The Night lords were never pious, their faith laid in their weapons, and the pleasure of the kill. Since their betrayal they have haunted the Imperium, bringing death and fear to the servants of the false Emperor, but not because of the Dictates of any god... until the whispers began. Some of their number began to hear them, like claws scratching at a chalk board, the doubt in their minds screaming, as if the gods themselves were trying to tear them apart. Then, like a blessing, Arabar found them. The Dark Apostle found those Night Lord's who had heard the calling, those that had been found worthy, and he stoked the coals. In secret he preached to them, behind the backs of the unenlightened fools who made up the rest of the legion, he taught them the ways of the Dark Gods, of the power of Daemons. They became his flock, his hidden chosen apostles within the Night lords, and with his charisma he drove them further than ever before. From their own legion Gene seed was stolen, weapons and armor and other equipment. He told them of their pilgrimage, and that these things would be needed for the converted to succeed, for the whispers he said, were more than aging insanity, no, they were the calls, the beckoning of an ancient power, and that it would be them, his enlightened flock that would unleash it. With that, a new warband was formed, a pious group of traitors, on a mission from the gods. It was then, that the Calling, was born.

As the Dark Gods call... Who will answer?

Greetings, fellow traitors, I am your GM, as well as the Apostle Arabar, who has set us on this path. This RP takes place in, you guessed it, WH40K. As for the exact time? Around 675 M.38, and it is a story of faith, betrayal, power and death.
We are all of us chaos space marines, specifically most of us are former night lords, all but the Dark Apostle Arabar, but you have all found faith in the gods of chaos, and each of you found it the same way. As stated above at some point in your careers of murder and entropy, a whisper entered your thoughts, and refused to leave. And it only grew, louder and more constant, like a nail being driven into your skull. Then, on some battlefield, on some world, Arabar came to you, almost as if he simply appeared out of thin air. His mere presence seemed to soothe the voices, the whispers quieted as he spoke, and you could finally focus again.

Perhaps when he first told you of your destiny you scoffed, your skeptic mind and infidel soul refusing to believe the pious fool, but it was undeniable that it was he who could stop the whispers, and as soon as he left, they returned, just as terrible as before. So, you sought Arabar out, and eventually, you truly listened, and his words worked like magic, silencing the terrible droning voices, soothing your tired, sleepless mind, and he made sense. So now, you follow him, perhaps out of a genuine renewal or birth of faith in the gods, or perhaps simply because he soothes the voices... for now. And now, his flock numbers nearly a full company of converted Night Lords (about 100 marines).

So what makes you special? Simple, for you the voices were longer, louder, and more intense, and Arabar somehow knew it, he singled you out, and made you one of his chosen Apostles (imagine really evil Jesus and the Apostles... sorry of you find that analogy offensive) made you one of his inner circle.

In this RP you can be virtually any kind of Chaos space marine, a possessed, a chosen, a sorcerer or virtually anything else excluding Warlords, Daemon princess and other Dark Apostles. Remember, you were until very recently skeptical and impious night lords, so while I won't stop you from being a berserker, plague marine or noise marine, I hope you have a good Backstory (And you will have time to become one of those, this will be a long RP.)

Just a little bit more info, the pilgrimage is not a general one simply meant to inspire faith, you wish to know what the whispers are from, and if Arabar knows he has not told you, but insists answers can be found in the eye of terror.
To that end, only one last thing is needed to begin the pilgrimage, a ship. To this end, we will start the RP by stealing a Night lords battle barge, and making our escape to the eye.



Warband name: The Black Hands

Post your characters in the OOC first foR approval

If you want to be a Co gm please pm me!

My character is an example for those who wish to make a traitor marine

Background and information on the night lords, your former comrades

Interested, will get a character up soonish.

Name: Quel Dunrene

Age: 6,7112

Appearance:

Quel's power pack has been exchanged for one with four daemon influenced servo-arms akin to those in the picture above.

Without Armour:

Quel's body has the aged marks mutations and alterations from the warp, with sections of skin on his body appearing 'twisted'. Out of his armour his bulky frame stands at nearly 7 foot tall.

Marine type: Warpsmith

Devotion: Nurgle

Bio: Rumoured to once have been a bloodied victor in The Battle of The Fang on Fenris Quel eventually fell into chaos and became an obsessive man who punished anyone who'd modify the machines he worked on, Quel's obsession in cultivating and growing the twisted machines he tended to went as far as to even compel the marine to charge head long into the battle next to vehicles designed to take the full assault of the front lines. In truth the voices that whispered to him endlessly had nearly driven him beyond mad fuelling his deranged decisions in battle, the only thing that bought him a modicum of peace was the purr of the twisted daemon engines be tirelessly worked on.

That was of course until Arabar came along. The mere presence of the charismatic preacher had resonated a peace within Quel's mind that he does not remember ever experiencing, however, the mere presence of the man was not enough to pull Quel from the birth den of machinery he had stood vigil and guardian over for so long. It was not until Arabar made mention of the visions, the imagery of an organic, decaying paradise that inspired Quel with visions of a putrid, decaying dominance over technology, vision that became the very driving force of his obsession. The Garden of Nurgle Arabar called it, it was then that Quel decided to not only pledge himself to Arabar's legion, but also to Nurgle's pestilence.

Personality: Obsessive and dominant in regards to technology, Quel becomes most enraged in the battle field when encountering enemy vehicles, the very idea that technology would attempt to force it's will on him, especially technology untainted by the warp, so something he cannot stand. However, he has recently calmed in many areas of his life since his continued exposure to Arabar, though this has not entirely diminished his obsessive personality, he continues to regard most technology he works on as his own though he no longer lashes out when it is modified nor does he blindly follow war machines he's worked on into battle.

Personal skills: With his bionic left eye and skill as a former Techmarine give Quel an upper hand when repairing, diagnosing and modifying machinery. Additionally Quel has a lot of experience also taking apart and destroying machinery, being quite skilled with his meltagun at targeting vital locations on vehicles and machines.

Gear:-

Mk 6 Corvus Armour (Power Armour)
Tainted Servo-Arm Backpack
Meltagun
Power Fist
Bionic Eye (x1 - Left Eye, Bionic Senses)
Powercells (Meltagun ammunition)

Name: Sorthraal

Age: 7,746 by virtue of the Warp, 344 according to his suit's chronometer.

Appearance:

Born on Nostramo, Sorthraal was conceived with the characteristic wan, alabaster complexion and black sclera of the people of that long dead world, and these traits were exacerbated upon his induction to the VIII Legion. Even now, three centuries and a half old, he still stands true -- at least, in a physical sense -- as a living legacy of the Night Haunter, with thick blue veins snaking across his almost transparent white skin, made taut by the slabs of powerful muscle that they draped. Shaven, his head is bald, and crisscrossed by cobwebs of thick, ugly scars, devolving in form as they traveled from the nape of his neck all the way to his face, where they are the most concentrated. Each of these furrows into his tough, leathery skin told a story of its own: the gladius of an Imperial Fist on board the Dymphna's Damnation, shrapnel from a young Ultramarine's bolter, and, most noticeable, the patch of ugly, dried meat that was the work of a Blood Angel flamer on Terra itself. A veteran warrior, more marks all over his body told tales of war, but these are more irregular and less varied than on his visage.

His armor is varied in its components: his torso and pauldrons, Mark VI; his gauntlets, Mark V; his left leg is VI while his other is IV. His helm and backpack are the newest pieces, being of the VII variant, prised from a fallen Emperor's Spear who died begging for mercy. Having undergone so many repairs and replacements, Sorthraal's suit would have looked quite at home in the latest fashion galleries of Imperial nobility had he not repainted its recent components. So many Chapters and Warbands. But he is a Night Lord, and as such, the ceramite is midnight blue, edged and trimmed with obsidian black, with little decoration save for the defiled Imperial aquila at the chest piece that had been desecrated by intentionally unrepaired battle-damage.

His armor does not aggrandize its wearer, as told by the fact that the telltale arrowhead symbol which betrayed to others of his battlefield role still exists on his right pauldron.

Marine Type: Tactical Marine

Devotion:

Yet to Devote.

Biography:

He ignored it at first.

Then it came to chew upon his sanity.

Sorthraal leaned back, as far as the whining servos of his suit would allow, and, at the speed of sound, drove his armored head straight into the granite. The blow was powerful, cracking the rock and pulverizing much of the impact point to dust, which spread over his vox-grille and ruby eye lenses. Steadying himself with his hands on the stone monolith, he leaned back and repeated the motion with the same brutality. Again, and again, and again. The thunderclaps split the air.

The thumps could be heard for kilometers. Far away, a grazing herd of fauna tilted their ears at the direction. The feline predator took advantage of the distraction, and pounced at one of the babes. Sorthraal didn't know of this, of course. Sorthraal, even if he did, wouldn't have cared. Because at that point in time, he was almost unable to think.

"SHUT. UP," was his demand. "SHUT. UP," was his mantra, uttered in rhythm with every headbutt. "WHY WILL YOU NOT," thump, "SHUT UP?"

They spat a steady, incomprehensible litany at him, in tongues that he couldn't understand, and ones that he surely had no intention of learning. Amongst the thick veil of almost-static, with the way they screamed at him, he could detect a glimmer of laughter, a hint of a tone of wry amusement. They were mocking him, perhaps at his great and undeniable discomfort. Perhaps at something else. Either way, it was almost unbearable.

He had drilled into the rock so much that the structure was actually beginning to give way. Chunks of stone clattered against his helm, and the tower was grinding in protest even as he reared his head back for another go. It was working, yes, it was working! The voices were receding, the maddening whispers were going away. He was beating them out of his system, and he cared little for the flashing warning runes that bathed his retinal display in an incessant light show of crimson. The insanity was giving way to clarity. Clarity of thought, clarity of mind, and clarity of sense.

Then, he heard footsteps.

Sorthraal turned around, all his several tonnes of power-armored form. Servos roared in surprise as with swiftness unbecoming of his bulk he pulled his bolter away from his thigh's magnetic clamp. In but a heartbeat, the wide-muzzled Godwyn was already at the target. But the machine spirit inside of it, though simple, noted something strange: it was lowered a millimeter.

"You again," Sorthraal hissed, his voice coarse with five hours' worth of yelling. The visitor was both welcome and unwelcome. His trigger finger itched both ways.

Arabar merely smiled. And warmly, too, as he stepped over the bisected remains of an Eldar warlock. And stepped some more, each footfall bringing him closer to Sorthraal, bringing Sorthraal closer to calmness. The Dark Apostle did not need to speak to convey his message.

"Fine," said the Night Lord, lowering his weapon, though not the venom in his voice. "You have made your point. I will follow you, Apostle."

Personality:

With respect to the GM, this player would rather develop his personality as the RP goes, rather than write it here.

Personal skills:

In Midnight Clad: Sorthraal is a Night Lord, and as such, is adept in terror warfare. Taking a special pleasure in inflicting fear, he uses it like a disease and a poison amongst his foes. The VIII Legion was one so feared that mere rumors of its visit would turn worlds compliant. Sorthraal can, with blade, bolter and theatric, easily show why.

Fallen Angel: He was there during the Horus Heresy: an age of myth and mystery to most of the Imperium. But not to him. Having walked under the same skies as the Primarchs and the Emperor, Sorthraal is a historical relic beyond value. The false muscles of his aging power armor still bear quite a few micro-nicks from the Siege of Terra, and within his mind is the ancient lore of a man who lived alongside the most despised of legendary figures.

Arms Master - Bolter: The standard weapon of the Legiones Astartes, while ubiquitous to its members, is a tenacious, temperamental beast. Sorthraal has trained his eye, hand and posture to tame it completely into his control. With a wordless command, he can set any bolter's rage loose with deadly precision, whether the target is the eye or the heart. Sorthraal is an expert shot, even by Space Marine standards.

Gear:

-Hybrid Power Armor
-Mark IX Hell's Teeth Chainsword
-Godwyn Astartes-pattern Bolter
-Frag Grenade Bundle
-Krak Grenade Bundle
-Melta Charge

For your consideration, a serial-rapist and torturer, even before he became a Chaos Space Marine!

---

Name: Crixus Angamar

Age: Pre-Founding, Earthborn

Appearance:



Marine type: Possessed Raptor Champion

Devotion: Slaanesh

Bio: From a very young age people could tell there was something very wrong with the child who would one day grow to be the Night Lord Crixus. His obsessions often drove him to perform all manner of perversions, both to himself and to others, and before he'd even come of age he'd already sexually molested several of the women living in his hab-block. Sentenced to life in prison Crixus was cut off from his supply of fresh women to abuse and turned his tastes to the young, helpless men who shared his company within the rat-pits of Terra.

When the First Founding occurred, and the Night Haunter came searching for recruits to join his army Crixus was among the first to volunteer. Though his cravings had been held in check by the abuse he'd piled onto his fellow convicts, the opportunity to once again practice his skills on a female's flesh was too tempting for him not to seize. AFter his transformation, as the XIIIth Legion, Crixus was sent to 'pacify' worlds in the wake of the Emperor's Crusades. Given free-reign to terrorise and victimise the populations Crixus gained a reputation for his brutal and savage attacks on any he caught breaking curfew, occasionally taking them as pets to be broken within his dungeons.

After the fall of the Legion, Crixus's tastes grew all the more depraved and soon he began to hear the first whisperings in the night. Voices plied him with promises of pleasure beyond his wildest dreams, and Crixus leapt into the waiting arms of Chaos willingly.

Since that time Crixus has taken every chance offered to travel the galaxy, raping and pillaging his way across the stars, always seeking the next great thrill, the next dark perversion. Often disappearing for months at a time, Crixus inevitably returns accompanied by groups of pregnant women, their minds and bodies broken, and new-born babies ready for recruitment into the Legion.

Personality: Crixus is a text-book case of a Slaaneshi devotee. His mind and personality are solely focused on pleasure, which in his case is derived from sadistically torturing the helpless, forcing them to perform inhuman acts, both to themselves and each other. He has learnt from his vast experience how to prolong the suffering of his pets for weeks, and even months, keeping them barely alive so he may savour their every exquisite agony.

Utterly irredeemable, his soul now reeks of corruption, while his body shows few outward signs of his transformation to Chaos. Obviously the Dark Gods look favourably on the damage he causes with his almost-human form, although the depth of his corruption has him forever teetering on transformation into a Warp Talon.

Personal skills: Expert at interrogation and psychological manipulation (especially against females of all known species), expert jetpack pilot and close-range combatant, skilled medic and field surgeon.

Gear: Mark II Crusade Power Armour (modified with upgrades over time), pre-Horus Heresy Jump Pack, Combi Melta-Bolt Pistol, Blissgiver blade, Frag Grenades, EMP Grenades, Lightning Storm, assorted ammunition and 'trophies'
EMP Grenades: During a skirmish with Tau forces Crixus was impressed by their use of EMP technology to cripple both his force's vehicles and his fellow Marines. Capturing a female Tau engineer, he invested almost four months torturing and twisting the woman's mind until she was more than willing to build the grenades for her new Master. While Tau engineer's fate is unknown, as Crixus seems to always have a steady supply of these weapons she may still be alive, and in his service, to this day.
Daemonic Power - Lightning Storm: Early in his career Crixus was granted the use of an experimental device similar to the one used within a Storm Shield, only this version was fitted to his gauntlets enabling his to generate field of static electricity while still wielding two weapons. As his corruption grew the mechanism was replaced by the ability to generate the storm from within his own body, launching arcs of lightning towards his targets from upto several meters away. While not powerful enough to damage most armoured targets, these arcs of power were strong enough to incapacitate most unarmoured humanoids with only a few blasts.

I hope Sorthraal will not be the only one to truly stand in pure, midnight clad amongst the player characters. Crixus and Quel are corrupted beyond redemption.

Well, Arabar is a charismatic man, it's hard to resist temptation when the man who can bring peace to your mind so vehemently supports the worship of the dark gods... but I'm sure there will be more like you @SillyGoy, but even midnight blue can be shown the light of corruption

@SillyGoy In Crixus's case his armour is still mostly black, but as befitting his service to Slaanesh the odd embellishment here and there have been added. And trust me, you really don't want to be asking for details about those.

Also, @SillyGoy,@Jyoliod,@Simplyjohn, you are all accepted, please move your characters to the characters tab when you get the chance

@SimplyJohn

I hope prospecting players will create marines who are less deviant. We are the VIII Legion, clad in midnight, and we are not -- we are not -- playthings of the Ruinous Powers. Remember Captain Vandred aboard the Covenant of Blood, winning the battle against the daemon who sought to own his body. "I control this," he said. Crixus clearly does not! A thousand shames upon him and Quel! Heretics!

Are you still though Sorthraal? Can you still say you belong to the legion of Konrad Curze? Have you not brought your Allegiance to one so currupted? An Apostle to the very gods you claim to so despise? Can you be so sure of your own purity, when so many who now call you ally have so succumbed? Can you...

Well, let me leave the rhetoric for the IC... can't take Arabar's thunder now

EDIT:Sorthraal not Crixus

Unfortunately as a Raptor Crixus doesn't really belong to any Legion. The Raptors broke off into their own cults during the Heresy and so although he still pays homage to his original Legion Crixus's true loyalties are really only to the search for pleasure and fulfilling his need to cause harm to the helpless.

For the Night Lords dealing with these wayward deviants is a matter of necessity. Sometimes you need the skills of the airborne parasites to aid you in your victories, even if it means having to purify yourselves for several weeks afterwards.

On another note, Crixus tends to look down on the Night Lords as they stand now, seeing only usurpers to the true Legion, those who were born on Terra and raised up by the Night Haunter himself. Having fought at his Primarch's side he feels sullied to have to work with the ill-spawned children of Nostramo and Tsagualsa who currently pollute the ranks of a once great and powerful force.

None of that vindicates you, Crixus. I would see you blooded and broken before this accursed 'pilgrimage' is over, preferably at my boot.

Guys, let's save the possibility of betrayal tension for the IC... which may go up soon if we get one or two more people

And what would a Chaos Marine story be without a little betrayal tension. :)

I am excited like a kid. I cannot wait for this to start.

Hey, since we are all so excited... anyone have a warband name idea? I've been struggling with coming up with one for us

Paladins of the Midnight, I guess?

The first part signifies our tenuous service to the Apostle. 'Midnight' is because we are Legio Octavus.