"Greetings Lord Carrow."

The cultured voice of his "ally", the First Acolyte of the Ebon Word, grated in Carrow's ears. Not because the voice was unpleasant; if anything the voice of Vor Skral of the Word Bearers legion was too pleasant. A voice meant to cajole and seduce, to lead sermons and turn the will of entire planets. No, the voice annoyed Carrow because of what it represented, the slow corruption of an Astartes into the pawns of the Chaos Gods. For that is what the Ebon Word were, even if they deluded themselves into believing that they had a measure of control. 

"First Acolyte." Carrow was nothing if not polite to the Ebon Word's local commander. His own warband, the Shrikeborn, were small in comparison to the forces that Skral lead. Hundreds of Astartes and thousands of human cultists filled the ships hovering over the holy world of Sancti Sepultum and most wore the crimson and steel of the Word, not the midnight blue of his Night Lords. "You have decided on a plan of attack?"

"Yes, I have. The scryers and seers have predicted an instability in the air defenses around two sites- the Sanctum of St. Orai of the Wounded Heart and the Capitali Ferundi. I will send the dregs of the cult before the Capitali and then assault the main forces of the planetary defense with the Word. You and your Shrikeborn shall have the honor of taking the Sanctum and prevent the SIsters from reinforcing the main defense."

The First Acolytes holo-projection burned red in the subdued light of Carrow's ship. The Stained Lord calculated and planned, balancing the other commander's words with the possibility of treachery. The two had been fighting together for years now but betrayal was common among the warbands of the Eye. Carrow's eyes narrowed as he nodded.

"I will depart at once, First Acolyte. The Sanctum will be silenced."

The Word Bearer smiled wide, "Of course my friend. Go with the Gods and good hunting."

Carrow cut the holo off, a snarl unconsciously curling his lip. The Gods were nothing to do with him. They played their Game with the lives of mortals and ruined those who bent to their will. 

Still, striking at the damned Imperium, and especially the Ecclesiarchy, was a balm to his soul. He gave clipped orders to the ship's crew, bringing the cruiser known as Umbral Vos into position for a planetary assault. His brothers gathered in the hangers, strapped into droppods and Thunderhawk transports. Their eyes tracked him as he climbed aboard his own Thunderhawk, settling into the restraints. 

He opened the vox, received quick updates from the squad leaders. All was ready.

"Brothers, today we hunt. Today we bring terror to the hypocrites. Hunt well. Ave Dominus Nox!"

The vox rang with the refrain as the dark warriors launched-

"AVE DOMINUS NOX!"

Stained Lord Tovach Carrow

Commander of the Shrikeborn, Last Warden of Nostramo’s Shadow

“We were meant to be fear’s edge…not its slaves.”

— Tovach Carrow, addressing his warband before the Fall of Hive Virex

Tovach Carrow is a name spoken in hushed tones across the war-torn stars, not for the atrocities he has committed, but for the restraint he imposes on a galaxy that has long since abandoned such things. Known as the Stained Lord, Carrow leads the Shrikeborn, a Night Lords warband that strikes with terrifying precision, yet holds to a code that borders on heresy among the Traitor Legions: honor.

Once a sergeant in the VIII Legion during the Great Crusade, Carrow was born to a family of law-enforcers on Nostramo before the planet’s collapse into lawless ruin. He was one of the few who believed in the original vision of the Night Lords, not as butchers, but as instruments of fear used to uphold order. The betrayal of that vision, and the eventual destruction of Nostramo by Konrad Curze himself, left Carrow spiritually shattered but unbroken.

Unlike many of his kin, Carrow has resisted the temptations of the Warp. His armor bears no daemonic sigils, only the etched names of the fallen- brother marines, victims, and those he could not save. Wrapped in the chains of purgation, he bears crimson gauntlets as symbols of shame and penance. His weapons are intimately familiar to those of his legion, a simple chainglaive of ancient Nostraman design and a brutal lightning claw.

Carrow’s leadership is marked by discipline and purpose. The Shrikeborn do not revel in slaughter; they strike with surgical terror, targeting enemy command structures, psykers, and morale units. Civilians are spared when possible, and atrocities are punished internally. To many Chaos warbands, this makes Carrow weak. To his warriors, it makes him worthy.

He is a father figure to the broken, gathering those Night Lords who still remember what they once were. His warband includes former Chaplains, Exalted Raptors, and even a few mortal Nostraman descendants who serve as scouts and lorekeepers. In battle, Carrow leads from the skies, descending with his elite Raptor cadre in a storm of wings and silence.

Though he knows redemption is impossible, Carrow fights to preserve a fragment of what was lost—a shard of justice in a galaxy of madness. He is not a hero. He is a shadow of one.