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Index Astartes: Prædicators Origins Brother Norusz' I n the murky annals of antiquity, when the ethereal mists of fear enshrouded the realm, an accursed chronicle emerged, recounting the dread era known as the Year of the Ghosts. It was during these harrowing times that the High Lords of Terra, in their sinister wisdom, decreed the founding of a Chapter, drawn from the twisted lineage of the Silver Skulls, that unhallowed brood begotten by Guilliman's bloodline. Thadru Hucno, known as 'The Void Herald,' was anointed as the inaugural Lord Commander of this accursed assemblage. A man ensnared by his own superstitions, he would, with maddening regularity, utter incantations into the abyss, entranced by the divinations of his soothsayers. From this dread practice sprang the Chapter's name, inscribed in the ancient tongues of High Gothic. This nascent Chapter birthed alongside their enigmatic brethren, was ordained to supplant the eleven Legions that plunged the Segmentum Pacificus into a maelstrom of anarchy, their souls branded Traitoris Perdita during the calamitous War of the False Primarch. Only the most stable strains of gene stock were handpicked to prevent the recurrence of events that birthed an epoch-spanning conflict. The exact number of Chapters formed alongside the Inanis Prædicators remains a shrouded enigma, for many records perished during those turbulent days, lost amidst the labyrinthine halls of the Administratum. Most of the Chapters originating from this secretive genesis adhered rigorously to the organizational and tactical tenets of the revered Codex Astartes. Though akin to the myriad hosts numbering one thousand, the Prædicators, too, attached partially to the scriptures of the Codex yet possessed an ominous penchant for straying from its lesser edicts. Thadru Hucno, incepting the Praedicators on a path that continues to extend for over seven millennia, bestowed upon them an icy reputation that permeates the tapestry of the Imperium. Since their inception, they have embraced a desolate and fatalistic perspective on the plight of mankind, a sombre outlook borne of arcane and abhorrent knowledge that burdens their souls. The harbingers of Hucno's prophetic visions wage war to defy the inescapable, lamenting the exorbitant toll exacted in the face of meagre triumphs against the enemies that beset the Imperium. Yet, they persevere, for that is their irrevocable purpose, etched into their very being. It began a few years after their inception when brethren devoid of psychic predisposition began enduring vivid hallucinatory reveries. Apothecaries of the Chapter now suspect this unholy phenomenon sprang from the gradual corruption of their Catalepsean Node, a malefic blemish concealed within the Chapter's gene seed, an aberration they initially feared to share even amongst their own Astartes kin. These infernal dreams, reminiscent of nightmarish premonitions, eerily echoed the disconcerting divinations unravelled by the Chapter's psychically attuned Prognosticators. As the nocturnal phantasms escalated in their malevolence, the forlorn Praedicators were compelled to seek aid. First, they beseeched the Adeptus Mechanicus, their supplications reaching the ears of the Genator-Magos Abdul Hazred. Yet, their pleas met nought but rejection; the recipients cursed for their apparitions deemed too dreadful to be believed. Others, servants of the Imperium, seemed incapable of discerning the truth, staring blankly into the abyss, oblivious to the futility of mankind within this vast cosmos, the Imperium nought but a mote adrift in a sea of insignificance. The revelation of their genetic mutation merely served to cast the gaze of the Imperium upon the Prædicators, subjecting them to the scorching scrutiny of the Inquisition, cloaked in suspicion and paranoid fear. Faced with such unfathomable levels of trepidation and mistrust, the Praedicators have learned the grim art of silence, patiently awaiting the emergence of individuals genuinely receptive to their dire auguries. Denounced for straying from the Imperial Creed, the Chapter was consigned to a purgatory along the isolated southern fringes of the Imperium. Their presence, a lingering vestige of utility to the Imperium, was meticulously situated along this penitent exile, an endeavour to rekindle the waning power and influence of the Adeptus Astartes until the day they might once more claim their birthright as Guilliman's true progeny in both thought and deed. The inexorable onslaught of unfathomable visions and nightmarish visitations has irrevocably altered the fabric of their existence. Unlike their brethren, descendants of Guilliman who yearned to embark on the pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Primarch upon his unforeseen return, the Prædicators harboured no such desires. Nor have they prostrated themselves before him since his enigmatic resurrection, for their visions have cast them into the shadow of ostracism, shunned even by those Astartes who share their cursed gene seed. Recruitment Veiled Region' I mmersed in the duty of safeguarding the periphery of the enigmatic Segmentum Tempestus from the encroachment of otherworldly beings, an expeditionary fleet helmed by the Prædicators found themselves entrusted with the ominous task of charting the enigmatic recesses of the Veiled Region. Without this audacious exploration, the meagre navigation threads available in this accursed expanse would persist, rendering travel through its realms arduous and perilous. The Veiled Region, cloaked in its tenebrous essence, remained a harbinger of instability, where ethereal nebulas conspired to hinder communication and the surge of psionic radiation ensnared vessels, casting them adrift for days on end, severed from the tempestuous Immaterium's grasp. Yet, amidst these grave perils, one of the most foreboding dangers lay in its estrangement from Astropathic communion, where psychic entreaties echoed into an abyssal void, met only by the spectral silence that echoed in return. It was solely through the uncanny expertise of the fleet's Navigators that this perilous endeavour was sanctioned, their intrepid exploits offering insight into the expedition's eventual triumph. Devoid of their guidance, the fleet would have been condemned to the whims of reality's shattering fissures, pervading nebulas, and boundless celestial mists. Within this hitherto unknown and forsaken cosmic oblivion, the expeditionary fleet chanced upon an unfathomable enigma: human settlements, whose very existence had been vehemently denied. Imperial law forbade such encampments, yet the populations encountered by the fleet defied adversity, thriving despite their estrangement from the guiding illumination of the Astronomicon. More bewildering still was the constant ebb and flow of vessels, brazenly flouting numerous Imperial decrees to bestow supplies and much-needed commerce. A myriad of craft, spanning from merchants and miners to scavengers and prison hulks, even the occasional personal flagship of a Rogue Trader accompanied by its entourage, traversed this stygian expanse with unnerving regularity. Devoid of these manifold visitors, the far-flung bastions of humanity would be marooned, cut off from one another and vulnerable, their protection forsaken. The Imperium, reliant on the delicate tapestry of interstellar trade, recognized that most core worlds need not strive for self-sufficiency, instead specializing in producing select goods or resources supplemented by essential commodities procured from beyond their borders. Devoid of the ceaseless flow of star-faring vessels coursing through the Veiled Region, the existence of interstellar commerce would wither, dooming the acquisition of vital weaponry and supplies necessary to safeguard these worlds from plunging into the depths of abyssal night. Voyaging beyond the confines of the Imperium wrought an arduous and perilous odyssey upon the intrepid travellers, where their antique vessels' formidable engines hurled them into the unknown abyss of the Immaterium. This sinister art eluded the understanding of the Mechanicus, mired in the morass of this forsaken forty-first millennium. Once ensnared within the boundless expanse of warp space, these vessels traversed thousands of light-years within fleeting moments, only to plunge back into the Materium, their arrival distant from their departure in space and time. The Warp, an insatiable Leviathan, ceaselessly hungered for these hapless vessels, ensnaring them within its maelstrom of perpetual turbulence and treacherous tempests. To undertake even the slightest voyage through the Warp demanded unparalleled dedication, a tenuous grasp on sanity, or a flagrant disregard for the lives ensconced aboard. The alternative—a perilous journey through realspace, bereft of the Warp's thrumming engines—presented its own hazards and enigmas. Yet, here lay worlds visited by freebooters and mercantile potentates, arriving from every conceivable vector, defying all conventional wisdom. In the foreboding realm of the forty-first millennium, those who dwell upon star-faring vessels are not mere travellers amidst the celestial expanse but products of generations steeped in the sombre obscurity betwixt worlds. They are the Void Born, an enigmatic few amidst the teeming masses of humanity, a peculiar gathering of misfits, strangers, and ill-omened souls birthed within the bowels of vessels that spend ages traversing the astral tapestry. Upon terrestrial realms, the Void Born are met with disdain, shunned for their ethereal essence, deemed bearers of ill fortune, ensnared by secrecy, and bereft of trust. Most imperial denizens and the denizens dwelling on the fringes of society believe that the Void Born have been touched by the Warp in some unfathomable manner. The Warp's gravitational vagaries, radiation's pernicious embrace, genetic distortions, and chaotic anomalies etch their malevolent toll upon the Void Born. On land, they carry an uncanny aura, a palpable something that evokes unease in others. The plight of the Void Born resonated with the Praedicators, for they, too, were bereft of a proper home, ostracized without just cause. Empathy surged within the depths of Hucno's being. The Void Born, inextricably linked to the myriad abominations lurking within the outer darkness, possessed a resilience to the enthralling grasp of the Warp. This revelation inspired the Lord Commander, igniting the notion that the Void Born could serve as a wellspring for recruiting the aspirants destined to safeguard the Prædicators' future. Bereft of a Homeworld, the Chapter faced the grim prospect of gradual attrition through combat losses and the inexorable march of time, even for the indomitable Astartes. Thus, with their course set, the Praedicators settled into their vigil, patrolling the enigmatic fringes of the Veiled Region. A perilous calling it remained, with small flotillas manoeuvring amidst dense nebulae and nascent stars, assaulted by surges of radiation exuded by discarded stellar matter. They persevered because they were cloaked from reinforcements and severed from communication by swathes of stellar dust. Their path meandered along the galactic south of the Segmentum Tempestus, whence emerged the raiders and despoilers of the abhorrent Xenos. Through grim determination, the Void Heralds learned to navigate these treacherous environs, or they met their demise. The survivors, in turn, became stewards of the surrounding cosmic domains, most notably the Ainu System, the Nahmu Stars, and the Hypnis Expanse. Ramilles Class Star-fort The Apothecaries and Chaplains of the Prædicators, bound by the edicts of Lord Commander Hucno, scoured the vast city-sized vessels that plied the void, recruiting aspirants exclusively from their midst. Such was the sacred duty to ensure that only the most resilient of mind and genetically suitable candidates entered the Chapter's hallowed ranks. Recruitment was laborious and tortuous, bereft of a centralized pool of potential aspirants. The Chaplains found themselves entangled in labyrinthine webs of politics interwoven among the thousands of ship crews. They became embroiled in complex networks of feuds, alliances, and petty wars while striving to maintain a precarious balance. A single misstep, the wrongful elimination of a crewmember with the potential for ascension, risked jeopardizing the very fabric of the void-born population, impairing their capacity to crew vessels and robbing the Chapter of invaluable future recruits. Brought forth into the embrace of Cetus, the Ramilles Class Star-fort and fortress-monastery, the Void Born aspirants stood poised for induction into the Prædicators. As they beheld the grandeur of Cetus, some succumbed to a rapturous, trance-like state, overwhelmed by its magnificence. These failed aspirants were consigned to serve the Chapter in alternative capacities. Yet those who could withstand the sight of Cetus without succumbing gradually acclimated to its peculiar ecosystem. Vast portions of the vessel were dedicated to emulating diverse combat environments for rigorous training, while sprawling sectors were consecrated to meditation. Extraordinary chambers and vaults adorned with tapestries depicting nightmarish visions awaited their arrival, but the seemingly endless barren halls were the greatest. In these desolate corridors, neophytes embarked upon the arduous journey of psycho-indoctrination, enduring gruelling biological and genetic trials. Implantation with gene-seed, the lifeblood sustaining them through a lifetime of horrors, transformed their frail bodies into instruments of annihilation. Thus, the Void Born, reborn as Void Heralds, transcended their former humble and fragile existence, emerging as the epitome of humanity, perfected warriors and dutiful servants of the Imperium. Darkholds Darkholds The Darkholders, the Void Born from the spacefaring vessels with the darkest of reputations, make up a greater proportion of the Chapter’s Chaplaincy than any other source. . Among the shadowed abyss of spacefaring vessels, a cabal of ominous repute known as the Darkholders exists. These enigmatic Void Born shrouded in the darkest of legends, wield an unprecedented influence within the Chaplaincy of the Prædicators. Their origins are cloaked in tales of malevolent curses, desolate destinies, infamous massacres, macabre acts of cannibalism, and the lingering echoes of haunting spectres that transcend the realm of mortal comprehension. Whispers of their existence permeate the corridors of cosmic lore, instilling trepidation in those with the wisdom to perceive their sinister essence. The Darkholders, a breed apart from their brethren, bear the weight of a legacy steeped in ancient, forbidden knowledge. They possess an intimate understanding of the veiled truths that lie dormant within the endless chasms of space, secrets whispered only in the hushed corridors of cosmic dread. Their very existence treads the fine line between sanity and madness, where reason falters and the shadows of the void cast long, maddening tendrils upon their souls. Imbued with a sombre aura that sets them apart from their kin, the Darkholders move amidst the ranks of the Chaplaincy as harbingers of unspoken horrors. Each step they take reverberates with the weight of untold darkness, their countenances marked by the deep-seated knowledge of unspeakable terrors lurking beyond the threshold of mortal comprehension. To witness their presence is to glimpse the gaping abyss that swallows the unwary, a foreboding glimpse into the abyssal depths of cosmic malevolence. Those who possess the sagacity to discern the true nature of the Darkholders cannot help but feel a chill wind of unease sweep through their hearts. They are an enigma wrapped in riddles, a mysterious force transcending mortal understanding. The tales that swirl around them, borne on the fringes of whispers and half-forgotten accounts, paint a portrait of abominations that defy the boundaries of rationality and plunge the unwary into the grip of unutterable dread. Within the hallowed halls of the Chaplaincy, the Darkholders stand as sombre sentinels, their eyes glistening with the unsettling knowledge of the cosmic abyss. They channel the primal forces that dwell within the darkest recesses of the human psyche, drawing upon eldritch energies that defy the laws of reason. Their sermons, resonating with an otherworldly cadence, weave a tapestry of foreboding prophecies and dire admonitions, leading the faithful down treacherous paths that few dare to traverse. The veil between the mortal realm and the eldritch realms of chaos grows thin in their presence. Whispers of forgotten gods and ancient horrors permeate the air, mingling with the acrid scent of incense and the echoes of anguished supplications. The Darkholders embody the chilling paradox of enlightenment and damnation with their esoteric rituals and arcane incantations. They are the bridge between the mundane and the unfathomable, a conduit through which mortal souls may glimpse the maddening truths that lie beyond the threshold of mortal perception. To encounter a Darkholder is to stare into the eyes of the abyss and witness the abyss staring back. They embody humanity's darkest fears, a vessel through which the terrors of the cosmos manifest. In their presence, the air grows heavy with unspeakable dread, and the fabric of reality quivers with an intangible, eldritch energy. They are the heralds of the nameless horrors that lurk within the void, and their enigmatic presence is a constant reminder of the fragility of mortal existence in a universe teeming with unfathomable malevolence. Battlefield Doctrine P Per the ancient Codex Astartes penned by Roboute Guilliman, the Praedicators, like their predecessors, the Silver Skulls, hold steadfast to its sacred teachings. Their adherence to these principles serves as a shield, guarding the Chapter from the Inquisition's prying eyes and their knowledge from the encroaching shadows. Yet, even in their unwavering dedication, a haunting truth lingers in their thoughts—an understanding that all they hold dear may one day be consumed by the abyss. But war is their purpose, their raison d'être, and through conflict, the Heralds find solace, their last bastion of pride and satisfaction. Bound by their nature as a Fleet Based Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes, the Praedicators adhere to a tactical orthodoxy that stems from their limited numbers. They are the true bearers of the appellation "Space Marines," embodying the essence of precision and lethality. Unlike the faceless masses of the Astra Militarum, their role is not that of a blunt instrument but rather that of a surgical scalpel, delivering calculated and devastating strikes. Millennia of unyielding combat indoctrination has moulded them into a formidable force, with efficiency on the battlefield as their only respite from the overwhelming cost and the encroaching darkness that looms relentlessly. Upon breaching the hull of an enemy vessel or making planetfall on an uncharted world, the Praedicators employ their precognitive psychic abilities in a predominantly defensive manner. Techmarines and commanding officers orchestrate strategic fire bases, employing skilled marksmen and interlocking fields of fire to suppress the advance of assailants. Meanwhile, assault forces lie in wait, poised to unleash swift and devastating raids, striking from all sides in a calculated display of chaos. These assaults serve a dual purpose, inflicting substantial damage upon the enemy and sowing seeds of confusion within their ranks. The Praedicators mourn the toll of war and believe their adversaries should suffer the same fate. They fear not death on the battlefield, but rather the insidious descent into madness plagues the Void Born. For this reason, they offer no quarter and expect none in return. Much like their predecessors, the Prædicators are known for their reluctance to come to the aid of others, for they know too well the absence of allies, and oftentimes their divinations reveal the exorbitant price that such assistance would demand. This fact perhaps explains their enduring survival and their scarcity of allies, even among their Astartes brethren. Some foolish adversaries mistakenly perceive the defensively-minded Praedicators as inert and sluggish, a grievous misjudgment that brings nought but misery upon the enemies of mankind. When the Chapter deems it necessary to seize ground, they do so with an overwhelming force that maintains an unwavering offensive momentum at all costs. Yet, their assaults are not impulsive or ill-prepared. Before engaging the enemy directly, they orchestrate meticulously coordinated orbital bombardments, unleashing the fury of their vast fleet assets. Waves of drop-pod infantry and agile Thunderhawk-deployed vehicles join the fray, ensuring a seamless integration of light and heavy support. Chapter Scouts, often tasked with gathering vital intelligence, face the enemy under perilous and treacherous circumstances. They risk life and limb to acquire precious knowledge, which serves to corroborate and expand upon the divinations procured by the Prognosticators. The Scouts' hard-won insights are then utilised to disrupt enemy supply lines through sabotage and demolition, as well as to eliminate critical targets through covert assassination and preemptive strikes. Their collective actions are often misinterpreted as acts of bravery and courage. In truth, the Praedicators stand resolute before the Imperium's foes, unflinching, for they hold themselves in contempt, believing their worth to be nought. It is the Chaplains who walk among them on the field of battle, stoking the embers of their purpose and reminding them of their solemn duty, that they find the strength to continue the fight. Without their unwavering leadership, the Praedicators would succumb to the darkest thoughts—the desire for death, the yearning for despair, and the longing for annihilation into the void of nothingness. Organisation A n observer from afar would struggle to discern any notable distinctions between the enigmatic Prædicators and a chapter bound by the rigid tenets of the Codex, much like the illustrious Ultramarines. Throughout their storied history, the Prædicators have striven to embody the essence of Codex adherence, although the exigencies of their nomadic existence as a fleet-based chapter necessitate a degree of flexibility. Isolated elements of their fleet, forced to adapt their tactics to the resources at hand, exemplify this need for adaptability. Furthermore, their ill-fated reputation has rendered them reliant on their capabilities, bereft of direct Imperial support, setting them apart from the Codex-compliant chapters comfortably integrated into the greater war machine of the Imperium. Brother Keghi Deviation from the Codex Astartes becomes apparent in the higher echelons of the Prædicators' organization. Like all chapters, they boast a cadre of officers and specialists who transcend the confines of the company structure. The Chapter Master assumes the title of Lord Commander, as per the ancient tradition inherited from their predecessors, the Silver Skulls. The Librarians, known as Prognosticators, share the mantle of spiritual advisors alongside their brethren-chaplains. These psychic warriors, attuned to the arcane forces of the Warp, serve as the seers of the Chapter, divining glimpses of the future through their mystic arts. Wherever their visions guide them, they bestow upon the squads and companies they have attached an undeniable advantage in the impending clashes. The Chapter's extensive support staff comprises esteemed individuals such as the Master of the Fleet and senior Captains, including the Keeper of the Arsenal, the Abyssal Watcher, and the Warden of the Watch. Each Captain is a Space Marine, but the number of Brethren within the Chapter's support staff remains relatively small. Most non-combat roles are filled by the Chapter's human serfs, while the armourers and Techmarines, the Prædicators' Space Marines in the support staff, toil diligently with the aid of countless mono-task Servitors. The Chapter's non-combatant members, often elderly and burdened with the day-to-day administration of the Chapter, form a significant portion of the support staff. In adherence to the Codex structure, the ten companies comprise the most experienced Veterans among the Chapter's ranks, who compose the first Company. These sagacious warriors, their wisdom immeasurable, are embedded within the Battle Companies, sharing their knowledge with their brethren. They are deployed in small units, armed like Tactical squads, albeit enhanced with advanced scopes and specialized ammunition. Only the most seasoned Veterans earn the privilege of donning the scarce Terminator armour available to the Chapter. Unless dire circumstances demand their presence on the battlefield, these revered suits stand sentinel, silently watching over the Forge on Cetus. The Prædicator Techmarines have gone to great lengths to salvage fallen Terminator armours, ensuring their return to the fray again. The 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th Companies, adhering faithfully to the Codex's enigmatic lines, stand as Battle Companies, an integral component of the Prædicators' martial structure. Within each Company reside six battleline squads, accompanied by two close support squads and two fire support squads. These formidable assemblages and their formidable fleets compose the vanguard of the Chapter, bearing the weight of conflict, be it upon terrestrial realms or amidst the boundless void. Their autonomy grants them a versatility unmatched, adapting tactically to the ever-shifting tides of warfare. Companies 6 and 7, shrouded in secrecy, remain reserves, their ranks comprising ten battleline squads. They serve as a bulwark, ready to reinforce the front lines, unleash diversionary strikes, or halt the audacious flanking manoeuvres of their adversaries. Alas, the scarcity of recruits ensures these companies seldom achieve their full complement. The 7th Company, some whisper, exists merely in name, its presence vanishing into the mists of uncertainty. The 8th Company, an embodiment of swift aggression, rallies beneath the banner of ten close support squads. These highly mobile warriors, often bedecked with jump packs, emerge as an onslaught force, their purpose resolute in the face of fortified bastions that dare oppose them. With ferocious determination, they surge forward, carving a path through the enemy's stout defences. Unlike their progenitors, the Silver Skulls, whose 9th Company embraces the mantle of a siege company, the Prædicators' 9th Company dutifully adheres to the sacred doctrines dictated by the Codex. Comprising ten Fire Support Squads, this formidable Company epitomises martial might within the Chapter. Armed with an arsenal of devastating weaponry, they fortify defensive positions and unleash long-range barrages, bolstering their brethren and holding the line against the encroaching darkness. The 10th Company, a gathering of youthful aspirants partially transformed into Space Marines, emerges as a cadre of Scout squads. Unconstrained by formalized constraints of size, their recruitment remains fluid, adapting to the ebb and flow of potential candidates. This unique Company eschews the possession of its own fleet, instead operating directly from the confines of Cetus. They never engage as a unified force, but rather are dispersed among other fleets, giving their presence a chance to glean wisdom and experience from their seasoned kin. With the exception of the Scout Company, each of the companies retains its fleet of transports and Drop pods, ensuring swift deployment for their squads and officers. Rarer implements of destruction, including the formidable Land Raiders, find haven within the sanctums of the armoury, their allocation dictated by the exigencies of missions or at the behest of a Captain entrenched in the throes of a campaign. Such relics of war hold no air of awe and reverence, symbols of potent might wielded by the chosen few. Chapter Cult and Belief System Chapter Badge' P lagued by haunting dreams that weave an insidious tapestry of dread, the enigmatic Prædicators, born within the icy womb of the void, possess an intimate knowledge of the incomprehensible perils lurking within the outer darkness. As remnants of their pre-Astartes existence continue to cling to their being, an intangible presence engulfs them, casting an unsettling aura that disquiets even their fellow Astartes from other Chapters. These Heralds, firsthand witnesses to the abominations that infest the depths of space, stand resolute against the multitudinous enemies of the Emperor. Their intimate acquaintance with the cosmic horrors lurking within the starry expanse compels them to shield their brotherhood from the evils they are sworn to vanquish. Thus, they embrace a life of renunciation, a rejection of the looming shadows that forever dwell beyond the protective hulls of their vessels. Deep within the Librarium's recesses, the Prognosticators' minds extend their ethereal gaze into the frigid expanse of the cosmos, their sight surpassing the meagre imaginings of their less gifted brethren. In fleeting moments, their psychic faculties pierce the veil of encroaching darkness, beholding the briefest glimpse of an eternity of maddening and ancient lunacy. These eldritch visions unfold from realms that defy mortal comprehension, overwhelming their senses with contradictions that unravel the very fabric of existence. Rarely do they dare to speak of the sinister enigma that lies beneath the thin veneer of their illusory connection to humanity, for such revelations are both gift and burden, leaving their minds seared and tormented. The Brothers perceive a senseless, mechanical universe devoid of care or compassion. The transience of all things plunges humanity into a maelstrom of meaninglessness. They have desperately averted their gazes and yearned to awaken from these harrowing nightmares, yet their understanding remains elusive, their minds stretched and pulled to the brink. Staring intensely into the void for so long, they find it now stares back at them—a distorted reflection of their own transformation: reclusive, withdrawn, and taciturn—denizens of the impenetrable depths. No ordinary Prædicator shall be remembered, for legacies are destined to be consumed by the ravenous flames of time. Only the stars shall endure, recounting tales of mankind's triumphs and achievements, albeit futilely, for every memory, artefact, and settled world shall succumb to the entropic embrace. Amidst this bleak panorama, the most solemn duty befalls the Apothecarion, their paradoxical role to prepare for a future that appears to elude all grasp. Millennia of screeching divinations and tormenting dreams have left the Prædicators with nought but a frigid, senseless taste of hopelessness. Their endeavours pale compared to the fate that awaits them all—a future that shall turn everything to dust. The time of humanity has reached its culmination, no longer belonging to the only realm it has ever known. This tenet disturbs the Ecclesiarchy, as it denies the existence of their God-Emperor and challenges everything He stands for and defends. It places the Prædicators in direct opposition to the Adeptus Mechanicus, particularly the Techmarines within their ranks, who have sworn ancient pacts to the Omnissiah. Finding a follower of the Imperial Cult not openly hostile to what they consider blasphemy is impossible. And if the Prædicators were to sow their dissenting thoughts into the mind of one receptive to their message... that day would be the darkest of all. The Prædicators reject the concept of the God-Emperor, for perpetuating such an idea—that a deity can save them from the insurmountable—only serves to deny the bitter truth of their isolation and the crushing hopelessness that pervades the grand scheme of existence. The realization of an inexorable fate, creeping through the galaxy like a serpentine Void Stalker closing in on its prey, seeps into the hearts of all. Save for the one who now sits upon the Golden Throne, mankind could never fathom, fully comprehend, or explain the nature of fate. Yet, it draws near, almost tangible to all. And the Prædicators believe that it shall be recognized as a blessed release when every citizen of the Imperium acknowledges that their destiny lies no longer in anyone's hands. The Prædicators bear no particular animosity toward the Xenos races, though they would gladly extinguish them. While all Xenos pose a threat to humanity, they are neither inherently good nor evil. The greatest among these otherworldly species are merely incomprehensible cosmic forces impervious to the constraints of morality. They exist within astral realms far beyond human understanding, and while they cannot serve as a bulwark against the encroaching darkness, their very existence may hasten its inexorable advance. By this stark logic, they must perish if mankind is to cling to life a while longer in this uncaring galaxy. While the Deathwatch and the Ordo Xenos' methods may be seen as narrow and flawed, the assignment of individual Prædicators to Watch Stations or Fortresses is celebrated, for the annihilation of the Inhuman stands as one of the last vestiges of noble purpose within the cosmos. Amidst this darkest of millennia, it stands with a towering majesty, offering a flicker of hope to those who have long lost all. Prognosticators The Prognosticators, a sombre breed of hybrid officers, bear the weighty mantle of both Librarian and Chaplain, roles typically divided among distinct echelons within other Chapters. While the Chaplains of the Praedicators focus primarily on recruiting and training new aspirants, the Prognosticators assume the arduous task of guiding and shepherding the veteran Brethren, tending to the psychic and mental well-being of the Chapter's warriors. These solemn warriors emerge as seers, delving into the dreams of their brethren or engaging in divination to glimpse the portents of the future. Their insights bestow upon the squads and companies they accompany a good foresight for the impending battles. The Chapter holds these revelations in utmost reverence to the extent that, on certain occasions, the Prognosticators have successfully dissuaded the Chapter from entangling itself in specific wars. Yet, such prudence often engenders further suspicion upon an already mistrusted Chapter. This delicate balance sometimes forces the companies to partake in conflicts they know will culminate in their own defeat. Adorning the armour of a Prognosticator, one may discover pendants and badges of office, etched with arcane marks and sigils, chthonic symbols that penetrate the surface. These embellishments are not mere ornamentation; they serve as conduits, channelling and focusing the Prognosticator's psychic prowess. Given their sacred charge as guardians of the psychic and spiritual well-being of the Praedicators, it is a rare occurrence for a Prognosticator to undertake the Apocryphon Oath and serve a Vigil of the Long Watch alongside the Deathwatch, the martial arm of the Ordo Xenos. When a Watch Commander accepts a Prognosticator into their Watch Fortress, they gain the service of an individual with unparalleled skill and aptitude. The Prognosticator's command over the arts of the Librarian and the duties of the Chaplain proves invaluable, but their true greatness lies in their ability to extend their influence to every Battle Brother with whom they serve. Through their ministrations, these warriors are imbued with an otherworldly inspiration, undertaking epic feats of courage while the currents of history are subtly diverted, allowing them to return to their respective chapters as revered heroes. It is whispered that the Prædicators have garnered a shred of trustworthiness solely through the actions of those rare Prognosticators who have pledged the Oath. Apothecaries In the realm of the Praedicators, the most solemn of individuals are bestowed the most solemn of tasks, burdened with the harrowing duty of tending to the physical well-being of their battle brothers. A Narthecium scan, that meticulous instrument of healing employed by medics across the Imperium, can only reveal a fraction of the wounds that beset these warriors. For within the depths of their souls lie injuries that defy the touch of a scalpel, damages that no balm can assuage. The emotional anguish that gnaws at the hearts of the Praedicators, the festering scars borne from their own accursed nightmares, eludes the grasp of lesser apothecaries. The Void Born Apothecary, attuned to the ephemeral horrors that haunt the shadows of his brethren's minds, possesses an intimate acquaintance with the torment that besieges them. He, too, carries the weight of emotional scars etched deep within his psyche, a testament to the bleak kinship he shares with those he tends to. The echoes of unspeakable nightmares reverberate through the corridors of his thoughts, an ever-present reminder of the fragility of sanity in a universe fraught with eldritch terrors. The Praedicators, the ill-starred sentinels of the void, navigate treacherous celestial seas where even the brightest stars cast baleful shadows. Once suffused with hope and valour, their souls are now smothered beneath the suffocating pall of despair. Witnessing the slow erosion of their resolve, the inexorable descent into a maddening abyss is a cruel fate bestowed upon these mournful healers. Each wound they mend, each body they save, serves as a fleeting respite from their own existential anguish—a bitter irony that underscores the relentless futility of their task. For what solace can be found in the mending of flesh and bone when the very fabric of their being unravels in the face of cosmic malevolence? As they peer into the abyssal depths of their brethren's suffering, their hearts are shackled by the knowledge that their efforts are feeble gestures against an encroaching darkness that defies comprehension. The wounds that mar their souls cannot be sutured, for they are borne of nightmares that transcend human understanding. In the forlorn corridors of their minds, the Void Born Apothecaries walk a path strewn with shattered remnants of hope. They tend to the physical infirmities of their battle brothers, their Nartheciums poised to mend broken bodies, yet they are acutely aware of the insidious wounds that fester beyond the reach of their instruments. The Praedicators, haunted custodians of the void's secrets, embody a solemnity born of cosmic despair, their souls entwined with the fabric of their forlorn existence. Techmarines Among the enigmatic ranks of the Prædicators, those who possess an uncanny affinity for the machinations of technology are dispatched to the red planet Mars, where ancient pacts forged with the Adeptus Mechanicus millennia ago await fulfilment. There, amidst the labyrinthine halls of the Martian tech cults, they undergo a metamorphosis; their very souls rent asunder by a triality of nightmarish proportions. This agonizing transformation, however, is deemed a necessary sacrifice, for without the Techmarines, the Prædicators would be bereft of the means to commune with the capricious machine spirits, to perform the sacred rites that ensure the continued operation of their esoteric wargear, to mend the ravages inflicted upon their war-torn bodies, or to tend to the inexorable demands of their vast fleet. Emerging from their arcane tutelage on the crimson world, the Techmarines return as spectres cloaked in deeper layers of mystique and inscrutability. Their countenances bear the weight of secrets unfathomable, rendering them distant and detached from their brethren. Their mysterious ways confound the minds of their battle-brothers, for the Techmarines themselves grapple with the fragments of their own shattered identity. Lost in a labyrinth of doubt, they ponder the disquieting notion that if even their revered Machine God is subject to the cruel erosion of time, then what semblance of truth can their newfound faith truly possess? The Techmarines of the Prædicators, their existence a tapestry woven with strands of conflicting ideologies—the Liber Mechanicus and the Omnissiah; the sacred duty entrusted to their Chapter; and the nihilistic creed that claws at the edges of their psyche—strive ceaselessly to unravel this triadic enigma that rends their souls asunder. In their fervent desire for eternity, they recoil from the notion that nought can be deemed fundamental unless it is eternal. Amidst the Prædicators, the Prognosticators, those diviners of dreams, weave cryptic tales recounting fragmented impressions birthed from slumberous minds. Yet, their visions coalesce into a singular and unsettling narrative, a nightmare of proportions far from ordinary. They speak of a subterranean prison, a stygian abyss lurking beneath the surface, wherein dwells an indomitable presence that stands towering, its form spanning miles yet possessed of an uncanny semblance of flesh and blood. The air trembles with the whisper of vast wings, and within the cavernous recesses, a pair of abhorrent claws scuttle with sinister intent. How diminutive the Techmarines appear in the presence of those unhallowed appendages, a chilling testament to their own insignificance in the face of cosmic monstrosity. They feel the latent stirrings of this eldritch entity, the shifting sands above its ancient prison, and they are consumed by an all-encompassing dread, a fear that takes hold with an iron grip. Yet, paradoxically, they cling to these visions, for in their fragmented tapestry lie the veiled whispers of priceless relics and arcane STC files awaiting discovery. Ultimately, fear and doubt become mere incidental companions, inexorably intertwined with their existence, to be borne stoically at any cost. In the shadowed depths of their psyche, the Techmarines of the Prædicators navigate a treacherous labyrinth, their souls rent asunder by the discordant symphony of competing beliefs. The weight of their divinely ordained duties, their ceaseless pursuit of eternal truth, and the gnawing nihilism that haunts their every waking moment intertwine, forging a solemn tapestry of inner turmoil. They tread the precipice between salvation and damnation, their spirits shackled by the inexorable march of cosmic entropy. Forever shall they strive, their beings forever teetering on the brink of madness, for theirs is a fate entwined with the inscrutable machinations of the universe itself. House Vibro Novator Italki Vibro' O nce a prestigious bastion of the Navis Nobilite, House Vibro, with its ancestral estate nestled within the hallowed Navigator's Quarter of Holy Terra, now languishes in the depths of pauperdom, a mere spectre of its former glory. Once propelled by lofty aspirations and political manoeuvrings, the ebb and flow of their fortunes met their dismal nadir through a calamitous confluence of petty rivalries, subterfuge, and Machiavellian machinations. The dire event that would forever stain their lineage was known as The Tainting, an insidious plot wherein agents of the rival House Numa ensnared a pivotal heiress of House Vibro in a matrimonial web with the obscure House Nostromo. What appeared to be a strategic union aimed at consolidating power and securing prosperity revealed itself as an ill-fated misstep, as the ancient seed of madness embedded within the Nostromo bloodline seeped inexorably into the once-idyllic family tree of House Vibro. Like a venomous serpent coiled in the shadows, the repercussions slithered through the annals of generations, entwining the destinies of the two houses in an inextricable embrace. Driven to desperation by the socio-political fallout and the festering stigma attached to their name, House Vibro relinquished their ancestral seat, embarking on a desperate quest to forge a new legacy in a system untainted by the lingering insanity of House Nostromo. Guided by the stars, their journey led them through the cosmic void until they found solace amidst the celestial tapestry of Ulthar in the Ainu System. In the cosmic depths, they fashioned their modest palace, adapting slowly to the weightless expanse surrounding them. Their forms, once sturdy and robust, now took on a pallid, ethereal hue, their limbs elongated and sinuous, reminiscent of celestial tendrils reaching for the ineffable mysteries of the cosmos. Their survival hinged upon a pact struck with the captains of vessels that traversed the cosmic expanse. Merchants, miners, scavengers, prison ships, and the occasional enigmatic Rogue Traders sought their services, for within the treacherous Veiled Region, House Vibro had garnered a reputation as the preeminent Navigators, the guiding stars in the impenetrable darkness. Their association with the Prædicators, born out of dire necessity, endured through the ages. The Astartes, mired in their purgatorial sentence, required the expertise of House Vibro to map the treacherous, ever-shifting expanses within the Veiled Region. In turn, House Vibro saw an opportunity to amass political capital and prestige in this alliance, aligning themselves with the revered Adeptus Astartes. With each successful mapping of the perilous cosmic abyss, House Vibro secured an exclusive Charter Navigae, entrusting them with the solemn duty of providing Navigators for the entire fleet of the Void Heralds. A clandestine clause within the contract acknowledged the occasional descent into madness exhibited by the descendants of the long-dead House Nostromo. To compensate for the attrition of Navigators, House Vibro ensured an ample supply of replacements for each fleet, accompanied by a special attaché tasked with smoothing over any diplomatic incidents. Among these overseers was Novator Italki Vibro, entrusted with supervising the Cetus, the Chapter's space-bound fortress-monastery. In the intertwined fate of the Prædicators and House Vibro, a sombre fatalism binds them, their souls attuned to the enigmatic nature of reality and the portentous destiny that befalls mankind. This shared understanding, veiled from the comprehension of the masses, forms the bedrock of their enduring alliance. Each faction perceives the other as an invaluable asset, a sanctuary in a world fraught with uncertainty. House Vibro, in their vast network of scions serving among the captains and leaders of various enterprises, shares vital information with the Chaplains of the Prædicators through these Navigators, sons and daughters of the House, who traverse the vast reaches of the Imperium alongside merchants, miners, and even enigmatic Rogue Traders, a wealth of knowledge flows, illuminating the Prædicators' path amidst the immense cosmos. Threats are discerned, the pulse of the galaxy is felt, and, most crucially, prospective recruits are identified, guiding the Chapter in their eternal quest for new brethren. In a testament to the ancient bond that unites House Vibro and the Prædicators, the Lord Commander ensures the presence of a ten-man squad of Prædicators, known as the Starsouls, to serve as the House's protectors. These solemn guardians not only fulfil their duties as stalwart sentinels but may be called upon to train and lead House Vibro's troops, undertake covert operations on their behalf, or stand vigilant aboard the Vibro trading vessels that ply the cosmic currents. Bound by their sacred oath, the Starsouls swear to serve the Novator of House Vibro as dutifully as they would their Lord Commander. In this ancient accord, the symbol of the Void Stalker, emblematic of the Prædicators, finds its place upon the Vibro family crest, an enduring symbol of their intertwined destinies. Yet the assignment of a Starsoul is a lonely and solitary existence, even by the austere standards of the Prædicators, accustomed as they are to the genuine camaraderie of their brethren. Those who weather the trials required to maintain the age-old pact between navigator house and Astartes chapter emerge as vital assets. Their experiences within the broader expanse of the Imperium, akin to those who serve their vigil with the Deathwatch, grant them a profound understanding when interacting with allied Imperial forces—a comprehension that eludes the majority of their brethren. Their diplomatic adaptability renders them indispensable emissaries, esteemed by Prædicator captains who embarked upon their arduous campaigns. Among the few elders who have witnessed the shifting tides of House Vibro's fate, memories of a bygone era, when another alliance steeped in ambition and power crumbled into madness and oblivion, remain scarce. The Prædicators' enigmatic visions offer no solace, concealing truths that may be deliberately withheld from their newfound allies. Only time, that relentless arbiter of destinies, will unveil whether the ancient Navigators of House Vibro perceive something that eludes even the Novator. For now, at least officially, the binding of House and Chapter remains a rare source of pride and rekindled hope, flickering amidst the vast cosmic tapestry of uncertainty. Gene-seed F rom the bloodline of Guilliman, the illustrious progenitors of the Silver Skulls, flowed a gene-seed renowned for its steadfast stability. Such was the inheritance bestowed upon the inception of the Prædicators, though murmurs, like hushed shadows, insinuate that the legacy of unyielding wholeness perished with the ancestral kin of the first Lord Commander. Whether the gene-seed now stands as a paragon of purity or a deformed aberration, one cannot deny that its integration merely amplifies the distinctive traits inherent in the typical void-born aspirant: gaunt countenances, pallid flesh and eyes polished with an otherworldly gleam. Soon after the Chapter's establishment, an eerie metamorphosis began to manifest within the Catalepsean Node of many initiates. While it yet functioned to regulate the Marines' circadian rhythms and stave off the perils of sleep deprivation, granting them unyielding wakefulness for days on end, an uncanny mutation took root. Curiously, they chose to resist slumber, for when their eyes closed in surrender to the realm of dreams, they were besieged by sinister visions of unfathomable dread. Prophetic seers scoured these nightmarish reveries, extracting faint glimpses of the future, their own goals extending far beyond, leaving in their wake an unsettling darkness that danced within their gaze. The Apothecaries, burdened with the solemn task of assuaging the torment of these nocturnal terrors, strive to alleviate the suffering. Yet there are those for whom the nightmares prove unbearable, gnawing at their sanity with relentless fervour. These wretched souls, bound in chains inscribed with pentagrammatical wards, are led through labyrinthine corridors, descending into the stygian depths of Cetus to chambers shrouded in eternal gloom. Within these unhallowed confines, their tongues become vessels for incoherent ramblings, forever whispering of a tranquil island of ignorance amidst the unfathomable seas of an infinite abyss. Prognosticators, in their insatiable quest for forbidden knowledge, diligently sift through the cryptic utterances, assembling disjointed fragments of revelation that unveil terrifying vistas of reality, exposing our harrowing existence in its truest form. Primaris Marines In the depths of their being, the Brothers harboured a secret desire, an insidious wish veiled in shadows. It whispered, ever so subtly, for their venture across the Rubicon to fail, for their crossing to be marred by doom and annihilation. The weight of their allegiance tugged at their spirits, rending their souls with a tempestuous turmoil as they grappled with the terrible knowledge that strained every fibre of their being. The Primaris Marines hailed as the Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl's progeny were bestowed with an augmentation beyond measure. Engineered under the watchful gaze of Roboute Guilliman, these warriors, wrought with the essence of the Primarchs, possessed not only the customary nineteen specialized organs but three additional gifts of gene-spliced might. The Sangprimus Portum, that vessel of potent genetic material entrusted to Cawl by Guilliman, birthed a new breed of Adeptus Astartes, unleashed upon the battlefield with fervour during the Ultima Founding. Yet, as the ages unfurled, the revelation of these Primaris secrets lingered in the shadows, unveiled only in the waning days of the 41st Millennium. They stood apart, outcasts in their own right, shunned and ostracized, until the envoys of the Primarch made their presence known to the Prædicators. From the outset, the Primaris were met with a chorus of mistrust, though the origins of such apprehension varied. The initial wave, burdened with repeated claims of Guilliman's return, shattered the preconceptions held by the Chapter's Prognosticators. The second surge was marked by the rejection of the Chapter's creed—a resurgence of hope clashing with the harbingers of impending doom. With time, a delicate acceptance began to form, a reluctant embrace marred by lingering doubts. Could these Primaris, plagued by the same nightmares that plagued their Firstborn brethren, ever truly comprehend the terrors that lurked in the void? Yet the Chapter's Cult hesitated to fully embrace them as equals, for the Primaris Chaplains, Prognosticators, and Apothecaries were deemed incapable of empathizing with the mental tribulations endured by their predecessors with each harrowing cycle of sleep. The enigmatic tapestry of fate would unfurl to reveal whether the Primaris would ascend as true denizens of the abyss or languish in the shadows, forgotten and forsaken. But some harboured a different fear, a haunting trepidation lurking in the recesses of their consciousness—an apprehension that the Primaris personified the fulfilment of a prophecy foretelling the impending cataclysm. The tremors of an impending end reverberated through their thoughts, intensified by the Primarchs' return and the Custodes' resurgence. Perhaps, in the fullness of time, the Primaris would shed their outsider status and be hailed as the living embodiment of a prophecy, an augury scryed in ancient texts aeons ago, casting a pall over the impending twilight. Power Armour Since the aeon when the 33rd Millennium dawned, the Prædicators have amassed a formidable collection of archaic armours, relics of ages long past. These venerable suits, preserved with meticulous care by the hands of skilled artificers—humble servitors devoid of the holy transfiguration into Adeptus Astartes—find sanctuary within the Chapter's hallowed halls. But let it be known that the Prædicators, in their wisdom, do not hoard these vestments of antiquity for mere pomp and ceremony, as lesser brethren are wont to do. No, these lords of the void understand the grim truth that binds them to the inky expanse, forsaken by the cosmic tapestry. They, the lonely wanderers, must wield all tools at their disposal, grasping the tendrils of the unknown with an unyielding grip. Unlike their counterparts, who reserve the honour of donning shining ancient armours to their ceremonial guards and privileged elites, the Prædicators embrace a different path. They defy convention, their forms enrobed in many old armaments, each a testament to bygone eras. A motley assembly of exalted plates adorns their frames, a patchwork of archaic craftsmanship intermingled with diverse marks of power. They traverse the abyssal void, cast adrift like outcasts, their souls yearning for solace in a cosmos indifferent to their existence. And so, they adapt, utilising every resource within their grasp, for survival demands resourcefulness beyond measure. Amidst the endless sea of stars, where the tendrils of fate coil and unfurl, the Prædicators stand resolute. They do not cling to the trappings of tradition, for theirs is a solitary path, a journey through the abyssal depths. Their armour, a reflection of their unwavering spirit, is but a means to an end—an instrument of their relentless quest for understanding. As they navigate the labyrinthine corridors of existence, they emerge clad in a panoply of eras, a symphony of forgotten designs. To the uninitiated eye, it may appear a chaotic amalgamation, an affront to order and uniformity. But within the enigmatic calculus of the void, it is a testament to their adaptability, their defiance against the cosmic indifference that looms above. In their solitude, the Prædicators, these forsaken souls, have come to embrace the mosaic of ages past, stitching together the fragments of forgotten craftsmanship. They have become something more than the sum of their parts, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit in the face of an uncaring universe. Their armour, an amalgamation of faded glory and dormant might, symbolises their unyielding will and refusal to succumb to the swirling maw of the unknown. As they wander the void alone, they know that in this realm of obscurity, where mortal frailty meets cosmic vastness, every resource and tool must be wielded with unwavering resolve. War Zone: Carnial COMING SOON Pictures