prefers his tried and trusted laspistol. It has been with him his entire career and it;s rugged reliability and versatility saved his hide far more times than he hs cared to admit. Even though he could have long since passed it up for a fanicer hell pistol or hotshot variant or even a bolt pistol he does not want to abandon something that has served him so well in his life. And the machine spirit within it, despite everything the Imperium taught him did not cease to function or boject to his new 'career choice'. If anything it seems to serve him with even more vigor and zeal nearly fifty years later. Laspistol - http://www3.telus.net/ignusdei/funnies/Laspistol.jpg Mask - http://fc08.deviantart.net/fs20/f/2007/262/4/2/Virindi_Mask_by_Jin_Saotome.jpg Fingers of his gauntlet - http://www.swordsswords.com/ProductImages/s/IRON_REAVER_BLADE_MC1026-2.jpg Regimental decal - http://img3.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20140114021643/starcraft/images/c/c4/Mercenary_SC2-HotS_Decal1.jpg Powers: Disciplined mind- Whether by training, Imperial indoctrination, birth or what have you. Varl has an incredibly stubborn and strong mind which helps his resist many things that would render most mortal men gibbering and broken mentally. From the Constant barrage of deamonic influences that is a life serving chaos to the direct mental and phsycial link he possesses with the deamon in his blade to simply resisting unwanted psykic intrusions he is able trough sheer stubborn tenacity and disciplined will to wall off his mind. Instead of simply pushing back on an invading presence like most would he focuses on defending against it. Playing out the invasion of his mind as just another battle field to manipulate. Moves and counter moves that happen smoothly and in the blink of an eye that has left more than one sorcerer and would be invader quickly routed and pushed back before they realized what was happening. His mental fortitude is equivilant to that of the most stubborn of army chaplains and even rivalling the level of an astartes. Commanding presence/Booming voice- helping to keep with his personal beliefs and standards for his men and their performance Varl has what can best be described as a commanding personality. Which only seems to have been amplified beyond the norm since his turn to chaos. The gods gifting him with several things one of which is a deep booming voice that drips with authority and power. The kind of voice that demands obedience and always receives. Between the added supernatural weight to his presence and the almost irresistable nature of his tone and commands that have compelled even enemies at times to obey his orders almost as if on reaction. Though weak minded individuals are often needed for this. Some civilians or guardsman have actually opened fire and attacked their fellows after Varl roared a charge and before they realized what was happening had their comrades blood flowing over their hands and the commisars bolt pistol blowing out their brains. Overall he has just a being of incredible confidence and authority. Which could very well explain some of the fervent and unquestioning loyatly of the men he commands. Loyalty – not so much a power but the unshakable and unflinching loyalty and obedience of his men is definatly a boon. They seem withdrawn to others. Unlike most cultists will keep to themselves, not inteact, are not prone to outbursts of emotion or violence. And will carry out their orders to the letter and without fail or die in the attempt. Any questions about their leaders and tactics or even state of readiness is met with stony silence and they are not unknown to kill those who persist in such lines of questioning. They are fervent enough to the point where they will gladly and immediatly carry out any assignment or mission Varl commands them to regardless of how one sided the odds may be. Even assignments that have been doomed to be one sided trips have been accepted with a nod and salute and most importantly. No regrets or hesitation. While they are fiercly loyal to all of their officers and their unit as a whole they have a reverence and deciation to Varl such that if he were to simply hand one a blade and order him to die they would probably do so. Rank Among Chaos: 'Champion' leader of what would probably be called a minor warband. Bio: Varl Started his career as all renegades do. In the service of the Emperor. As an officer of the 903rd Cornithian infantry regiment. Nicknamed the Marauders for their agressive and effective tactics. A proud regiment with a proud tradition of service stretching back centuries. Being selected from the imperial academy to serve within it;s ranks was an honour. It was easily one of the more desirable posts amongst the young and aspiring generals to be as all officers are at that age. Plenty of combat, bloodshed, glory and honour and all of that. And he got exactly what he wanted. It was everything an aspiring glory hound could want. And he can still recall how his breast swelled with pride each time a new battle honour was sewn into the regimental standard. And the satisfaction he received from putting down the enemies of the emperor. Their disguting mutated hides and pathetic lives being put to the sword. As he got older and his promotions came through and he was moved up the chain of command his mood and demeanour changed. Not uncommon in the army to have youthful arrogance and pride replaced by reality. Eager men became grizzled and determined and so forth. And while his mood changed he did still relish the fight. Just in a different way. The glee of a simple kill was repalced by the immense pride and satisfaction of outmaneuvring ones opponents. Crushing them completely and utterly under ones heel with iron discipline and tactics. And that same satisfaction came from any foe whether it be heretic, xeno, or just rebellious citizens. Over time and as his career dragged on victory alone started to mean more than victory for the emperor. He still identified as loyal to the Imperium as any man would. But his faith was placed more in his comrades and men under his command. Than the hope of theological assistance that experience taught him would almsot never come. That and the imperium's uncaring and inability at times to provide the support and proper supplies needed for a regiment to survive. With lesser regiments he might understand their low priority. But the Marauders were anything but a trivial batch of whitesheilds. They were hardened men. And effective fighting force many times over. But the Imperium didn't give a shit. It never did and he supposed he knew all along it never really would. This theory was proven without a doubt as his regiment was deployed into a literal meatgrinder of a warzone. The archenemy was entrenched deep into it;s soil and was putting up a damed good defence of it too. For weeks they held a strategically worthless position with minimal support and almost no word from command. They lost hundreds of their men during those weeks only to be told their deployment there was the resault of some generals mistake in the war room. The entire venture was pointless and a waste of lives and resources. And without so much as a day to catch their breath they were marching forward yet again. The rest of the campaign on that world farred little better. And Varl noticed changes in some of the men. Open wounds became infected more easily and with things far more horrifying than simple gangrene. Men muttering to themselves or to no one in particular. Small things that gave the comissars a field day. There were days when more were executed on suspicion of mutation and corruption than were actually killed off by injury or enemy harassment. It was during these invasions that he came across the mask he has now become known for wearing. People who see him wearing it may like to think it had some deep story behind it's discovery. That it was forged in the warp or that his face was so disfigured and scarred from some previous battle that he takes to wearing it out of anguish and shame to hide his disfigurement. And Varl does not actively try to dispell or spread any such rumors about his refusal to show his face. Mostly because he doesn't actually care what people think. He knows that some of those rumors only serve to cement and inflate his budding reputation. Some may think there is power in the mask that gives him such command over his men. Assassination and teft attempts have been made for it in the past. Even his subordinate officers have at times fallen to such thoughts and actions only to be executed shortly into their plans. In truth he wears it for a far more personal and sober reason. He origionally found the mask during some cleaning out of the enemy. Even today he could not remember the exact location or building where he found the peice have buried in soil and ash. He more saw it as a curiosity. And at the time he wasn;t willing to say outloud whether or not it was an Imperial possession or one created by the chaos horde. And even today it is a detail he is not entirely certain about. But he for wahtever reason was loathe to part with it. He found himself starring at it more and more as the war dragged on. Not out of admiration for craftsmanship or aesetitically pleasing style. More because he found himself relating to it for and more every day. Every day that war dragged on and the incompotence that was the imperial command continued throwing men at worthless or far to strong positions the more he started to feel faceless. Like he was just a faceless cypher of war. And that even a proud and loyal man like him, in a proud and loyal regiment with centuries of honourable service could just the thrown aside and beaten down and forgotton at the stroke of a pen. He even took to wearing the piece as a form of silent protest that his men surprisingly didn;t question and even seemed to understand. But it wasn't until much later during the final crack downs on the few enemy strongholds left (a process that took some years to reach) that Varl was truly pushed over the edge. After years of fighting on that blighted little shit of a planet Varl was fast becoming fed up with the Imperial method. The superior ranks were staggeringly incompotent. A victory that taken years should only have taken one at most with a proper strategist at the helm. The supply lines were a mess, reinforcements almost never came which only put extra stress on the regiments involved as they barely were able to make proper front line rotations. But his turn to chaos was oddly enough not the resault of chaos deamons whispering into his ear promising power and glory but really is was the final blow to his pride that really pushed him to turn his back on the Imperium. Before the final assaults, there was a lull. One welcomed by many to re-organize and re-equipp for the bloody battle that was sure to follow in the coming days. The army underwent a customary period of reconstruction as well. Those regiments that were due reinforcements received them. And others that were battered and bloody and little more than a few companies were organized into temporary 'detachment' regiments. A common enough practice to combine many small forces into a single larger unit until their own reinforcements arrived. A more uncommon practice is to wipe some regiments entirely and merge them with other nearly full strength regiments to buff their numbers. That was supposed to be the scheduled fate of the vaunted Marauders. To be simply wiped from the annels of history, their banners sent back to the homeworld in shame and their deeds only to be remembered by memory. And why? Because the esteemed generals in charge of the bum fuck that was this invasion wanted the spotlight of the victory to go to the regiments of their world. And the easiest way to give that spotlight and ensure they had the men and means to do this was by merging regiments. Most regiments went meekly enough but the remnants of the marauders were enraged. By this point nearly all of the command staff save Varl himself were already dead which left him defacto in charge of the regiment. And he fought this injustice tooth and nail to the point of insubordination. This wasn;t a spit in the face to him as an imperial but to him as a soldier. To his unit that he grew to rely and appreciate more than the imperium itself. It was then he heard the small voices in his head telling him to wait and bide his time. That he would have a chance to strike out against this injustice and ensure his men and their name would live on. His first loyatly was to regiment and it;s pride. And when the arch-enemy launched their sudden counter attack. Backed by a massive incoming fleet that dropped right out of warp to surprise and catch the agressor imperial army off guard Varl rallied what men of his that shared his sense of loyatly to themselves and their unit and killed those who resisted. In short he defected. Not because of riches or power but because of pride and honour. And that thought of losing all of that, not at the end of a sword as would be an easier fate for a proud soldier to swallow but neutered by the pen and politics. was too grevious of an insult to bear. When the arch-enemies surprise counter attack was launched Varl took advantage of the confusion. A massive fleet appeared in orbit and took the navy off guard and a sudden surge of reinforcements, some of which daemonic through weeks of careful planning into dissarray. Rounding what loyal men he had he cut his way out of both the Imperial and heretic lines. To him the most important thing ws keeping his regiment.... his name alive. The Marauders would live on and continue to earn their battle honours with or without the imperium at their backs. Still more to be written. Aligned: unaligned Retinue: ~500 soldiers, Split into two main companies of two hundred and a third that maintains it;s support weapons/vehicles and other axuleries. As well as houses the platoons Grenadier elite under his direct command. Their supply of Light carapiece armour they can afford/scrounge are meticulously kept and used to arm the 50+ storm trooper elites. Any hellguns the company has also go to these men. Making sure at least all fire teams see at least one such weapon. Grenade launchers are also common support weapons in these fireteams. The auxilaries would be whatever servitors, mechanically minded laymen, hereteks, Even a sorcerer or two that they can afford and/or enslave to their cause. Most troopers are armed with basics that any imperial gaurdsman would see. Flak vest, helmet, uniform. Though the marauders are unique in marching into battle in trenchcoats and a helm designed by the major and special crafted at his request from what forges they could afford. These helms are a much a symbol to pick out one another as they are to their enemies. Faceless and simple, devoid of carvings and personal touches one would normally find in military units. So that each looks as cold and impersonal and identical as the man beside them. Standard issue and quality lasguns and carbines, A handful of grenades a piece. A long las or grenade launcher per squad if possible. Most heavy weapons are simple and reliable pieces. Nothing that is too complex and would need a an arch-heretek to fix. As well as being relatively cheap to purchase, maintain and supply with munitions. Mostly heavy stubbers.

@pathfinder No it's fine... As long as you don't over do it. Kay?

Name: Lord Ligarius, the Diseased. Age: 600 Gender: Male Race: Chaos Space Marine Height:7’2”(12’6” in armor Weight: 365 (3000 in armor) Appearance: Equipment: Terminator Armor,Power Maul blessed by Nurgle to constantly ooze pus and rust armour that it hits, stab the butt of it into flesh or the soil and corruption follows. Powers: Blessing of Nurgle: As a Plague Lord, Ravager is immune to pain and disease, and is arguably one of the toughest beings to kill, not counting his legions of Plague brothers.. He can spread his diseases through his pus and blood Nurgle’s Rot: A fog of disease that follows the wielder around. Disturbing Voice and Intimidation Rank Among Chaos: Plague Lord Bio: A former Space Marine, and former follower of the chapter of the Death Spectres, he was a skilled melee warrior priding himself on his sheer strength. Unfortunately, his strength failed him one day, as he and his men were overcome on a mission gone horribly, horribly wrong. As his men around him died, and he himself was mortally wounded. At first, he felt as if he was dying, and indeed he was-his injuries had gone septic, and his life was now agonizing pain. In this time of pain, he was visited by dreams and whispers of a Great Unclean One, persuading him to give his soul to Grandfather Nurgle. For a day and a half, his world was nothing but pain and disease and dreams and whispers, until finally, he gave his soul, and in return, his soul was branded with allegiance to Nurgle. Now a Plague Marine, and aspiring champion, he worked towards gaining Terminator armor, so as better to suit his newfound purpose spreading the entropy and decay that Nurgle bestows upon and blesses humanity with. However, obtaining this armor within the treacherous territory would not be easy, even if he was now a dedicated servant of the Plague Lord, immune to pain. As it stood, however, he needed to find a set. Yet there were still more obstacles in his way; he and his former crew-now just a handful of Plague Marines-still had to find their way off world, and so they set out, travelling to the nearest inhabited city, infecting it in a matter of days before killing any remaining resistance and taking a ship in search of Terminator armor. This did not take long, as the voice of the Great Unclean One led him across the vast, endless sea of space , through dozens of enemies, to a warband led by a Champion decked in Terminator Armor. The battle was fierce, and lasted longer than he expected it to, but in the end, as all things do, his enemy died;the cause was by his hands; regrettably the armor was damaged by the prolonged conflict, yet, after days of fighting, he won,and the armor was his. This was not a surprise as he heeded his master; thus, good things were bound to follow. Yet now, even as he was heavily armored. The weapons he had used up to this point served his purpose of spreading the corruption and rot of Grandfather Nurgle, but no longer. Now, he heeded the words of the Daemon once again, and sought out a Plague Mace, once used by a Champion of Nurgle, now lost in a desert world. Once again, he listened and was rewarded, forcing his own men to search or die. They, however, were not as loyal to Nurgle and thus they died, as all things do, forcing him to not only find it himself, but bring the warband of a nearby cult of Nurgle under heel. For fifty years, he and his men wandered the desert, until finally they found the mace, hidden within the ruins of a starship. Finally having his Mace, he thought that the Lord of Decay would leave him to his own ambitions, but it seems the Grandfather has other ideas…. Aligned: Nurgle Retinue: 20 Plague Marines of lesser ability, 40 Plaguebearers, and 6000 cultists

(ere it is. Thought about doing his bio in orky speak but then that would of been unnecessary.) Name:Skumdog Gutgut Age:36 Gender:Male Race:Ork Height:13'5 (13 feet, 5 inches) Weight:350 lbs Appearance: Equipment: Big Choppa (Axe shaped), Karapace armor some of the plates having been bolted onto his chest. Powers: Deh Biggest Orky: Skumdog is the biggest ork in the group, making him the warboss and the leader of the ork khorne boyz. Leading through fear and sheer brutality along with with their devotion to Khorne. Rank Among Chaos: Ork Khorne Boy. Bio: Skumdog was a wildboy an ork who split off from his tribe craving something else. For him it was adventure and having a lust to explore the likes of which most orks will never know, eventually Skumdog returned to his tribe to sit down and be "Orky" and learn about Ork Kulture. This led him and his tribe into attacking the human settlement nearby and burning it to the ground. From there they took out all human life on the planet, each fight pushed the Ork and he grew, and the more he fought the more a voice seemed to reach out to him. A voice telling him to kill, burn, and pillage, at first he thought it was Gork himself telling him to do these things but the voice seemed to pull at him pull him towards the eye of terror. Eventually the planet fell to the orks and they spread over the surface of the planet like a disease, during this time Skumdog had grown to Nob status and was leading a group of orks of his own. Eventually the call of the waaagh drew them off their planet, and into the their system at large led by the Warboss Rotlug they pillaged across their system, arming themselves into a proper waagh and then the voice came to Skumdog again, this time i was stronger and it told him to kill Rotlug and take his place as the warboss, most orks wouldn't listen or care for all that matter but this voice seemed to be speaking Skumdog's language of violence so he listened to it, he killed Rotlug and took command of the Waaagh! listening to the voice in his head and attached him and his waaagh to a space junk heading into the eye of terror. Things didn't work out for the Waagh, many left due to the lack of fighting. Others tried and failed to challenge Skumdog for leadership. Those who remained as they entered the eye of terror were few and far between, but they were among the most loyal to Skumdog. When they entered the eye of terror, they were subjected to Khorne who chose to manipulate them and use the orks to further his purpose of shedding blood. He possesed them, spoke to them and eventually they became his soldiers. Khorne became their Gork and Mork, and Skumdog became his "Prophet" for the Orks, up until now though they've remained in the eye waiting to be unleashed, Khorne's dogs to loose when needed. And this crusade has given him the perfect opportunity to unleash them. They will come screaming out of the warp, collecting the skulls of enemies to please their new leader. Aligned:Khorne Retinue: 120 Slugga boyz, 6 doks, 45 Wildboyz (now even more feral due to Khorne's influence.), 6 slaverz, 65 shootah boyz (25 of them are rokkit boyz), 25 stormboyz, 45 squighounds, and 15 nobz (who all are armed with either, dual choppas or one giant choppa. They are also Skumdogs honor guard.)

Name: Captain Axe Age: 950 Gender: Male Race: Space Marine - Khornate Berzerker Height: 6'7 Weight: 250 Appearance: Equipment: 2 Chain Axes Powers: (Explain what they do in RP do not be to overpowered though. ) Rank Among Chaos: Champion Bio: Blood shed, It was all Axe had known for centuries. He couldn't recall anything from before the experiment called later Butcher's Nails. He became a killing machine. His intensity and ferocity was unmatched on the battlefield. His preferred weapons were a pair of chain axes that cut through most armor types nicely. Over the years he honed his skills and rage into a weapon itself, most of the Butchers he fought beside would lose control and just kill everything around, including fellow squad mates at times. Axe was different, he learned to have a small semblance of control over his rage, which earned him the rank of captain. He led his butchers through many battles learning more with each victory and defeat. Captain Axe began to desire blood shed more and more but this was different than the usual rage. He found himself delighting in removing heads from his opponents. When he slept it was all he dreamed about, when he was awake it was all he imagined. The desire grew and grew until Khorne appeared in a dream and told him he was chosen to join the hordes of Chaos. After that dream and the betrayal Axe quickly earned his position as a champion of Khorne, taking pride in shedding blood and retrieving skulls for his god's throne. Axe was one of the few berserkers that wore no armor, he didn't like the way it slowed him down in battle. When it came to a fight he wanted to be the first one in and last one out. His choice has led him into some difficult situations especially against long range weapons. To make up for this weakness in battle he has acquired a group of rampagers with jump packs to "jump" into the fray while he and his berserkers cut their own way in. Aligned: Khorne Retinue: 50 Berserkers 200 Chaos Marines 30 Rampagers

Name: Ro'lithe Slaavex Age: 103 Gender: Hermaphrodite Race: Human Height: 6'1 Weight: 110 Appearance: Equipment: Force Staff, Ro' wears gold plated armor over her breasts and a gold colored thong of sorts to cover his male and female genitalia, her two horns are gold armored as well as her spiney tail, knee high gold colored boots accompanied by elbow length gold armored gloves complete his attire. Powers: Doombolt- Bolts made of raw chaos energy are launched by the sorcerer against his enemies. Warptime- The sorcerer alters the flow of time around himself, allowing for attacks with supernatural precision. Wind of Chaos- The sorcerer calls forth the corruption from within his soul, unleashing a golden cloud of rapturous agony or a rain of hypnotic light. Pavane of Slaanesh- The Psyker utters the forbidden dances of Slaanesh, forcing his opponents to jerk and spasm until their bones break. Sensory Overload- The Psyker overloads the nervous and sensory systems of their enemies. Siren- The sorcerer assumes the form of someone to whom the enemy, out of love or admiration, would never cause harm. Beam of Slaanesh- The sorcerer unleashes a ray of rainbow colours that confuses and disorients the enemy. Touch of Slaanesh- A delicate caress by the sorcerer renders his enemies insensible and unable to defend themselves. She Who Thirsts- Having dealt a mortal blow to his enemy, the sorcerer rips out their very soul, causing fear in those around the unfortunate being. Teleportation- Allows the sorcerer to teleport short distances. Rank Among Chaos: Chaos Lord Bio: Ro'lithe is from the twin moon Slaadux, the larger of the two moons that orbit the gas planet Disktrit, whereas Disktrit is uninhabitable both its moons are considered paradise, Slaadux is a sandy satellite with warm blue coastal waters and purple trees. Slaadux is large in comparison to its twin Razaleft but both moons are incredibly small compared to the planet they orbit. Slaadux is inhabited by a large population of humans who look to Slaanesh as their god, they are best known for their sexual nature and are leaders in the gas trade. Ro'lithe discovered her Psyker abilities and heavily endulged herself in the carnal nature of her powers, killing a large portion of the planet and its inhabitants, what was left of the Slaanesh followers quickly allied themselves with her and worshiped her for nearness to the god they so loved. Her and her followers began corrupting the twin moon Razaleft and its few human occupants. Ro'lithe received attention from Slaanesh as he blessed her with a second gender, horns and a tale, moving her followers into an even deeper state of cultish carnage, Ro' releashed the Warp once more across her planet and its neighbor causing another wave of death and destruction and spurring the remainder of the population into a cultish frenzy, Ro' continued to build their loyalty until he was called to the crusade. Aligned: Slaanesh Retinue: Ro's cultist numbers on both twin moons center around four thousand, they were able to find and recruit five hundred psykers. The moons have