Slash-slash-thrust-sweep-return. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

The soft, guttural grunts of exertion arose from the pale-skinned Astartes. Stripped to the waist, he wove a discipline kata of strikes with a chainglaive. Deep breaths powered the massive figure's strikes against the training-daemons. Mindless, gibbering Neverborn beasts that were summoned and bound into servitor bodies, the training-daemons were foes not to take lightly, even for full armed warriors.

This Astartes danced through the slavering wretches, slipping past blows of clawblades and shots of plasma bile by bare millimeters. His chainglaive was in constant motion; a blur of revolving blades and smashing adamantium. The brutal weapon wasn't cleaving apart the daemons so much as it was taking off slim slices of flesh with each strike. He was skinning them alive in battle.

Each strike was precise and calculated to do the minimum necessary damage. He didn't want the training-daemons to heal fully before the next blow, or be ripped apart. No, his goal was to keep the fight on the razor's edge, to keep the battle flowing as his mind settled into the battle-trance. No movement was wasted, no injury was taken to shock his body from the flow. Minutes drug by, then hours, as he kept up the relentless attack and movement patterns.

Around the training cage stood his Raptors, his Virex Clade. They were a mixed group of murderers, each clad and equipped in their own unique way. Hulking "Crusade" armor and giant chainaxes lounged next to slimmer, more modern armor holding chainglaives, all with massive jumppacks that had a constant thrum of exhaust. Different in equipment, alike in demeanor. Hard, brutal fighters that lived on the edge of battle; those that jumped into the front of the enemy's forces when the time came to bring the blades in fast. Trained by him for the harshest clashes and deadliest hunts. His men, his weapons.

A red light blinked on the cage. Sarran Narvok snarled and moved. Four strikes, four dead training-daemons. He left the cage and stepped into his arming-cubical, motioned to the armoury-serfs to begin the process. His voice rang out to the Raptors.

"We have been called. We answer with death."

The reply was firm and fierce.

"Ave Dominus Nox!"

Sarran Narvok

Huntmaster of the Shrikeborn Raptors, The Death of Virex

"We fall like silence. We leave only screams.”

— Sarran Narvok, vox-recording recovered from the ruins of Hive Virex

Sarran Narvok is the Raptor Claw Leader of the Shrikeborn, a master of aerial terror tactics and shock assault. Where Stained Lord Carrow is the warband’s conscience and Navir Xikas its blade, Narvok is its fury in motion; a predator who strikes from the sky with unnerving precision and theatrical brutality.

Once a Night Lords assault marine during the Great Crusade, Narvok embraced the Raptor cults that emerged in the Legion’s fragmentation. But unlike many of his kin, he did not descend into madness or mutation. Instead, he honed his instincts into a ritualized art of fear, studying the psychology of his prey and perfecting the timing, sound, and spectacle of every strike.

Narvok leads the Virex Clade, named after the infamous raid on Hive Virex where his Raptors descended in total silence, severed the hive’s command structure in under seven minutes, and vanished before the defenders could react. Survivors reported no gunfire, only the sound of screaming wind and falling bodies.

His armor is adorned with wing motifs and Nostraman script, and his jump pack has been modified to emit distorted vox-screeches mid-flight as weaponized fear. His chainglaive, Whispershriek, is engraved with the names of every confirmed kill, not as trophies, but as records of judgment.

Despite his savage methods, Narvok is deeply loyal to Carrow, whom he views as the only leader worthy of commanding fear without becoming enslaved by it. He often spars with Flaymaster Amathys in ritual combat, testing the limits of control versus chaos, and holds a respectful rivalry with Navir Xikas over tactical doctrine.

To the Shrikeborn, Narvok is the storm before the silence. To their enemies, he is the last shadow they see before the sky turns red.