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Index Astartes: The Curs'ed Origin F orged in the fires of war, I, Genator-Magos Victorus Mortem, stood as the architect behind the birth of this accursed Chapter, emerging from the shadows of the Imperium's 21st founding. In those tumultuous times, as the embers of conflict consumed the galaxy, the Adeptus Mechanicus dared to delve into uncharted realms, seeking to shape superhuman warriors that could sway the tides of battle. Like a fateful Prometheus of the Imperium, amidst the clamour of war, I ventured forth to fashion a new breed of Space Marine, harnessing the power of experimental gene-seed and genetic manipulation. Drawing their lineage from Guilliman's noble seed, I handpicked descendants known for their genetic purity and unwavering dedication to the Imperium. But in my relentless pursuit of perfection, I hungered for the finest aspirants to breathe life into my creation. Thus, I delved deep into the vast archives of the Imperium, where fate led me to the citizens of Aberrantia. Among their ranks, I unearthed physically superior elites, pristine slates upon which I could etch my visionary masterpiece. Within the enigmatic realms of life and death, I dared to tread, manipulating the gene-seed to bestow upon them hyper-regenerative gifts, transforming them into beings capable of defying mortality itself. Yet, the wheels of fate spun treacherously, and my hubris birthed grave errors. Like a merciless curse woven into their essence, my creation became grotesque parodies of their once noble form. Bloated flesh, twisted growths, and ghastly scars marred their bodies, while their minds twisted and their souls tainted by the warp's malevolent touch. I bore the weight of shame for what I had wrought, my legacy now a cautionary tale echoing through the annals of time. Let my ill-fated creation stand as a sombre reminder, a testament to the perils faced by those who dare to assume the role of the Omnissiah. For those who meddle with the enigmatic mysteries of the universe, the consequences are dire, as witnessed through the cursed existence of my Chapter. May the echoes of my missteps reverberate across the generations, serving as a resounding lesson on the precipice of creation and destruction, forever etched in the annals of cautionary lore. Homeworld R uminating with a burdened heart, I contemplate the enigmatic tapestry of Aberrantia, the ill-fated homeworld I rashly selected for the Chapter's genesis. A realm of striking paradoxes, where lowly serfs toil amidst fields and humble villages, their abodes fashioned from wood and stone. Clad in modest attire, their garb exudes practicality, shielding them from nature's cruel whims. Despite their meagre existence, an unwavering devotion binds them to the Chapter, hailing the Adeptus Astartes as paragons of strength, valour, and honour. Within their modest culture, one discerns the motifs of modesty, resilience, and unwavering allegiance, interwoven into the Chapter's ethos. Yet, towering above the sprawl of Aberrantia, its gothic bastions pierce the heavens, casting a sombre shadow upon the masses. The aristocratic echelons, ensconced within their lofty enclaves, masked their true nature behind a veneer of ceaseless propaganda. Alas, I, Victorus Mortem, discovered the harrowing truth too late. This self-proclaimed elite bore within their bloodline an inherent flaw, their sordid dalliances with kin resulting in a profusion of mutations and aberrations meticulously concealed from imperial scrutiny. Oh, how the hubris of these nobles resonates with the perils that befell our genetic manipulations as we, too, ventured to tamper with the very essence of life itself. Contemplating the loathsome mutations that afflict Aberrantia's ruling class, my pursuit of redemption intermingles with an odd sense of...fascination. A perverse allure veils their contorted visages, artistry in the warped forms sculpted by the forces they sought to command. It serves as a stark testament to the might and caprice of genetics, an eternal reminder that the mastery of nature eludes our grasp. Alas, the once humble festivities that graced Aberrantia's land have met their untimely demise, much like all else touched by the curse I have unleashed. Once a jubilant occasion marking the bountiful autumn yield, the ‘Festival of the Reaping’ now devolves into a grotesque spectacle of excess and debauchery. The villagers no longer partake in modest appreciation of their fruitful labours; instead, they revel in gluttony and avarice, engorging themselves to the brink of sickness. The ‘Festival of Resurgence’, a time of rejuvenation and budding hopes, heralds on Aberrantia the advent of decay and demise. Villagers engage in macabre rituals of sacrifice, beseeching dark powers they believe can ensure a plentiful harvest. The mutations that beset the Chapter have seeped into every facet of existence upon Aberrantia, tainting even the most innocent celebrations with an irrevocable stain of horror and decay. The repercussions of my ill-fated genetic experimentation upon this world have yielded nought but calamity and desolation, forever etching a tale of woe that defies all remedy. It serves as a poignant reminder that, as Magi, we must ever ponder the delicate balance between the fruits of inquiry and the perils of unintended consequences. Thus, seated here, amidst the desolate remnants that befall Aberrantia, I cannot help but question if I have become nought but the Prometheus of the 41st Millennium, forever doomed to endure the torments of my hubris and transgressions against nature's religious order. Fortress Monastary A s I returned to the towering fortress monastery of the Space Marine Chapter years later, I was shocked to find it in utter ruin. The once imposing structure was now a mere shadow of its former self. The thick walls, once bristling with gun emplacements and turrets, now lay in disrepair. The massive gates that once guarded the entrance were rusted and broken, and the rare metals that once reinforced them were now tarnished and dull. Inside the walls, the once-a-hive of activity facilities was now abandoned and overgrown with vegetation. The air was thick with the stench of decay, and the only sounds were rodents scurrying through the rubble. As I explored the ruins, I came across mounds of flesh sliced off and left on the floor, along with surgical tools that the Space Marines had used to keep their mutation in check. Clearly, the Chapter's mutation had overcome them, and they had succumbed to their hubris, leading to the downfall of 'The Mother, ' their once-great fortress-monastery. Founding Lore N ightfall descends upon my thoughts as I inscribe the dark history of the Chapter onto data-slates. Once heralded for their unrivalled gene-seed manipulation techniques, the Adeptus Astartes of this Chapter possessed hyper-regeneration abilities, granting them a formidable advantage on the battlefield. They blossomed in strength and influence, emerging as an indomitable force amidst the vast expanse of the galaxy. Their valour blazed like a nova as they fearlessly positioned themselves at the forefront of the most brutal conflicts, shielding their brethren of the Emperor from grievous harm. Their unwavering courage garnered immense admiration from fellow brother chapters, who held them in the highest regard. Yet, as the wheels of time turned, the growing trove of data collected by the Adeptus Biologis unveiled a disconcerting truth. Once believed to be infallible, the once lauded gene-seed manipulation techniques began to reveal signs of inherent fragility. Mutations and anomalies seeped into the ranks of the Space Marines, kindling apprehension within the Chapter's training cadre of Doom Eagles. Wounds and battle scars, once testimonies to their resilience, now festered with excess adipose tissue and scarred flesh, trapping perspiration, filth, and pathogens. Festering sores and minor infections burgeoned, fueling rampant skin growth and cellular regeneration. Their mobility became hampered, and in dire instances, some brothers could no longer don their revered grey suits of power armour. Though we endeavoured to quell the mutations, our efforts proved futile as the taint spread relentlessly. Piles of flesh excised from the afflicted Space Marines and the implements of surgical intervention employed to impede their degradation became commonplace sights within the Chapter's halls. As the mutations burgeoned and metastasised, the Chapter's once-glowing reputation dimmed to a pallid hue. Fellow Space Marine Chapters regarded them cautiously, wary of their unstable nature. Even their closest allies distanced themselves, reluctant to be associated with the shadow now cast upon the Chapter. A once-promising beacon in the firmament of the galaxy now teetered on the precipice, desperately struggling to retain its waning power and influence. Gene-Seed K neeling here in my laboratory, encircled by the instruments of my trade, I cannot help but reflect on the calamity that my creation has unleashed upon the galaxy. For you see, I am the mastermind behind one of the accursed Chapters of Adeptus Astartes that currently afflicts the Imperium. Keenly, I utilized Guilliman's gene-seed as the cornerstone of my work, yet I dared to manipulate the Ossmodula gland, responsible for augmenting bone density and muscular development, to forge a distinct prowess called Hyper-Regeneration. This ability, combined with the disciplined training and strategies of the Adeptus Astartes, was meant to elevate them as one of the most dreaded and revered Chapters in the cosmos. Alas, my ambition blinded me to the perils that awaited. Kindled far beyond my foresight, the gland became a maelstrom of hyperactivity, subjecting the cursed warriors to mutations and aberrations beyond mortal comprehension. How it escalated so uncontrollably, I cannot say. Whispers of conspiracy permeated the ranks, with some alleging that their disfigurements were not the result of some mysterious curse but rather my own ignorance of the truth. They accused the clandestine selective breeding by the planet's elite, embedding aspirants harbouring an array of incompatible genetic codes into the process, thus sowing the seeds of this cursed Chapter. The cursed warriors and the planet's governors found themselves besieged by doubt and trepidation as they pondered the true origin of their affliction. Was their fate preordained by their own kin? Were they mere pawns in a grander scheme, deployed to test the boundaries of possibility? In their bleakest hours, some even questioned if they were the fruits of a deranged Magos' failed experiment, a living embodiment of the consequences of tampering with life's essence. Once an emblem of the Imperium's might, the Ultramarine gene-seed had transmuted into a font of horror and desolation. My creation had birthed a Chapter that starkly contradicted Guilliman's and the Emperor's intentions. The accursed warriors were now feared and abhorred; their existence serves as a chilling reminder of the perils inherent in meddling with the very tapestry of existence. Recruitment E erily, as I contemplate my creations, I am engulfed by horror and remorse. The endeavour to recruit for the accursed Chapter commenced innocuously enough, selecting solely the most formidable aspirants from the elite of Aberrantia. However, as their hyper-regeneration burgeoned in might, the rituals became increasingly macabre. Embracing one such rite, christened 'The March,' was initially meant to inflict harm upon the aspirants, allowing the Apothecaries to refine their healing arts. They were compelled to traverse a treacherous path towards The Mother while burdened with a weighty load upon their backs, confronting obstacles and perils. Those who reached the journey's end without faltering or relinquishing their burden were deemed deserving of initiation. Embarking upon the path of the initiate, they were subjected to the Enigmatic Rite of the Pierced Flesh, which entailed enduring confinement within a Dread Casket without a single flinch or cry of anguish. This was a testament to their strength, resilience, and newfound regenerative abilities. The Dread Casket was a macabre contraption that instilled dread in all who beheld it. Resembling a cold, black coffin adorned with jagged spikes and hooks lining its interior, its exterior bore intricate designs depicting contorted and tormented souls, further heightening the pervasive sense of foreboding. Its cramped and uncomfortable interior ensured that no part of the victim's body remained unimpaled by the malicious spikes. The casket was meticulously sealed with latches and locks, ensuring the captive's inescapability. The scars left by the Dread Casket were indelible, worn as badges of honour by the Brethren of this woeful Chapter. As I retrospectively survey these abhorrent rituals, I cannot evade the weight of responsibility for the abominable creations I have wrought. The ramifications of playing deity with the very essence of life have proven to be profoundly terrifying. Chapter Doctrine and Faith N ever had I witnessed a more eerie spectacle than the one unfolding before my eyes, a ghastly ritual enacted by the members of my accursed creation. It was known as The Reclamation of the Body,' a sombre custom entailing the severing of the grotesque growths that sprouted from their flesh, a consequence of the unbridled expansion of their Ossmodula gland. This self-inflicted mutilation had become deeply ingrained in their beliefs, serving as a testament to their sacrifice and unwavering dedication to the Emperor. The atmosphere surrounding the ceremony was heavy with solemnity, casting a shroud of reverence upon the Brothers. With unyielding conviction, they embraced the belief that the excision of these growths was essential to better serve the Emperor and the Imperium. Regarded as a physical manifestation of the Chapter's affliction, the distorted tumours held symbolic significance. Through their removal, the Brothers sought to purify themselves of their wretched state, seeking absolution from their cursed existence. Before commencing the ritual, each Brother prepared himself, both in body and spirit, mentally steeling himself for the agony ahead. With grim determination, he took hold of his blade, its cold steel glinting in the dim light, and embarked on severing the malignant growths. Every incision was executed meticulously, a delicate dance to avoid harming vital organs or inducing excessive bleeding. As the Brother sliced away the tumours, his lips moved in silent supplication, uttering prayers and mantras beseeching the Emperor for strength and guidance. In their eyes, the torment and shedding of blood during the Reclamation of the Body assumed the form of penance, a means to atone for their accursed state. The Brothers embraced this suffering willingly, convinced that it was an indispensable path to absolution and an enhanced capacity to serve their divine sovereign. Upon completing the sombre rite, the Brother purified himself in a ritualistic bath, cleansing away the traces of blood and agony that clung to his weary form. Clad once more in his formidable armour, he emerged transformed, a symbol of resilience and dedication. The meticulously collected tumours were consigned to the purifying flames, their ashen remnants scattered by the whims of the wind, an outward sign of the Brother's purification and renewed purpose. The Reclamation of the Body stood as a potent symbol of the Cursed Chapter's unyielding fealty to the Emperor, a testament to their unwavering resolve to endure any torment in service of the Imperium. They sought absolution in their morbid devotion and tireless sacrifice, even amidst the darkest shadows that haunted their existence. The pain and suffering the members of the Cursed Chapter endured while cutting off their tumours would become a form of penance for their cursed state. They believed that their mutation was a punishment for some unknown sin, and the act of self-mutilation was a way to atone for their perceived wrongdoing. It was a painful and bloody ritual, but they endured with stoic resolve, seeing it as a necessary step in their journey towards redemption and purity. Cutting off their tumours symbolised their devotion to the Emperor, a way to show their unwavering loyalty and dedication to the Imperium. In their moments of introspection, the members of my Curs'ed Chapter found themselves bargaining with their fate, seeking a path to salvation. They yearned to be released from the burden of their mutation, to be free of the physical and emotional pain it brought upon them. They pleaded with the Emperor, offering their pain and suffering as a payment, a sacrifice to prove their worthiness of redemption. They believed they could bargain with their bodies through self-mutilation, negotiating for deliverance from their cursed state. With every slice of the blade, they hoped to buy a moment of respite, a chance to glimpse a future where they could serve the Emperor without the weight of their mutation dragging them down. Their ritualistic self-mutilation became a desperate plea, an attempt to find a way to regain their former glory and purity. They clung to the belief that their devotion and sacrifice would be rewarded and their suffering would not be in vain. It was a delicate balance between acceptance and resistance as they navigated the fine line between embracing their mutation as a gift and seeking a release from its shackles. In this bargaining stage, Brothers sought solace in their pain, viewing it as a currency to be traded for redemption. Their determination to overcome their cursed state and unwavering loyalty to the Emperor drove them forward, propelling them through the darkest depths of their suffering. And with each ritualistic act of self-mutilation, they clung to the hope that their pleas would be heard and their sacrifice would lead them to salvation. Despite the unmistakable weight of their disfigurement, the burden their mutation imposed upon their physical forms, the Chapter finally came to embrace an extraordinary conviction: to view their affliction not as a curse but as a necessary sacrifice bestowed upon them to better serve the Emperor. It was a perspective that set them apart, as they perceived their condition as a sacred gift, a divine bestowal that granted them unparalleled regenerative abilities, transforming them into fearsome warriors upon the blood-soaked stage of the battle. "O felix mutatio! Da nobis virtutem superare hostes nostros et in sanguine eorum gaudere!" Over time, the Chapter transformed the soul, gradually shifting their perception of their existence. What had once been met with trepidation and attempts at suppression gradually evolved into acceptance and reverence. Their mutated forms, once sources of anguish and despair, now became symbols of devotion, emblematic of their unyielding dedication to the Emperor and the Imperium. In the deepest recesses of their hearts, the Chapter began to believe that their mutation was not an aberration but a manifestation of the Emperor's divine will. They saw it as a peculiar mark of distinction, a sacred touch that set them apart from their brethren and endowed them with a formidable advantage. Their regenerative capabilities, honed to a razor's edge, elevated them to living weapons capable of enduring wounds that would cripple ordinary mortals and recover with astonishing swiftness. This newfound belief infused their ranks with a profound sense of purpose. They no longer fought against their mutation but embraced it as an integral part of their identity. Their physical deformities became a badge of honour, a testament to their unwavering loyalty and the Emperor's chosen path for them. Through their acceptance, the Brothers of the Cursed Chapter found solace and a renewed sense of belonging, no longer plagued by doubts or haunted by the spectre of their cursed existence. In the face of adversity, they drew strength from their shared conviction. The pain and suffering they endured, the excruciating process of self-mutilation and the weight of their unique burdens were embraced as holy rites, acts of devotion and sacrifice. Each slice of the blade upon their flesh was imbued with meaning, a testament to their unyielding faith and commitment to the Emperor's cause. As their acceptance grew, so too did their unity. They stood as a resolute brotherhood, bound by their shared mutation and their unshakeable belief in the divine purpose it served. Their once fragmented souls had fused into a collective will, an unbreakable resolve that propelled them forward, undeterred by the scorn of others. Deep within their hearts, they knew that their path was chosen, and their journey, though marred by suffering, was one of unswerving devotion and unwavering service. The Chapter had transitioned from a state of resistance to acceptance, transforming their perceived curse into a sacred mantle. They stood as living testaments to the Emperor's mysterious designs, finding strength and purpose in the aspect others deemed monstrous. They had become an embodiment of faith, a living testament to the indomitable spirit that resided within them. And with each passing day, their belief in their divine purpose burned brighter, casting aside the shadows of doubt and illuminating the path ahead. Tactical Imperatives S ummoned forth from the depths of forbidden knowledge, the curse that haunts the Chapter has woven itself intricately into the tapestry of their combat doctrine. It moulds their strategies, strengths, and vulnerabilities on the battlefield, imbuing their actions with themes of resilience, sacrifice, and unyielding determination arising from their tormented existence. Swathed in the shroud of adversity, their resilience is a testament to their wretched nature. The grotesque mutations etched upon their forms grant them a fortitude beyond mortal ken. They endure, defying the limitations of flesh and bone, bearing wounds that would crumble lesser beings. Through pain and anguish, they forge ahead, unyielding in their pursuit of victory. Like a relentless tempest, they weather the storm of battle, their tenacity unmatched. In sacrifice lies their grim purpose. Their bodies become the altar they offer themselves for the greater good. Their plight, a macabre offering, drives them to protect their comrades at any cost. They cast themselves into the fray, bearing the weight of the enemy's fury upon their mutated frames, shielding their kin from harm. Their existence embodies selflessness, a living sacrifice for the Imperium's cause. From the crucible of affliction, their determination emerges unyielding. The curse, a constant reminder of their wretched fate, fuels their unwavering resolve. In the face of insurmountable odds, they stand firm, unflinching. Their souls were aflame with an undying passion; they pressed forward, their hearts resolute, their spirits unbreakable. No obstacle can deter them; no setback can extinguish the fire that burns within their malformed souls. Adapting to their twisted forms, their combat doctrine evolves. They wield their physical bulk as a weapon, a monstrous force unleashed upon the enemy's ranks. Their movements, slow yet purposeful, are calculated and precise, leveraging their mass to crush all who oppose them. Through the perverse blessings of regeneration, they endure protracted battles, wearing down their adversaries with a grim determination. Each scar upon their flesh becomes a testament to their resilience, a mark of endurance etched upon their very beings. The Chapter's combat doctrine takes shape in the dark realm where science melds with abomination. It is a grotesque symphony of resilience, sacrifice, and unyielding determination, played out upon the stage of war. They find strength, purpose, and an unparalleled capacity to endure through the curse that plagues them. Though shunned and reviled, they march forward, their existence a chilling reminder of the depths to which humanity can descend in its relentless pursuit of power. Chapter Master T ouched by unwavering loyalty and fueled by unyielding determination, Captain Lucian Tiberius of the Doom Eagles emerged as a shining example amidst the inception of this abhorrent creation. However, as the magnitude of its horror became undeniable, he found himself compelled to make a fateful decision—to renounce his oath as Chapter Master and embark on a solemn pilgrimage back to his origins, driven by the sole purpose of purging the Galaxy from the abomination I had unleashed. Clad in his resplendent grey power armour adorned with intricate symbols of devotion, he embodies the spirit of self-sacrifice and resilience that defined the Chapter so quickly in those early days. Lucian's towering figure, marked by battle scars and the weight of his responsibilities, commands respect and inspires awe among his brethren. His noble countenance reflected a steadfast resolve and unwavering dedication to the Emperor and the Imperium. His piercing blue eyes, hardened by countless trials, reveal both the weight of his burdens and the fire of his righteous fury. With a tactical mind honed through years of warfare, Lucian possessed a brilliant strategic and political mind that allowed him to navigate the treacherous path of leading this doomed Chapter. His ability to analyse complex battle scenarios, anticipate enemy movements, and adapt swiftly to changing circumstances has earned him the admiration of his brothers and the respect of his allies. Lucian's charisma and commanding presence made him a natural leader, inspiring his warriors to push beyond their limits and face the horrors of their mutation with unwavering courage. He led by example wherever possible, charging fearlessly into the heart of the fray, his thunderous strikes and unyielding determination inspiring his brothers to follow suit. But it is Lucian's unshakeable faith in the righteousness of their cause that truly sets him apart. Despite the burdens imposed by their cursed state, his conviction in his belief that their mutation was a punishment for a sin sent from the Emperor, a trial to redeem their resolve and commitment to his service, he almost willed into existence. He tirelessly emphasised the importance of their duty to protect the Imperium, instilling in his brethren a sense of purpose and a belief that their suffering has a higher meaning. I know of no greater soldier than he. His conviction was true until the end when he led the charge with unwavering resolve alongside the Doom Eagles against the monsters they had become. Lucian Tiberius was a living embodiment of what the Chapter's values could have been; a symbol of hope and a testament to the power of faith and resilience in the face of adversity. The Fall E thereal unease engulfs me as I witness the dreadful transformation unfolding before my eyes. The once noble Brothers of the chapter, now ensnared in the clutches of this grotesque affliction, find themselves condemned to a wretched metamorphosis. With each passing moment, their corporeal forms, once defined by strength and purpose, contort into an abomination of flesh. Twisted and warped, their bodies become host to engorged masses of repulsive tissue, a grotesque manifestation of malignant growths and bulging protrusions. These deformities sprawl across their once proud frames, engendering both a morbid fascination and deep repulsion within me. Their every movement is now imprisoned within the confines of their own monstrous bulk, their once agile forms reduced to immobility under the weight of their mutations. Limbs, once crafted for precision and honed in the crucible of warfare, writhe in twisted agony, their true essence obscured in a state of perpetual distortion. They have become mere caricatures of their former glory, trapped within their grotesque and torturous existence. The torment inflicted upon them extends beyond physical affliction. Their lungs, distorted and misshapen, strain beneath the weight of their burgeoning growths. The air they inhale, thick with the stench of decay and putrescence, is a fleeting resource. The once indomitable Brothers, champions of resilience, are reduced to gasping for each breath, their inevitable suffocation looming ever closer. In their final moments, muted screams escape their disfigured mouths, suffocated by the fleshy encasement that has claimed them. Despair and agony reflect in their glazed eyes, witnessing their flesh devouring them from within. The pulsating tumours, fueled by a malevolent force, continue their unrelenting expansion, crushing vital organs and extinguishing the last flickers of life. This wretched stage, so pitiful and abhorrent, marks the initial descent of the chapter into a vortex of physical deterioration. Once celebrated warriors, the Brothers now succumb to the ravages of their uncontrollable mutations. Their demise, a tragic irony, is an embodiment of their genetic enhancements turned against them, consuming them in an unforgiving embrace. As their bodies twist and deform, their visage evokes nought but horror and revulsion from their former comrades within the Imperium. Adorned with bulging tumours and writhing flesh, they are no longer regarded as brothers-in-arms but as pariahs, an affront to the purity of the Emperor's design. The rejection they face from their once-familiar allies weighs heavily upon their already burdened souls. Isolation becomes their damning companion as they are shunned and cast aside by those who once fought alongside them. Once so steadfast, the bonds of brotherhood and camaraderie crumble in the face of their grotesque transformation. The Imperial forces keep their distance, fearful that this mutation may be contagious. They are met with fear and disgust, viewed as harbingers of corruption rather than stalwart defenders. The rejection and hostility sear deep into their psyche, plunging them further into despair and madness. Estranged from the support they once cherished, they spiral into the recesses of their tortured minds. Whispers from the warp invade their thoughts, sowing seeds of doubt and malevolence. Like fragile glass, their sanity shatters under the relentless weight of despair. Alas, no reinforcements come to their aid. The mutation that consumes them is a secret they bear alone. They confront the horrors of their existence, abandoned by the Imperium they swore to protect. It is a harrowing truth that entwines their fate with hopelessness and despair. The realization settles, heavy and unyielding, that they are condemned to face this insidious mutation alone. Desperation engulfs them, fueled by the primal instinct to survive. The remaining Brothers, forsaking all bonds of brotherhood, turn upon each other with savage ferocity. Honour and loyalty hold no sway as they engage in brutal battles, driven solely by the need to ensure their own preservation. Within this frenzied state, violence becomes the catalyst that ignites their mutations into a savage frenzy. Every blow struck, every life taken, breathes perverse vitality into their twisted flesh. Once contained and grotesque, the mutations now thrive and multiply at an alarming pace. Their growth accelerates with each act of brutality, a gruesome testament to their descent into darkness. Once proud warriors, they merge into a nightmarish assemblage of limbs, appendages, and seething tumours. The fallen Brothers become building blocks for their mutated brethren, assimilated into the monstrous masses that roam the chapter's ranks. The unity and brotherhood they once cherished lie shattered and forgotten. In this wretched stage, the chapter becomes a tableau of internecine conflict. No longer driven by noble disagreements, their battles devolve into a grotesque struggle for dominance. The mutated monstrosities tear through the ranks ruthlessly, guided by their insatiable hunger and the instinct to overpower one another. Friend and foe become indistinguishable in this macabre spectacle of carnage. Unity and honour, once their guiding lights, crumble beneath desperation. Survival at any cost eclipses the noble ideals they once upheld. They have become savage beasts locked in a brutal fight for existence in a world that has forsaken them. Amidst this despair, a ray of hope emerges as their former Chapter Master, Lucian Tiberius, returns to lead the charge. Alongside the Doom Eagles, he marshals an extermination force with one singular purpose: to eradicate the mutated Brothers and cleanse the stain of their existence. The arrival of Lucian Tiberius, a figure once revered and respected, sparks a fragile glimmer of relief among the surviving Imperial forces. His presence promises an end to the grotesque horrors that have plagued the chapter. In the face of despair, they cling to this fleeting thread of optimism, yearning for liberation from the torment endured. Together, Lucian Tiberius and the Doom Eagles unleash a relentless assault. Their firepower and martial prowess converge upon the twisted ranks of the mutated chapter, each strike infused with a fervent desire to end their suffering and bring closure to this dark chapter of history. Yet, despite their combined might and unwavering determination, the mutated Brothers prove a formidable adversary. Their grotesque flesh and unholy resilience grant them an uncanny resistance to destruction. The battle rages on, the clash of blade and bolter echoing across the scarred landscape, but victory remains elusive. As the conflict escalates and the cost rises, a grim realization settles upon the battlefield. The combined force of Lucian Tiberius and the Doom Eagles is insufficient to fully extinguish the twisted presence of the mutated chapter. Faced with no alternative, a desperate decision is made. The planet, the very stage upon which this gruesome chapter met its downfall, is condemned to utter annihilation. The Exterminatus order is issued, and the Atmospheric Incinerator Torpedoes rain upon the doomed world, consuming it in an all-consuming inferno. In the cataclysmic conflagration that ensues, the mutated chapter is obliterated. Nought remains, but smouldering ruins and fading echoes. The pain and agony they endured, the abominations they became, are finally extinguished. The haunting silence that descends upon the scorched remnants of their proud fortress-monastery signals the end of an era. Amidst the aftermath, a bittersweet sense of relief washes over the survivors and witnesses of the chapter's grisly demise. The torment has ended, and the darkness that once engulfed their lives is lifted. The sacrifices made, the battles fought, and the unimaginable horrors endured will forever be etched in their memories. They serve as a solemn reminder of the price paid to rid the galaxy of such a twisted aberration. Ultimately, the chapter's tragic tale concludes with resounding finality. Their name is forever lost to the annals of time. Known only to me as My Curs'ed. The pain and despair that plagued them, the noble ideals corrupted by the monstrous transformation, are laid to rest. Their legacy, once one of honour and heroism, is forever marred by the grotesque fate that befell them. A grim reminder echoes through the annals of the Imperium, warning of the horrors that can befall even the noblest of warriors. Aftermath In the aftermath of the chapter's catastrophic fall and the cruel Exterminatus that befell them and their cherished homeworld, the once-proud warriors, who once stood tall and resolute, are now nought but remnants of an extinguished flame. Their valor and might reduced to scattered embers, dispersed by the merciless winds of fate. In this desolate abyss of despair, where darkness reigns supreme, I, the sole repository of their memory, bear witness to their tragic tale. I, the Genator-Magos, have traversed the charred remains of their ancestral grounds, where once they stood as paragons of strength and glory. Now, all that remains are echoes, whispers carried on the cold gusts of regret. The knowledge of their existence lies solely within the confines of my burdened soul, entrusted to me as an unwelcome gift, bestowed by the cruel hand of destiny. Amidst the desolation, a flicker of a nightmarish return emerged, a mere glimmer amid the ashen wasteland. Deep range scans, conducted with trepidation and a tinge of desperation, reveal a singular artifact buried beneath the layers of desecration. A lone pauldron, battered and scorched, lies entombed within the heart of the world now cloaked in grey shroud. A symbol of a past once revered, now but a relic of a bygone era. Yet, in the depths of despair, a chilling realization descends upon my weary spirit. As I gaze upon the ravaged landscape, a shadow, elusive and enigmatic, dances amidst the ruins. A phantom of movement, defying the logic of survival, defying the very fabric of my understanding. Could it be, against all odds, that a survivor has emerged from the abyss? A solitary figure, defying the ravages of time and the merciless hand of destruction? That image, forever etched upon the tapestry of my tormented mind, shall haunt me till the end of my days. For in that fleeting moment, hope rescinded and dread intertwined, casting a veil of uncertainty over the tragedy that has unfolded. The chapter, now consumed by the flames of oblivion, may yet hold life, a spark refusing to be extinguished. And so, with trepidation and a heart burdened with responsibility, I embark upon a journey into the abyss, driven by an insatiable curiosity and the desperate need to unravel the mysteries that lie shrouded in the aftermath. In the bleakness of this forsaken realm, where life and death dance a macabre waltz, the fate of the fallen chapter hangs in the balance. What awaits me in this realm of sorrow and ruin? Only time will unveil the secrets that lie dormant, waiting to be unearthed in the ashes of their and my own shattered legacies.

Index Astartes: The Curs'ed Origin F orged in the fires of war, I, Genator-Magos Victorus Mortem, stood as the architect behind the birth of this accursed Chapter, emerging from the shadows of the Imperium's 21st founding. In those tumultuous times, as the embers of conflict consumed the galaxy, the Adeptus Mechanicus dared to delve into uncharted realms, seeking to shape superhuman warriors that could sway the tides of battle. Like a fateful Prometheus of the Imperium, amidst the clamour of war, I ventured forth to fashion a new breed of Space Marine, harnessing the power of experimental gene-seed and genetic manipulation. Drawing their lineage from Guilliman's noble seed, I handpicked descendants known for their genetic purity and unwavering dedication to the Imperium. But in my relentless pursuit of perfection, I hungered for the finest aspirants to breathe life into my creation. Thus, I delved deep into the vast archives of the Imperium, where fate led me to the citizens of Aberrantia. Among their ranks, I unearthed physically superior elites, pristine slates upon which I could etch my visionary masterpiece. Within the enigmatic realms of life and death, I dared to tread, manipulating the gene-seed to bestow upon them hyper-regenerative gifts, transforming them into beings capable of defying mortality itself. Yet, the wheels of fate spun treacherously, and my hubris birthed grave errors. Like a merciless curse woven into their essence, my creation became grotesque parodies of their once noble form. Bloated flesh, twisted growths, and ghastly scars marred their bodies, while their minds twisted and their souls tainted by the warp's malevolent touch. I bore the weight of shame for what I had wrought, my legacy now a cautionary tale echoing through the annals of time. Let my ill-fated creation stand as a sombre reminder, a testament to the perils faced by those who dare to assume the role of the Omnissiah. For those who meddle with the enigmatic mysteries of the universe, the consequences are dire, as witnessed through the cursed existence of my Chapter. May the echoes of my missteps reverberate across the generations, serving as a resounding lesson on the precipice of creation and destruction, forever etched in the annals of cautionary lore. Homeworld R uminating with a burdened heart, I contemplate the enigmatic tapestry of Aberrantia, the ill-fated homeworld I rashly selected for the Chapter's genesis. A realm of striking paradoxes, where lowly serfs toil amidst fields and humble villages, their abodes fashioned from wood and stone. Clad in modest attire, their garb exudes practicality, shielding them from nature's cruel whims. Despite their meagre existence, an unwavering devotion binds them to the Chapter, hailing the Adeptus Astartes as paragons of strength, valour, and honour. Within their modest culture, one discerns the motifs of modesty, resilience, and unwavering allegiance, interwoven into the Chapter's ethos. Yet, towering above the sprawl of Aberrantia, its gothic bastions pierce the heavens, casting a sombre shadow upon the masses. The aristocratic echelons, ensconced within their lofty enclaves, masked their true nature behind a veneer of ceaseless propaganda. Alas, I, Victorus Mortem, discovered the harrowing truth too late. This self-proclaimed elite bore within their bloodline an inherent flaw, their sordid dalliances with kin resulting in a profusion of mutations and aberrations meticulously concealed from imperial scrutiny. Oh, how the hubris of these nobles resonates with the perils that befell our genetic manipulations as we, too, ventured to tamper with the very essence of life itself. Contemplating the loathsome mutations that afflict Aberrantia's ruling class, my pursuit of redemption intermingles with an odd sense of...fascination. A perverse allure veils their contorted visages, artistry in the warped forms sculpted by the forces they sought to command. It serves as a stark testament to the might and caprice of genetics, an eternal reminder that the mastery of nature eludes our grasp. Alas, the once humble festivities that graced Aberrantia's land have met their untimely demise, much like all else touched by the curse I have unleashed. Once a jubilant occasion marking the bountiful autumn yield, the ‘Festival of the Reaping’ now devolves into a grotesque spectacle of excess and debauchery. The villagers no longer partake in modest appreciation of their fruitful labours; instead, they revel in gluttony and avarice, engorging themselves to the brink of sickness. The ‘Festival of Resurgence’, a time of rejuvenation and budding hopes, heralds on Aberrantia the advent of decay and demise. Villagers engage in macabre rituals of sacrifice, beseeching dark powers they believe can ensure a plentiful harvest. The mutations that beset the Chapter have seeped into every facet of existence upon Aberrantia, tainting even the most innocent celebrations with an irrevocable stain of horror and decay. The repercussions of my ill-fated genetic experimentation upon this world have yielded nought but calamity and desolation, forever etching a tale of woe that defies all remedy. It serves as a poignant reminder that, as Magi, we must ever ponder the delicate balance between the fruits of inquiry and the perils of unintended consequences. Thus, seated here, amidst the desolate remnants that befall Aberrantia, I cannot help but question if I have become nought but the Prometheus of the 41st Millennium, forever doomed to endure the torments of my hubris and transgressions against nature's religious order. Fortress Monastary A s I returned to the towering fortress monastery of the Space Marine Chapter years later, I was shocked to find it in utter ruin. The once imposing structure was now a mere shadow of its former self. The thick walls, once bristling with gun emplacements and turrets, now lay in disrepair. The massive gates that once guarded the entrance were rusted and broken, and the rare metals that once reinforced them were now tarnished and dull. Inside the walls, the once-a-hive of activity facilities was now abandoned and overgrown with vegetation. The air was thick with the stench of decay, and the only sounds were rodents scurrying through the rubble. As I explored the ruins, I came across mounds of flesh sliced off and left on the floor, along with surgical tools that the Space Marines had used to keep their mutation in check. Clearly, the Chapter's mutation had overcome them, and they had succumbed to their hubris, leading to the downfall of 'The Mother, ' their once-great fortress-monastery. Founding Lore N ightfall descends upon my thoughts as I inscribe the dark history of the Chapter onto data-slates. Once heralded for their unrivalled gene-seed manipulation techniques, the Adeptus Astartes of this Chapter possessed hyper-regeneration abilities, granting them a formidable advantage on the battlefield. They blossomed in strength and influence, emerging as an indomitable force amidst the vast expanse of the galaxy. Their valour blazed like a nova as they fearlessly positioned themselves at the forefront of the most brutal conflicts, shielding their brethren of the Emperor from grievous harm. Their unwavering courage garnered immense admiration from fellow brother chapters, who held them in the highest regard. Yet, as the wheels of time turned, the growing trove of data collected by the Adeptus Biologis unveiled a disconcerting truth. Once believed to be infallible, the once lauded gene-seed manipulation techniques began to reveal signs of inherent fragility. Mutations and anomalies seeped into the ranks of the Space Marines, kindling apprehension within the Chapter's training cadre of Doom Eagles. Wounds and battle scars, once testimonies to their resilience, now festered with excess adipose tissue and scarred flesh, trapping perspiration, filth, and pathogens. Festering sores and minor infections burgeoned, fueling rampant skin growth and cellular regeneration. Their mobility became hampered, and in dire instances, some brothers could no longer don their revered grey suits of power armour. Though we endeavoured to quell the mutations, our efforts proved futile as the taint spread relentlessly. Piles of flesh excised from the afflicted Space Marines and the implements of surgical intervention employed to impede their degradation became commonplace sights within the Chapter's halls. As the mutations burgeoned and metastasised, the Chapter's once-glowing reputation dimmed to a pallid hue. Fellow Space Marine Chapters regarded them cautiously, wary of their unstable nature. Even their closest allies distanced themselves, reluctant to be associated with the shadow now cast upon the Chapter. A once-promising beacon in the firmament of the galaxy now teetered on the precipice, desperately struggling to retain its waning power and influence. Gene-Seed K neeling here in my laboratory, encircled by the instruments of my trade, I cannot help but reflect on the calamity that my creation has unleashed upon the galaxy. For you see, I am the mastermind behind one of the accursed Chapters of Adeptus Astartes that currently afflicts the Imperium. Keenly, I utilized Guilliman's gene-seed as the cornerstone of my work, yet I dared to manipulate the Ossmodula gland, responsible for augmenting bone density and muscular development, to forge a distinct prowess called Hyper-Regeneration. This ability, combined with the disciplined training and strategies of the Adeptus Astartes, was meant to elevate them as one of the most dreaded and revered Chapters in the cosmos. Alas, my ambition blinded me to the perils that awaited. Kindled far beyond my foresight, the gland became a maelstrom of hyperactivity, subjecting the cursed warriors to mutations and aberrations beyond mortal comprehension. How it escalated so uncontrollably, I cannot say. Whispers of conspiracy permeated the ranks, with some alleging that their disfigurements were not the result of some mysterious curse but rather my own ignorance of the truth. They accused the clandestine selective breeding by the planet's elite, embedding aspirants harbouring an array of incompatible genetic codes into the process, thus sowing the seeds of this cursed Chapter. The cursed warriors and the planet's governors found themselves besieged by doubt and trepidation as they pondered the true origin of their affliction. Was their fate preordained by their own kin? Were they mere pawns in a grander scheme, deployed to test the boundaries of possibility? In their bleakest hours, some even questioned if they were the fruits of a deranged Magos' failed experiment, a living embodiment of the consequences of tampering with life's essence. Once an emblem of the Imperium's might, the Ultramarine gene-seed had transmuted into a font of horror and desolation. My creation had birthed a Chapter that starkly contradicted Guilliman's and the Emperor's intentions. The accursed warriors were now feared and abhorred; their existence serves as a chilling reminder of the perils inherent in meddling with the very tapestry of existence. Recruitment E erily, as I contemplate my creations, I am engulfed by horror and remorse. The endeavour to recruit for the accursed Chapter commenced innocuously enough, selecting solely the most formidable aspirants from the elite of Aberrantia. However, as their hyper-regeneration burgeoned in might, the rituals became increasingly macabre. Embracing one such rite, christened 'The March,' was initially meant to inflict harm upon the aspirants, allowing the Apothecaries to refine their healing arts. They were compelled to traverse a treacherous path towards The Mother while burdened with a weighty load upon their backs, confronting obstacles and perils. Those who reached the journey's end without faltering or relinquishing their burden were deemed deserving of initiation. Embarking upon the path of the initiate, they were subjected to the Enigmatic Rite of the Pierced Flesh, which entailed enduring confinement within a Dread Casket without a single flinch or cry of anguish. This was a testament to their strength, resilience, and newfound regenerative abilities. The Dread Casket was a macabre contraption that instilled dread in all who beheld it. Resembling a cold, black coffin adorned with jagged spikes and hooks lining its interior, its exterior bore intricate designs depicting contorted and tormented souls, further heightening the pervasive sense of foreboding. Its cramped and uncomfortable interior ensured that no part of the victim's body remained unimpaled by the malicious spikes. The casket was meticulously sealed with latches and locks, ensuring the captive's inescapability. The scars left by the Dread Casket were indelible, worn as badges of honour by the Brethren of this woeful Chapter. As I retrospectively survey these abhorrent rituals, I cannot evade the weight of responsibility for the abominable creations I have wrought. The ramifications of playing deity with the very essence of life have proven to be profoundly terrifying. Chapter Doctrine and Faith N ever had I witnessed a more eerie spectacle than the one unfolding before my eyes, a ghastly ritual enacted by the members of my accursed creation. It was known as The Reclamation of the Body,' a sombre custom entailing the severing of the grotesque growths that sprouted from their flesh, a consequence of the unbridled expansion of their Ossmodula gland. This self-inflicted mutilation had become deeply ingrained in their beliefs, serving as a testament to their sacrifice and unwavering dedication to the Emperor. The atmosphere surrounding the ceremony was heavy with solemnity, casting a shroud of reverence upon the Brothers. With unyielding conviction, they embraced the belief that the excision of these growths was essential to better serve the Emperor and the Imperium. Regarded as a physical manifestation of the Chapter's affliction, the distorted tumours held symbolic significance. Through their removal, the Brothers sought to purify themselves of their wretched state, seeking absolution from their cursed existence. Before commencing the ritual, each Brother prepared himself, both in body and spirit, mentally steeling himself for the agony ahead. With grim determination, he took hold of his blade, its cold steel glinting in the dim light, and embarked on severing the malignant growths. Every incision was executed meticulously, a delicate dance to avoid harming vital organs or inducing excessive bleeding. As the Brother sliced away the tumours, his lips moved in silent supplication, uttering prayers and mantras beseeching the Emperor for strength and guidance. In their eyes, the torment and shedding of blood during the Reclamation of the Body assumed the form of penance, a means to atone for their accursed state. The Brothers embraced this suffering willingly, convinced that it was an indispensable path to absolution and an enhanced capacity to serve their divine sovereign. Upon completing the sombre rite, the Brother purified himself in a ritualistic bath, cleansing away the traces of blood and agony that clung to his weary form. Clad once more in his formidable armour, he emerged transformed, a symbol of resilience and dedication. The meticulously collected tumours were consigned to the purifying flames, their ashen remnants scattered by the whims of the wind, an outward sign of the Brother's purification and renewed purpose. The Reclamation of the Body stood as a potent symbol of the Cursed Chapter's unyielding fealty to the Emperor, a testament to their unwavering resolve to endure any torment in service of the Imperium. They sought absolution in their morbid devotion and tireless sacrifice, even amidst the darkest shadows that haunted their existence. The pain and suffering the members of the Cursed Chapter endured while cutting off their tumours would become a form of penance for their cursed state. They believed that their mutation was a punishment for some unknown sin, and the act of self-mutilation was a way to atone for their perceived wrongdoing. It was a painful and bloody ritual, but they endured with stoic resolve, seeing it as a necessary step in their journey towards redemption and purity. Cutting off their tumours symbolised their devotion to the Emperor, a way to show their unwavering loyalty and dedication to the Imperium. In their moments of introspection, the members of my Curs'ed Chapter found themselves bargaining with their fate, seeking a path to salvation. They yearned to be released from the burden of their mutation, to be free of the physical and emotional pain it brought upon them. They pleaded with the Emperor, offering their pain and suffering as a payment, a sacrifice to prove their worthiness of redemption. They believed they could bargain with their bodies through self-mutilation, negotiating for deliverance from their cursed state. With every slice of the blade, they hoped to buy a moment of respite, a chance to glimpse a future where they could serve the Emperor without the weight of their mutation dragging them down. Their ritualistic self-mutilation became a desperate plea, an attempt to find a way to regain their former glory and purity. They clung to the belief that their devotion and sacrifice would be rewarded and their suffering would not be in vain. It was a delicate balance between acceptance and resistance as they navigated the fine line between embracing their mutation as a gift and seeking a release from its shackles. In this bargaining stage, Brothers sought solace in their pain, viewing it as a currency to be traded for redemption. Their determination to overcome their cursed state and unwavering loyalty to the Emperor drove them forward, propelling them through the darkest depths of their suffering. And with each ritualistic act of self-mutilation, they clung to the hope that their pleas would be heard and their sacrifice would lead them to salvation. Despite the unmistakable weight of their disfigurement, the burden their mutation imposed upon their physical forms, the Chapter finally came to embrace an extraordinary conviction: to view their affliction not as a curse but as a necessary sacrifice bestowed upon them to better serve the Emperor. It was a perspective that set them apart, as they perceived their condition as a sacred gift, a divine bestowal that granted them unparalleled regenerative abilities, transforming them into fearsome warriors upon the blood-soaked stage of the battle. "O felix mutatio! Da nobis virtutem superare hostes nostros et in sanguine eorum gaudere!" Over time, the Chapter transformed the soul, gradually shifting their perception of their existence. What had once been met with trepidation and attempts at suppression gradually evolved into acceptance and reverence. Their mutated forms, once sources of anguish and despair, now became symbols of devotion, emblematic of their unyielding dedication to the Emperor and the Imperium. In the deepest recesses of their hearts, the Chapter began to believe that their mutation was not an aberration but a manifestation of the Emperor's divine will. They saw it as a peculiar mark of distinction, a sacred touch that set them apart from their brethren and endowed them with a formidable advantage. Their regenerative capabilities, honed to a razor's edge, elevated them to living weapons capable of enduring wounds that would cripple ordinary mortals and recover with astonishing swiftness. This newfound belief infused their ranks with a profound sense of purpose. They no longer fought against their mutation but embraced it as an integral part of their identity. Their physical deformities became a badge of honour, a testament to their unwavering loyalty and the Emperor's chosen path for them. Through their acceptance, the Brothers of the Cursed Chapter found solace and a renewed sense of belonging, no longer plagued by doubts or haunted by the spectre of their cursed existence. In the face of adversity, they drew strength from their shared conviction. The pain and suffering they endured, the excruciating process of self-mutilation and the weight of their unique burdens were embraced as holy rites, acts of devotion and sacrifice. Each slice of the blade upon their flesh was imbued with meaning, a testament to their unyielding faith and commitment to the Emperor's cause. As their acceptance grew, so too did their unity. They stood as a resolute brotherhood, bound by their shared mutation and their unshakeable belief in the divine purpose it served. Their once fragmented souls had fused into a collective will, an unbreakable resolve that propelled them forward, undeterred by the scorn of others. Deep within their hearts, they knew that their path was chosen, and their journey, though marred by suffering, was one of unswerving devotion and unwavering service. The Chapter had transitioned from a state of resistance to acceptance, transforming their perceived curse into a sacred mantle. They stood as living testaments to the Emperor's mysterious designs, finding strength and purpose in the aspect others deemed monstrous. They had become an embodiment of faith, a living testament to the indomitable spirit that resided within them. And with each passing day, their belief in their divine purpose burned brighter, casting aside the shadows of doubt and illuminating the path ahead. Tactical Imperatives S ummoned forth from the depths of forbidden knowledge, the curse that haunts the Chapter has woven itself intricately into the tapestry of their combat doctrine. It moulds their strategies, strengths, and vulnerabilities on the battlefield, imbuing their actions with themes of resilience, sacrifice, and unyielding determination arising from their tormented existence. Swathed in the shroud of adversity, their resilience is a testament to their wretched nature. The grotesque mutations etched upon their forms grant them a fortitude beyond mortal ken. They endure, defying the limitations of flesh and bone, bearing wounds that would crumble lesser beings. Through pain and anguish, they forge ahead, unyielding in their pursuit of victory. Like a relentless tempest, they weather the storm of battle, their tenacity unmatched. In sacrifice lies their grim purpose. Their bodies become the altar they offer themselves for the greater good. Their plight, a macabre offering, drives them to protect their comrades at any cost. They cast themselves into the fray, bearing the weight of the enemy's fury upon their mutated frames, shielding their kin from harm. Their existence embodies selflessness, a living sacrifice for the Imperium's cause. From the crucible of affliction, their determination emerges unyielding. The curse, a constant reminder of their wretched fate, fuels their unwavering resolve. In the face of insurmountable odds, they stand firm, unflinching. Their souls were aflame with an undying passion; they pressed forward, their hearts resolute, their spirits unbreakable. No obstacle can deter them; no setback can extinguish the fire that burns within their malformed souls. Adapting to their twisted forms, their combat doctrine evolves. They wield their physical bulk as a weapon, a monstrous force unleashed upon the enemy's ranks. Their movements, slow yet purposeful, are calculated and precise, leveraging their mass to crush all who oppose them. Through the perverse blessings of regeneration, they endure protracted battles, wearing down their adversaries with a grim determination. Each scar upon their flesh becomes a testament to their resilience, a mark of endurance etched upon their very beings. The Chapter's combat doctrine takes shape in the dark realm where science melds with abomination. It is a grotesque symphony of resilience, sacrifice, and unyielding determination, played out upon the stage of war. They find strength, purpose, and an unparalleled capacity to endure through the curse that plagues them. Though shunned and reviled, they march forward, their existence a chilling reminder of the depths to which humanity can descend in its relentless pursuit of power. Chapter Master T ouched by unwavering loyalty and fueled by unyielding determination, Captain Lucian Tiberius of the Doom Eagles emerged as a shining example amidst the inception of this abhorrent creation. However, as the magnitude of its horror became undeniable, he found himself compelled to make a fateful decision—to renounce his oath as Chapter Master and embark on a solemn pilgrimage back to his origins, driven by the sole purpose of purging the Galaxy from the abomination I had unleashed. Clad in his resplendent grey power armour adorned with intricate symbols of devotion, he embodies the spirit of self-sacrifice and resilience that defined the Chapter so quickly in those early days. Lucian's towering figure, marked by battle scars and the weight of his responsibilities, commands respect and inspires awe among his brethren. His noble countenance reflected a steadfast resolve and unwavering dedication to the Emperor and the Imperium. His piercing blue eyes, hardened by countless trials, reveal both the weight of his burdens and the fire of his righteous fury. With a tactical mind honed through years of warfare, Lucian possessed a brilliant strategic and political mind that allowed him to navigate the treacherous path of leading this doomed Chapter. His ability to analyse complex battle scenarios, anticipate enemy movements, and adapt swiftly to changing circumstances has earned him the admiration of his brothers and the respect of his allies. Lucian's charisma and commanding presence made him a natural leader, inspiring his warriors to push beyond their limits and face the horrors of their mutation with unwavering courage. He led by example wherever possible, charging fearlessly into the heart of the fray, his thunderous strikes and unyielding determination inspiring his brothers to follow suit. But it is Lucian's unshakeable faith in the righteousness of their cause that truly sets him apart. Despite the burdens imposed by their cursed state, his conviction in his belief that their mutation was a punishment for a sin sent from the Emperor, a trial to redeem their resolve and commitment to his service, he almost willed into existence. He tirelessly emphasised the importance of their duty to protect the Imperium, instilling in his brethren a sense of purpose and a belief that their suffering has a higher meaning. I know of no greater soldier than he. His conviction was true until the end when he led the charge with unwavering resolve alongside the Doom Eagles against the monsters they had become. Lucian Tiberius was a living embodiment of what the Chapter's values could have been; a symbol of hope and a testament to the power of faith and resilience in the face of adversity. The Fall E thereal unease engulfs me as I witness the dreadful transformation unfolding before my eyes. The once noble Brothers of the chapter, now ensnared in the clutches of this grotesque affliction, find themselves condemned to a wretched metamorphosis. With each passing moment, their corporeal forms, once defined by strength and purpose, contort into an abomination of flesh. Twisted and warped, their bodies become host to engorged masses of repulsive tissue, a grotesque manifestation of malignant growths and bulging protrusions. These deformities sprawl across their once proud frames, engendering both a morbid fascination and deep repulsion within me. Their every movement is now imprisoned within the confines of their own monstrous bulk, their once agile forms reduced to immobility under the weight of their mutations. Limbs, once crafted for precision and honed in the crucible of warfare, writhe in twisted agony, their true essence obscured in a state of perpetual distortion. They have become mere caricatures of their former glory, trapped within their grotesque and torturous existence. The torment inflicted upon them extends beyond physical affliction. Their lungs, distorted and misshapen, strain beneath the weight of their burgeoning growths. The air they inhale, thick with the stench of decay and putrescence, is a fleeting resource. The once indomitable Brothers, champions of resilience, are reduced to gasping for each breath, their inevitable suffocation looming ever closer. In their final moments, muted screams escape their disfigured mouths, suffocated by the fleshy encasement that has claimed them. Despair and agony reflect in their glazed eyes, witnessing their flesh devouring them from within. The pulsating tumours, fueled by a malevolent force, continue their unrelenting expansion, crushing vital organs and extinguishing the last flickers of life. This wretched stage, so pitiful and abhorrent, marks the initial descent of the chapter into a vortex of physical deterioration. Once celebrated warriors, the Brothers now succumb to the ravages of their uncontrollable mutations. Their demise, a tragic irony, is an embodiment of their genetic enhancements turned against them, consuming them in an unforgiving embrace. As their bodies twist and deform, their visage evokes nought but horror and revulsion from their former comrades within the Imperium. Adorned with bulging tumours and writhing flesh, they are no longer regarded as brothers-in-arms but as pariahs, an affront to the purity of the Emperor's design. The rejection they face from their once-familiar allies weighs heavily upon their already burdened souls. Isolation becomes their damning companion as they are shunned and cast aside by those who once fought alongside them. Once so steadfast, the bonds of brotherhood and camaraderie crumble in the face of their grotesque transformation. The Imperial forces keep their distance, fearful that this mutation may be contagious. They are met with fear and disgust, viewed as harbingers of corruption rather than stalwart defenders. The rejection and hostility sear deep into their psyche, plunging them further into despair and madness. Estranged from the support they once cherished, they spiral into the recesses of their tortured minds. Whispers from the warp invade their thoughts, sowing seeds of doubt and malevolence. Like fragile glass, their sanity shatters under the relentless weight of despair. Alas, no reinforcements come to their aid. The mutation that consumes them is a secret they bear alone. They confront the horrors of their existence, abandoned by the Imperium they swore to protect. It is a harrowing truth that entwines their fate with hopelessness and despair. The realization settles, heavy and unyielding, that they are condemned to face this insidious mutation alone. Desperation engulfs them, fueled by the primal instinct to survive. The remaining Brothers, forsaking all bonds of brotherhood, turn upon each other with savage ferocity. Honour and loyalty hold no sway as they engage in brutal battles, driven solely by the need to ensure their own preservation. Within this frenzied state, violence becomes the catalyst that ignites their mutations into a savage frenzy. Every blow struck, every life taken, breathes perverse vitality into their twisted flesh. Once contained and grotesque, the mutations now thrive and multiply at an alarming pace. Their growth accelerates with each act of brutality, a gruesome testament to their descent into darkness. Once proud warriors, they merge into a nightmarish assemblage of limbs, appendages, and seething tumours. The fallen Brothers become building blocks for their mutated brethren, assimilated into the monstrous masses that roam the chapter's ranks. The unity and brotherhood they once cherished lie shattered and forgotten. In this wretched stage, the chapter becomes a tableau of internecine conflict. No longer driven by noble disagreements, their battles devolve into a grotesque struggle for dominance. The mutated monstrosities tear through the ranks ruthlessly, guided by their insatiable hunger and the instinct to overpower one another. Friend and foe become indistinguishable in this macabre spectacle of carnage. Unity and honour, once their guiding lights, crumble beneath desperation. Survival at any cost eclipses the noble ideals they once upheld. They have become savage beasts locked in a brutal fight for existence in a world that has forsaken them. Amidst this despair, a ray of hope emerges as their former Chapter Master, Lucian Tiberius, returns to lead the charge. Alongside the Doom Eagles, he marshals an extermination force with one singular purpose: to eradicate the mutated Brothers and cleanse the stain of their existence. The arrival of Lucian Tiberius, a figure once revered and respected, sparks a fragile glimmer of relief among the surviving Imperial forces. His presence promises an end to the grotesque horrors that have plagued the chapter. In the face of despair, they cling to this fleeting thread of optimism, yearning for liberation from the torment endured. Together, Lucian Tiberius and the Doom Eagles unleash a relentless assault. Their firepower and martial prowess converge upon the twisted ranks of the mutated chapter, each strike infused with a fervent desire to end their suffering and bring closure to this dark chapter of history. Yet, despite their combined might and unwavering determination, the mutated Brothers prove a formidable adversary. Their grotesque flesh and unholy resilience grant them an uncanny resistance to destruction. The battle rages on, the clash of blade and bolter echoing across the scarred landscape, but victory remains elusive. As the conflict escalates and the cost rises, a grim realization settles upon the battlefield. The combined force of Lucian Tiberius and the Doom Eagles is insufficient to fully extinguish the twisted presence of the mutated chapter. Faced with no alternative, a desperate decision is made. The planet, the very stage upon which this gruesome chapter met its downfall, is condemned to utter annihilation. The Exterminatus order is issued, and the Atmospheric Incinerator Torpedoes rain upon the doomed world, consuming it in an all-consuming inferno. In the cataclysmic conflagration that ensues, the mutated chapter is obliterated. Nought remains, but smouldering ruins and fading echoes. The pain and agony they endured, the abominations they became, are finally extinguished. The haunting silence that descends upon the scorched remnants of their proud fortress-monastery signals the end of an era. Amidst the aftermath, a bittersweet sense of relief washes over the survivors and witnesses of the chapter's grisly demise. The torment has ended, and the darkness that once engulfed their lives is lifted. The sacrifices made, the battles fought, and the unimaginable horrors endured will forever be etched in their memories. They serve as a solemn reminder of the price paid to rid the galaxy of such a twisted aberration. Ultimately, the chapter's tragic tale concludes with resounding finality. Their name is forever lost to the annals of time. Known only to me as My Curs'ed. The pain and despair that plagued them, the noble ideals corrupted by the monstrous transformation, are laid to rest. Their legacy, once one of honour and heroism, is forever marred by the grotesque fate that befell them. A grim reminder echoes through the annals of the Imperium, warning of the horrors that can befall even the noblest of warriors. Aftermath In the aftermath of the chapter's catastrophic fall and the cruel Exterminatus that befell them and their cherished homeworld, the once-proud warriors, who once stood tall and resolute, are now nought but remnants of an extinguished flame. Their valor and might reduced to scattered embers, dispersed by the merciless winds of fate. In this desolate abyss of despair, where darkness reigns supreme, I, the sole repository of their memory, bear witness to their tragic tale. I, the Genator-Magos, have traversed the charred remains of their ancestral grounds, where once they stood as paragons of strength and glory. Now, all that remains are echoes, whispers carried on the cold gusts of regret. The knowledge of their existence lies solely within the confines of my burdened soul, entrusted to me as an unwelcome gift, bestowed by the cruel hand of destiny. Amidst the desolation, a flicker of a nightmarish return emerged, a mere glimmer amid the ashen wasteland. Deep range scans, conducted with trepidation and a tinge of desperation, reveal a singular artifact buried beneath the layers of desecration. A lone pauldron, battered and scorched, lies entombed within the heart of the world now cloaked in grey shroud. A symbol of a past once revered, now but a relic of a bygone era. Yet, in the depths of despair, a chilling realization descends upon my weary spirit. As I gaze upon the ravaged landscape, a shadow, elusive and enigmatic, dances amidst the ruins. A phantom of movement, defying the logic of survival, defying the very fabric of my understanding. Could it be, against all odds, that a survivor has emerged from the abyss? A solitary figure, defying the ravages of time and the merciless hand of destruction? That image, forever etched upon the tapestry of my tormented mind, shall haunt me till the end of my days. For in that fleeting moment, hope rescinded and dread intertwined, casting a veil of uncertainty over the tragedy that has unfolded. The chapter, now consumed by the flames of oblivion, may yet hold life, a spark refusing to be extinguished. And so, with trepidation and a heart burdened with responsibility, I embark upon a journey into the abyss, driven by an insatiable curiosity and the desperate need to unravel the mysteries that lie shrouded in the aftermath. In the bleakness of this forsaken realm, where life and death dance a macabre waltz, the fate of the fallen chapter hangs in the balance. What awaits me in this realm of sorrow and ruin? Only time will unveil the secrets that lie dormant, waiting to be unearthed in the ashes of their and my own shattered legacies.

Index Astartes The Basilisks Chapter “To know that our eyes are upon them must cause our enemies to be paralyzed with fear, to acknowledge the immediacy of their mortal lives. To look upon our silent gaze, they must know death, swift and sure!”-Asmodeus, 1st Serpent Lord Origins Meeting of Inquisitor Moisei and Master Kalis “Many eyes have pried into the cloying shadows of that founding, Inquisitor. Few have found what they sought. Fewer still have emerged unscathed.” The Inquisitor scoffed, but had no reply. The power armored giant chuckled again. “Don’t let my words deter you. We have the utmost interest in your…findings” Of the many Chapters birthed from the darkness of the 21st founding, few proved successful, and many were even driven swiftly to extinction. Among the enduring 'Cursed' Chapters are the Basilisks. If they were created with a specific purpose, it remains unknown. Official observers have concluded that the Basilisks are of Iron Hands descent, attested to by their doctrine, and a timely submission of gene-seed tithes. Since the time they emerged from the void no records have followed to confirm this, or give any other clues regarding their origins…which isn’t to say that no one is looking. Multiple factions within the Imperium have, in the past, questioned both the legitimacy of the Chapter’s genetic material, and its loyalty to the Emperor. Some still do. The Basilisks have, with great effort, evaded most unwanted attention, though they are still dogged from sector to sector by one Inquisitor Moisei, who has long doubted how such ‘purity’ could have emerged from the 21st Founding. The Chapter avoids as much contact with these and other Imperial Forces as possible, remaining tight-lipped under whatever scrutiny the Inquisition attempts to pursue…which has done nothing to dissuade their detractors. The Fleet Final audiolog from the pirate frigate Sorento “Is that a cruiser!? An Astartes cruiser!? You said the frigate was a Trader! Get us back to the fleet, now! Damn it all, is that another? Brace for im----” To the knowledge of the Imperium and even the Basilisks themselves, they had no world of origin. Since they were first sighted plowing through the void, no marine has set foot planetside except to do battle. The fleet is extensive, and continually grows with the addition of captured ships. These include a startlingly high concentration of Battle Barges, which despite being of a younger and smaller caliber than the venerable vessels of the Heresy, are able to give significant body to the otherwise thinly spread Basilisk fleet. The Monastery Battle Barge Serpent's Tongue and its escort are found at the heart of the fleet, where they are best able to support any engagement, while the rest of the fleet is spread in a loose, coiling line across a vast stretch of space on either side and there is no consistent course or predictability to the fleet’s movements. Constant communication is maintained from one end of the fleet to the other with as much accuracy as possible in an effort to allow fleet elements to redeploy for support as quickly as possible. The Chapter’s more frequent enemies, traitor fleets and pirates both human and xenos, have learned to attack or flee at the first sign of a Basilisk ship, as reinforcements are never far behind. In turn, the Basilisks have developed an expertise in rapid boarding actions as well as improved methods of defending smaller patrol fleets. Recruitment Survivors The Apothecary’s expression was impassive as he dressed the recruit’s wounds, stemming the open flow of blood issuing from his arm and side, while the man lay still on the table. His eyes stared straight up, unmoving. He would survive his wounds, but whether or not hypnotherapy and conditioning could get him past the mental trauma remained to be seen. The Chaplain stood looking silently on for a long time, but finally revealed his purpose. “Can you describe what you saw?” The recruit flinched; the Chaplain had undone all his effort thus far to bury the last eight hours, but he did not change his gaze. Eventually, he slowly shook his head. The Chaplain appeared to be satisfied, and turned and began walking from the room. “One final test awaits you,” The Chaplain stopped at the doorway, “Steel yourself. You will return to that ship again before your trial is over. If you are not ready, you will become what you now fear. To become one of us, you must know no fear.” The neophyte sat bolt upright, heading snapping to the doorway, but the Chaplain had gone. Falling slowly back to the table as the Apothecary grumbled at replacing the newly torn wrappings. The recruit’s gaze returned to the ceiling. Back to the ship. One more time. Like most Chapters of the Cursed Founding, the greatest challenge of the Basilisks is not victory in battle, but propagation. In order to maintain a flow of successful initiates, the Chapter takes suitable candidates en masse from liberated worlds. For the inhabitants of such worlds, it is the price paid for freedom, as the green clad Astartes move among them, claiming the choicest of their youth. No word of explanation is ever given and often the Basilisks leave a liberated world without the planet's inhabitants even knowing who they are. Few worlds visited by the Basilisks understand anything more about their visitation other than that they are purged of whatever heresy plagues them in return for however many children the marines choose to spirit away. The trials faced by recruits are among the most lethal of tests employed by Space Marines, and despite taking large numbers of prospective initiates there are very few survivors. While the exact nature of the trials is unknown, the bodies of most failed neophytes are unceremoniously jettisoned into the void, and their occasional recovery by Inquisitor Moisei has long fueled his obsessive investigation. Some of these corpses appear to have been pierced by the fangs of some great maw, others torn by man made weapons, and still others show signs of both. These aren’t unusual fates among Astartes recruits, but they do indicate that the Basilisks house some sort of creature for these trials, though no one has ever observed the Basilisks collecting any such specimens. The Chapter keeps a fairly large body of serfs, but they are maintained at a distant arms length, usually assigned to the support of ships in the fleet rather than working with battle brothers. This is the most fortunate fate to befall unfit recruits, while the dregs are augmented or turned into servitors to assist the Techmarines in their considerable work. Combat Doctrine Day 16 of the Wailing Portent Campaign For two days the rangers of Iybraesil had lain in wait, assured by the Farseer that the humans would pass this way with minimal support. While Ynarana’s banshees were too important to set aside for days at a time, they would arrive in time to mop up. Mendor and his squad were beginning to shift into ready positions as the appointed time came close, sliding the barrels of their long rifles over ledges amid the debris of the ruins, sighting down the only clear path through the area. Minutes passed, then hours. Mendor began to stretch, and sniffed as a strange scent reached his nose. He had turned part way toward the source when he felt his muscles seize up, his eyes catching sight of a small canister on the ground nearby. He couldn’t move. The ground crunched heavily beside him, but he couldn’t turn to look. What came into view first was Ynarana’s head, jaw slack, eyes sightlessly staring, hair caught in the gauntleted fist of a Space Marine. The green armored figure crouched down. “Expecting someone, witch-kin?” Issued the voice from the helmet, then the figure straightened up and Mendor saw the free hand reach for him and felt the grip on the back of his neck, pulling him easily off his feet, “Worry not. We will keep you company. We can discuss the location of your webway gates.” AAll of the Basilisks most significant actions have either been ship to ship boarding maneuvers, or targeted at planetside orbital defenses, usually aimed at creating a beachhead for other Imperial forces. The Basilisks don’t wait for support, and the forces these beacheads are intended for are usually days or even weeks behind. The Chapter has become adept at creating large, defensible groundside footholds, and loyalist forces descending on a world visited by the Basilisks will often find well stocked defenses waiting for them, though the Chapter itself is frequently gone by then. The Basilisks are extremely well suited to fighting in the cold confines of dying capital ships, as well as the shadow-pocked, rubble strewn, urban battlefields of hive worlds. Indeed, they seem to prefer such restrictive environments. On a larger scale, the fleet of the Basilisks feels like an omnipresent threat to enemies of the Chapter or the Imperium, for wherever there is one ship there are not only several more close at hand, but virtually half the fleet can redeploy to an engagement before within short order of the commencement of hostilities. In fleet engagements, their ships seek to close quickly to boarding distance, from multiple angles if possible, in order to disable and capture enemy vessels before they can react, after which said ships are usually used against the very planet or fleet they had defended. One favored tactic involves covertly introducing a paralytic nerve agent into an enemy vessel’s environmental systems, leaving entire crews helplessly at the Basilisk's mercy, which is, at best a quick shot to the head and at worst a one-way trip to the airlock. Basilisk attacks can be quick, or prolonged, according to the adaptability of the Codex and tactics inspired by the creature for which the Chapter is named. The initial strike of any Basilisk force is aimed at forcing the enemy to dig in, whether by pinning them with hails of ranged fire or holding them in place with bloody assaults. If this fails the strike force will fall back, regroup, and repeat the attempt until successful. As soon as the Basilisk force has ‘caught hold’ of the enemy, they move to surround them. Usually this is done by drop pod assault into the enemy’s rear rather than redeployment of ground forces, but fast moving tactical units have effectively fenced in target forces on many occasions. Once surrounded, the Basilisks either grind the foe into oblivion with steady and unrelenting fire, supported by assault units that flush out entrenched targets, or the Chapter may employ an orbital bombardment, destroying everything within their grip. If said grip should be broken, or the enemy can’t be held down long enough to surround, the Basilisk force will withdraw, usually to make an attempt from another angle. The Chapter does not move or fight with such fluidity on an open battleground, and their tactics are far less effective in pitched battle situations. At these times the Basilisks are more likely to break off the attack and seek to engage the enemy in an area more of their choosing, or to bleed them with endless hit-and-run attacks that drain the enemy of vitality each time. What few Scouts they employ are adepts of sabotage, especially using poisons. Where this proves ineffective, such as against the multi-filtered nervous and digestive system of other marines, more direct means are used, such as explosives. Sabotage like that is usually aimed at enemy ammunition supplies and armor. In more urgent situations, or especially if striking at a port or manufactorum, the enemy may be shelled using the same gaseous nerve agent employed in their boarding actions in an effort to minimize damage to salvageable assets. The tactic is often looked down on as cowardice by other Astartes, but the Basilisks are either oblivious to the stigma or simply don't care. Individually, most Basilisk marines favor close combat, and most of their extensive bionics are optimized for it. While the majority of these enhancements and prosthetics are still covered by armor, some Basilisks make frequent use of digital weapons and so sacrifice armor to better facilitate cooling. Veterans invariably possess the most bionic replacements. Organization Despite the size of its recruitment pool, it appears the Chapter has never grown far beyond six hundred marines in strength. Even so they have proved on multiple occasions to be willing to commit up to three hundred marines to an engagement without hesitation, and within a reasonably short space of time. These marines usually come from the three nearly full strength only Battle Companies, spaced roughly evenly throughout the fleet. Their remaining marines are distributed across six half sized Reserve Companies, usually lingering near the Monastery Barge. The Basilisks are, despite their numbers, fairly Codex adherent, with only a few variations in their naming conventions. The Chapter Master is known as the Serpent Lord, and no other power in the Chapter, individual or group, is equal to his. As in any other Astartes Chapter, he is indisputably the strongest marine among them, physically and mentally, perhaps even more so considering how long the Serpent Lords tend to live. At the turn of each generation thus far, caused each time by the death of the Master in battle, the Chapter disappears and is lost even to the unclosing eye of the Inquisition. When it next appears, usually not for decades, the Chapter is markedly weaker for a time. Twice they have fallen to less than two hundred marines. This too usually lasts a few decades. The cause for this decline is also a mystery. The current Chapter Master is Serpent Lord Sicariss, who has been the head of the Basilisks for well over three and a half centuries. The Basilisks have not looked favorably on the Ultima Founding. When they were called upon to augment their ranks with Primaris marines, they responded with silence, and seem to avoid joining with Primaris chapters on the battlefield. The Head Transfusion The doors to the Serpent Lord’s chambers sealed with a hiss, leaving the black and gilded casket sitting in the center of the darkened room. After several moments of silenced, a whirring and hum of power announced the activation of a pair of servitors recessed into a wall. One, some sort of surgical servitor, approached the casket, while the other, which appeared to be a Historitor, moved toward the bank of screens and monitors that dominated the wall across from the casket. Deft mechanical appendages keyed several panels, deactivating and reactivating several screens, and moving subtly hidden levers and switches. A few seconds later the wall split and opened, revealing an alcove, softly lit by the glow of the translucent screens still suspended in front of it. The light fell on a whispering, shifting form, a humanoid bound and connected to the wall behind it by cables and chains, all sallow skin and exposed circuitry. The historitor reached out to a plinth over which this hidden servitor was held, metal digits skittering across it. The sound of sparks and buzzing current came from the mess of cables and cords, and the figure twitched and jerked briefly, before its unintelligible burbles and whispers were replaced with a single, low hum, almost musical to hear. At this, the historitor settle back on mechanical haunches and quieted, waiting. Behind it, the surgical servitor had unsealed and opened the casket, and with drills, saws and scalpels was peeling back layers of skin, muscle and bone on the figure within. It worked methodically, ceaselessly, slowly extricating wires and circuitry from the now faceless cranium. Eventually, whether hours or days later, the continuous monotone of the hidden servitor pitched up for a moment and then went silent, at which the historitor stirred and straightened, eyes abnormally attentive. A rasping, modulated voice issued from the hanging form. “Report.” The response came from the historitor, but the voice and cadence was not that of a lobotomized servant. “Scitalis has expired on the battlefield of Pharsalia, my lord. The Basilisks are entering dormancy.” “The Chain Node?” The supposed historitor turned to look at the surgical servitor, which stood in active over the casket, a mesh of fine wires and organic components held in one claw. Turning back, the strange servant answered. “Intact.” “Well done, Li-Char. We will begin preparing potential successors,” the voice answered, “Rendezvous coordinates forthcoming. To the coming of the True Omnissiah.” “To the coming of the True Omnissiah.” Beliefs Volcanic Deathworld Cerregra The feed from the servo-skull was spotty, marred by static bursts and light flares from the lava below. A group of Astartes stood beside the molten river, several of them gesturing upstream, while one was kneeling by a device on the bank. Presently, they stood and trotted off further downstream. Moisei did not send the skull to follow immediately, but as the visual began to shudder, he realized he should have. The drone turned to see some sort of detonation erupt on the side of the ashmount, and the lava flow immediately swelled, doubling, and then tripling in size, until a veritable wave of lava was rolling down the mountainside. There was a heatbloom in the feed as the skull tried to escape, and then the connection was lost. Moisei sighed, pushing away from the monitor in frustration. What were they after on this hellscape, these supposed sons of the Gorgon? And how many servo-skulls was it going to take to find out. There appear to be two tiers to the belief system of the Basilisks. The first echoes the Iron Hands mantra of Purge the Weak, with a slightly more progressive approach: a doctrine known as Shed the Weak. According to the Basilisks, the transformation familiar to Iron Hands and their successors for millennia is a natural order of evolution prompted by the very first advent of technology. They believe that humanity may ‘grow into’ this changed and improved form over time, which progression is based on merit. The first thing shed by every Basilisk upon initiation is his given name, and after induction, the traditional right hand of Manus’ sons. From then on, augmentations and bionic replacements are earned. Should a marine suffer a wound or lose a limb on the battlefield without having proven his worth, he will not be saved except for his invaluable geneseed, and is considered as shed weakness. This much is known because the Basilisks have, in the past, allowed Imperial agents unrestricted access to their regular rites in an attempt to dissuade Inquisitorial attention, and these rites clearly suggest another level of doctrine among the Basilisks. This other ‘tier’ of beliefs is repeatedly mentioned during regular rites, in the oratories of their Chaplains. What this second tier is exactly is unknown to any but the brothers of the Chapter, and is referred to simply as The Quest. Every marine seems to be aware of its meaning since both Initiates and Veterans are present when the Chaplains are relaying its urgency and significance, and all those who are present respond with equal fervor. This suggests that the knowledge is planted along with the 19 organs, during hypnotherapy, and this process has always been strictly prohibited from outside view. The truth of The Quest is surprisingly simple, something of an evolution of a belief common among the Gorgon’s sons, that one day the Primarch may return. The Basilisks don’t espouse this exact belief, but rather they believe that the bearers of the Iron Hands legacy must become as their Primarch, believing that to do so requires not only mastery of the mechanical, but the literal hands of Ferrus Manus. The Quest, in essence, is a search for the spawn of Asirnoth, which the Basilisks are convinced exists somewhere in the galaxy, and can grant them the power of the Primarch, or in other words, return His power to the Imperium. Where this belief originated is unclear, but it accounts for the haste with which they answer any call from a world with remotely volcanic activity, which has been the only pattern ever detected in their fleet movements. Though he has little to no support among other Inquisitors, Moisei has long investigated the Basilisks because of these strange beliefs coupled with rumors of the Basilisks attacking and destroying young Chapters under the banner of perceived Chaos influence, only to claim the remaining fleet assets for their Quest. The most substantiated occasion involved a newly gathered Ork invasion which sprung up in the Heltoez system, only a subsector from the volcanic homeworld of the young Ash Eagles Chapter. Though the Greenskin invasion saw to it that surviving records were scarce, sources suggested that when the Basilisks ‘answered’ the call for help, their ships orbited the planet, guns and launch bays still, for two and a half weeks while the Ash Eagles scoured wave after wave of Greenskin hordes, and were ultimately ground down to less than half a company. After the Basilisks joined battle, the conflict was decisively ended, but the Eagles were lost while the Basilisks left with all the fledgling Chapter’s fleet elements. For Moisei, the mere possibility that this transpired is more than enough evidence that the Chapter has turned from the Emperor’s light, while others, who he derides as ‘charmed by the snake’ question how or why the Eagles wouldn’t have conveyed such damning evidence of treachery to anyone. The appearance of the Cicatrix Maledictum seems to have fueled the urgency of the Basilisk’s quest, and they now traverse the Dark Imperium erratically, smashing aside resistance of any form as they scour sector after sector for clues to the location of Asirnoth’s kin. New rumors have risen about the Imperial costs of the Basilisk’s campaign; supplies and materiel that has been more raided than commandeered, PDFs abandoned in the middle of battle with chaos forces, and worse. Gene-seed The genetic material of the Basilisks is severely mutated, the cause of their thin numbers and low rate of implantation success. Extensive genetic manipulation during the gene-seed’s growth would have been required to arrive at the functionality of an average Basilisk marine, and the fact that they display any genetic stability at all is a testament to Mechanicus handiwork and not the simple passage of time. For any other founding of marines, this would be great cause for alarm, but among the marines of the Cursed Founding, signs of deliberate mutation among essential Space Marine organs is more the rule than the exception. The first significant change is in the Occulobe. Basilisks do not have the hypersensitive eye-sight of other Adeptus Astartes, nor can they see as clearly at range. However, Basilisk marines can make use of frighteningly accurate vision on the thermal spectrum without the use of a filter of any kind, making them especially lethal urban hunters. Their second mutation is of the Neuroglittis which has been so overcharged that a marine need only open his mouth to taste what is before him. With chemical injector augmentations, usually one of the first received by most Basilisks, the Neuroglittis can be used to track scents at an alarming distance, when eyes might fail. The final mutation is of the Mucranoid, which produces a thicker, tougher than usual covering, allowing marines to last longer than usual in the vacuum, as well as decreasing the effects of harsh elements. Basilisk marines customarily force the Mucranoid covering to form after each augmentation, only removing it to replace a broken layer, or at the time of the next shedding. The layer formed is almost completely covering, and requires the placing of a rebreather as well as spacers and seals over the eyes and ears, though these are fairly simple to integrate. Such advanced mutation would attract Mechanicus attention were it not for the campaign of carefully spread rumors by Chapter serfs, exaggerating the staggeringly low success rate of implantation, the weakened Occulobe and insinuating a completely absent Neuroglittis. Once perpetuated, these rumors left the Adeptus Mechanicus with little interest in digging deeper, content to simply receive the Chapter’s tithe. The misinformation has not, however, dissuaded the Basilisk’s “resident” Inquisitor. There is no official knowledge of any further mutation among the Basilisks, despite the ample opportunities to study them, as their fallen marines are so frequently left on the battlefield. Even those suitable for dreadnought interment are rarely saved. The damning truth is that the Basilisks are far more genetically unstable, only very skilled at hiding it. The Chapter’s progenoids mature normally enough, and so tithes of it have not betrayed them yet. Pinning down the source of the mutation has proved impossible, but in most cases the full complement of organs together causes aspirants to grow well beyond standard Astartes size, turning them into voracious and cannibalistic predators. The engineered enhancements appearing in normal Basilisk marines are greatly intensified in these monsters, giving them hides which have been seen stopping bolter rounds, and supernal hunting senses. If the Chapter were ever forced to subject to true Inquisitorial investigation, discovery would be likely be immediate. In an effort to cull these aberrations, one ship out of the fleet is designated for the implantation process. Fortifying the medbay into a bunker, and equipped with a trap door, each aspirant that succumbs to the mutation is dropped into a lower chamber and released into the ship. It is this same vessel where recruits face their trials: to outhunt and destroy these nameless beasts. Survivors learn what it really is that they defeated after successfully receiving the last organ, and from then on are sworn to silence. Battle-cry The Basilisks offer no call or outwardly audible sound at all when in battle .

Hello all, I'm LamenterMarine and I'm an addict. I know I'm an addict because I have more GW product that I can I need, I even have three baneblades in my loft still in the cellophane wrappers. I know what you are thinking....he has so much he has to keep it in the loft.....well yes. Anyway, some of you may have seen my blog in the Blood Angels sub-forum and you can follow the link in my sig to see what has gone before now (though I wouldn't bother). I have decided to abandon my blog and move to the WIP forum instead so you will find it harder to ignore my incessant posts. So that's the writing stuff done. Time to show you the goodies... The makings of my counts as attack bike squadron - these are my effort at replicating the Rapier Laser Destroyer: Current WIP Tactical Squad And something mostly painted: So welcome to my new hole in the wall.....