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This article, Crimson Shrouds, was written by Achilles Prime. Please do not edit or 'acquire' this fiction without the writer's permission. |
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- "To fight us is to know despair. To flee from us is to die in fear. Both are gifts of mercy."
- —Domn Voivode Veylac of the Crimson Shrouds
The Crimson Shrouds are a Chapter veiled in blood and mourning, their sable plate broken only by the crimson of their arms and shoulders, as though their very armour were wrapped in funeral cloth. Founded in the 23rd 'Sentinel' Founding of the 37th Millennium, they were unleashed in a time of desperation, when the Imperium’s wounds demanded new defenders no matter the cost. From their inception they have borne the air of a dirge, and though their loyalty to the Emperor has never faltered, their presence upon the battlefield chills even their allies. For where the Crimson Shrouds tread, the rites of death walk beside them.
Though they are formally listed as descendants of the Blood Angels, there are whispered doubts in the annals of the Adeptus Administratum. Their manner of war, their grim rituals, and their shameless embrace of the curse mark them as kin not only to the sons of Sanguinius but perhaps also to the Impalers, an ill-famed successor Chapter whose predatory thirst became legend. No record confirms this heritage, yet the suspicion lingers, like the echo of a hymn sung at a graveside. Whatever their true parentage, the Crimson Shrouds carry their legacy with terrible certainty: they are doomed, and in their doom, they are relentless.
When unleashed in battle, the Crimson Shrouds inspire not hope but terror. They descend like pallbearers upon their prey, their crimson cloth banners whipping in the smoke, their vox-channels filled with chants that sound more like funeral rites than war cries. Enemies speak of them as wraiths in black and red, warriors who carve a path not only through flesh but through the spirit of those who stand against them. Even their allies find their presence disquieting, for to march beside the Shrouds is to march in the company of one’s own death. Victory, in their hands, feels less like triumph and more like the tolling of a bell over a battlefield that has already become a grave.
Chapter History[]
- "We wear the Red Father’s curse with pride. In hunger, in fury, in blood, we are truest to his memory."
- —Anonymous
Birth in Mourning[]
The Crimson Shrouds were forged in the crucible of the 23rd Sentinel Founding, a time when the Imperium, still reeling from centuries of ceaseless war, demanded new defenders at any cost. Declared of Blood Angels stock, though plagued by whispers of descent from the reviled Impalers, their lineage was clouded in uncertainty. From their inception, the Shrouds bore an unnatural pall: their initiation rites were wrapped in death liturgies, their armour adorned with strips of crimson cloth cut from the burial wrappings of fallen aspirants. Unlike other Chapters who strode into existence with glory and zeal, the Crimson Shrouds were born beneath the weight of mourning.
Their earliest campaigns were fought against feral Ork hordes along the Eastern Fringe. They earned swift renown, but not admiration, for they waged war with a terrible solemnity. Before every assault, they intoned dirges that echoed over the vox-net like funeral hymns. When the battles were done, they collected the blood of the slain, both brother and foe alike, consecrating it as sacred. Even among the Space Marines, who are feared as demi-gods of war, the Shrouds seemed uncanny, more spectres than saviours, their victories attended always by rites of grief.
The Funeral Crusades[]
As the Chapter matured, their reputation hardened into dread. In what became known as the Funeral Crusades, the Crimson Shrouds were dispatched to warzones across the Segmentum Ultima. Wherever they marched, entire systems remembered their presence not as salvation but as burial. During the Campaign of the Nine Veils, the Shrouds liberated the shrine world of Belaspar from the clutches of a Chaos warband, but left its surviving population ritually bled, their corpses lined in neat rows, as if the Chapter had conducted a single vast mortuary rite. The Imperium called it purification. The survivors called it butchery.
In these centuries, their practices grew darker. Chaplains of the Chapter, called Moroi, perfected rituals that walked the thin edge between veneration and blood sacrifice. More and more of their brothers fell prey to the Black Rage, and rather than hide this curse, the Shrouds displayed it openly, treating the afflicted as saints burning too brightly to endure. Whole companies became death marches, their warriors unleashed in suicidal fury as if the battlefield itself were an altar. The Adeptus Administratum noted unease, and the Ordo Hereticus conducted several inquests, yet no evidence of outright heresy was found. The Imperium, as ever, looked aside so long as victories were delivered.
Acharon Massacres[]
The Chapter’s greatest scandal came during the Acharon Massacres. Ordered to reclaim the mining moons of the Acharon Belt from heretical uprisings, the Shrouds prosecuted their campaign with relentless zeal. The enemy was annihilated in weeks, but so too were the worlds themselves. It was later revealed that entire populations, including loyalist PDF, were put to the blade, their blood drained in rites that the Chapter claimed would sanctify the system against further corruption. The moons of Acharon stand barren still, stripped of life, their ruins haunted by whispers of ritual slaughter.
The Inquisition nearly declared the Crimson Shrouds Excommunicate Traitoris. Only the intervention of several high ranking Cardinals, who insisted the Acharon moons were too tainted to ever be trusted, spared the Chapter. From that day, however, their name was spoken with venom. To many within the Imperium, they were carrion priests who fed upon war, more curse than shield. To the Shrouds themselves, such condemnation meant nothing. They had accepted their fate as pallbearers of humanity, walking funeral dirges clad in black and crimson.
Dirge Unending[]
During M40 of relative stagnation, the Crimson Shrouds became wanderers, rarely holding their fortress-monastery for long. They roamed as a fleet-based Chapter, answering distress calls and joining wars unbidden, as if drawn by the scent of death itself. Entire generations of Imperial citizens came to view their arrival not as deliverance, but as the tolling of a death knell.
The Shrouds honed their art of psychological terror. They struck without warning, descending in silence before unleashing choruses of death chants across the battlefield. To their enemies, they seemed like spirits of vengeance. To their allies, their presence was unbearable, a reminder that death shadowed every soldier of the Imperium. Despite their disquieting methods, the Chapter’s tally of victories grew long: Ork Waaaghs broken, splinter fleets of Tyranids eradicated, and secessionist worlds brought to heel. Yet the human cost of their campaigns was always high, as if the Shrouds believed survival itself was a sin too rarely earned.
Crimson Pall[]
As the Imperium slid further into ruin, the Crimson Shrouds fully embraced their identity as mourners of mankind. Their rituals grew more elaborate: entire companies fought garbed in blood soaked funereal cloth, their armour etched with dirges. At the Cryptus Campaign, their sudden and eerie arrival amid the Tyranid invasion was described by survivors as “the coming of death in black raiment.” They did not speak to their allies, save to intone blessings over the dying.
The Black Rage consumed them in ever greater numbers. Where other Blood Angels successors fought to contain the flaw, the Crimson Shrouds celebrated it, casting their maddened kin into battle as death saints. To them, the madness was not a curse but the final apotheosis of Sanguinius’s sacrifice. This grim acceptance only deepened the rift between the Shrouds and their kin. The Blood Angels themselves remain silent on whether they acknowledge the Chapter at all.
Pallbearers of the Indomitus[]
With the birth of the Cicatrix Maledictum, the Crimson Shrouds were cast into the Imperium Nihilus, where darkness reigns eternal. They are fewer now than ever, their gene-seed degraded, their companies reduced to scattered remnants. Yet they endure. Across broken sectors, their banners of crimson cloth still flutter, their sabre-wielding warriors still descend upon heretic, xenos, and traitor alike. Wherever they march, terror follows. Not only in the hearts of their foes, but in the whispers of their allies who call them omens of mortality.
Though their numbers dwindle, their legend grows. To some, they are death-gods walking, the last priests of humanity’s funeral. To others, they are cursed revenants clinging to existence only to prolong their own damnation. The Shrouds themselves claim nothing but this: “We are already dead. We go where death is needed.”
In the twilight of the 42nd Millennium, the Crimson Shrouds remain what they have always been: not saviours, not heroes, but pallbearers, escorting the Imperium towards its grave with bloody hands and mournful hymns.
Notable Campaigns[]
- Purgation of Dathros (638.M37) - The Imperium bled upon the corpse world of Dathros. The Genestealer Cult had already taken over continents, reducing vast hives to hollow catacombs filled with chittering predators. Into this nightmare descended the Impalers’ Third Company, veterans of countless purges, and with them came the Crimson Shrouds’ First Company, newly forged, untested, and eager to prove their worth beneath the gaze of their progenitors. It was here that the Crimson Shrouds claimed their name, for they fell from the storm shrouded heavens without a word, their descent marked only by the shriek of tearing metal and the thunder of bolter fire. Where the Impalers roared their wrath in defiance of the alien tide, the Shrouds were silence incarnate, a wordless wall of steel and crimson that bled the swarm dry with every step they took.
The heart of the campaign was the defense of the Cathedral of Saint Dathros, a monumental relic whose hollowed spires had become the last refuge for the surviving faithful. For seven nights, Impaler and Shroud stood as one upon its broken steps, fighting amidst toppled statues and shattered stained glass, their blood pooling with the ichor of countless Genestealers. The swarm came as living tides, their wings blotting the already, darkened sky, but the two brother, Chapters did not falter. It is said that when the Genestealer Cult broke through the outer walls, Captain Garran Veythar of the Impalers and Captain Alaric Veynos of the Crimson Shrouds fought back-to-back, their blades drenched in gore, until even the dead themselves might have wept at the fury unleashed. When the skies at last split with fire and the Emperor’s judgment fell in the form of orbital bombardment, it consumed not only the alien horde but much of the cathedral itself. Yet both Chapters endured, their scars carried into legend.
The Purgation of Dathros was more than a battle; it was a crucible. The Crimson Shrouds shed their nameless infancy upon its ashen fields and became a Chapter in truth, baptized in silence, smoke, and blood. For the Impalers, it was a reminder that even in their long centuries of slaughter, the sons they had forged in blood and sorrow could yet stand as their equals. In later campaigns, the Black Lament of Veythar, the Rites of Fire upon Karthos IV, veterans of Dathros would fight again, their brotherhood tempered in memory of that ruined cathedral. The muniments of both Chapters recall Dathros with reverence, not as victory alone, but as the moment when two legacies, progenitor and successor, became bound in a single, unbroken chain of sacrifice.
- The Nine Veils (Unknown.M37) - The Crimson Shrouds’ second trial was the Campaign of the Nine Veils, where they were dispatched to reclaim the shrine world of Belaspar from the heretic cult known as the Veiled Choir. For nine bloody months, the Shrouds waged a war of attrition within labyrinthine catacombs, cloisters, and cavernous reliquaries. They advanced slowly, methodically, their black sabre armour gleaming under the torchlight as they purged the cultists one chamber at a time. Survivors reported hearing the Shrouds chanting funeral hymns as they advanced, the dirges echoing off the stone, eroding morale as surely as boltgun fire.
When the final veil fell, Belaspar was “liberated” in name only. The Crimson Shrouds executed the cult, then turned their rituals upon the remaining populace, claiming the taint could never be fully purged. Every citizen, guilty or not, was bled in rites of “sanctification,” their bodies laid in ordered rows across the shrines. Administratum records list Belaspar as saved, but its cathedrals stand silent, piled with ossuaries of the “redeemed.” To the Shrouds, it was their first true liturgy of war, a battlefield consecrated in death.
- Dirge of Malachar (854.M37) - Tharn, a feudal world bound by oath to the Imperium, was swept beneath the tide of Orks that poured from the void like carrion flies from a corpse. Entire kingdoms were broken in days; their knights and men-at-arms hacked apart and left to rot in fields of mud and iron. The people of Tharn, once proud in their banners of chivalric honor, were herded like cattle into pens of iron, their screams rising to the heavens as sacrifices to the Orks’ crude amusements. It was into this nightmare that the Crimson Shrouds descended, their drop pods tearing through the twilight skies like falling coffins, their arrival heralded by silence before slaughter. Chapter Master Dragomir Veylac himself led the strike, vowing that the Chapter would not abandon Tharn to the green tide, no matter the cost.
The Crimson Shrouds waged their war in the only way they knew: through terror. They did not fight as a single phalanx, but as shadows that shredded the Orks piecemeal. Entire greenskin tribes vanished overnight, their corpses found butchered in ritual silence, their leaders impaled on the ramparts of ruined castles. Fear, alien and unnatural to the Orks, began to gnaw at their brutish ranks. At the heart of this campaign was Dragomir Veylac, the Hollow Fang, who stalked the battlefield as a predator among prey. He struck with a blackened glaive said to have drunk the blood of xenos warlords beyond counting, and wherever he went, the Orks broke like chaff before a storm. Yet Veylac knew the tide could not be stemmed forever. For every tribe butchered in silence, ten more gathered to roar in defiance. The final confrontation would come not in ambush, but in the crucible of direct war.
At Malachar’s Vale, beneath the looming ruins of a shattered citadel, Dragomir Veylac chose his ground. The Orks came in endless waves, their warlord towering above them, clad in crude mega-armor adorned with the bones of conquered kings. Veylac and his honor guard hurled themselves into the heart of the horde, black and crimson armor gleaming in the twilight, their bolters singing until their barrels burned. When their ammunition ran dry, they fought with blade, fist, and fang, their defiance a hymn of blood to the Emperor. It was here that Veylac carved his legend into eternity, slaying the warlord with his own hands, his glaive impaling the beast even as his body was torn apart beneath the swarm. His brothers sang the Dirge of Malachar as they fell, voices breaking the night with defiant hymns. Though Veylac’s remains were lost beneath mountains of alien corpses, the Orks were broken. The tide receded, their Waaagh! undone by the Hollow Fang’s sacrifice. To this day, every Crimson Shroud carries his name as a prayer before battle, their silent oath echoing: "Fear is the weapon, blood the price, silence the victory".
- Acharon Massacres (Unknown.M39) - Perhaps the most damning of their wars, the Acharon Massacres unfolded when the Crimson Shrouds were ordered to quell heretical uprisings across the mining moons of the Acharon Belt. Initially, the campaign was swift and brutal: cultist strongholds were annihilated, orbital defenses shattered, and rebel leaders impaled upon crimson-soaked standards. Yet the Shrouds did not stop at victory. They decreed that the moons themselves were irreparably tainted.
In the aftermath, the Chapter enacted rites of extermination on a planetary scale. Entire populations, including loyalist regiments, were methodically executed and drained of blood in vast sacrificial rituals. The moons became barren husks, their wealth of mineral resources lost forever. Administratum scribes condemned the massacre as wasteful atrocity; the Inquisition nearly branded the Shrouds traitors. To this day, the Acharon Belt remains a silent graveyard, its hollowed cities filled with the ash of the slain, monuments to the Chapter’s relentless creed that salvation only comes in death.
- Gethsemane Silence (Unknown.M39) - The Shrouds earned their name anew upon the death world of Gethsemane, where an Ork Waaagh! of terrifying magnitude threatened to overwhelm the sector. Instead of fortifying defenses, the Shrouds arrived in utter silence, refusing even to communicate with the Astra Militarum. They descended directly into the largest Ork encampments, their drop-pods crashing like tombstones into the green tide.
Over the course of three years, the Crimson Shrouds waged a relentless war of extermination. They made no speeches, no calls to rally. The Orks were not broken in glorious battle, but suffocated beneath wave after wave of sabre-wielding Astartes who struck without sound, only hymns of mourning carried across the vox. When the Waaagh! finally collapsed, the Imperials who remained described the Chapter as revenants rather than warriors, “as if the Emperor had sent His angels of death as funeral hosts for the greenskin plague.”
- Flaying of Karthane (Unknown.M40) - The Karthane Subsector Rebellion saw entire systems rise against Imperial tithe-collectors, guided by whispers of Chaos. The Crimson Shrouds were unleashed, and their campaign became known as the Flaying of Karthane. They pursued the rebels not as warriors chasing foes, but as undertakers stalking a graveyard, cleansing one world after another with ritual execution. Their actions were swift and merciless: orbital bombardments followed by ritualistic ground purges.
At the heart of the rebellion, the Shrouds uncovered a Tzeentchian sorcerer whose illusions had enthralled the population. The Mortifiers enacted a final ceremony in the capital’s burning cathedral, where the sorcerer was impaled upon a black sabre blade and his blood burned into incense. Yet, when the smoke cleared, there were no survivors left on Karthane. Rebel and loyalist alike had perished in the Chapter’s rites. The subsector was “purified,” but it would never pay tithes again.
- Crucible of Helios Reach (Unknown.M40) - When a huge Genestealer Cult threatened Helios Reach, Imperial commanders expected the Crimson Shrouds to hold a defensive line until reinforcement. Instead, the Chapter deliberately withdrew civilians into kill-zones, allowing the Genestealers to gorge themselves upon baited populations. The horror of this strategy broke the morale of Imperial Guard commanders who begged for a more humane defense. The Shrouds did not respond.
In the slaughter that followed, entire continents were drowned in ichor as the Crimson Shrouds counter-attacked with surgical brutality. Their blade strikes targeted synapse creatures with near ritual precision, as if they were dismembering a beast corpse rather than fighting a war. The Hive splinter was destroyed, but at the cost of billions of human lives deliberately offered to slow its advance. To this day, Helios Reach is a barren wasteland, a reminder that to the Crimson Shrouds, lives are currency to be spent on death’s altar.
- Cryptus Dirge (Unknown.M41) - During the infamous Cryptus Campaign, where Tyranids descended upon the Cryptus System, the Crimson Shrouds appeared unbidden. Their fleet emerged in the aftermath of the first great Tyranid assault, their vox channels filled not with tactical reports, but with somber canticles of loss. They fought not as allies but as death-priests, cutting into Tyranid swarms with ritual fury, their Chaplains anointing the ground with blood in the midst of battle.
Imperial commanders tolerated their presence only for their effectiveness. But when the xenos were finally driven off, the Shrouds turned their rites upon Imperial survivors. Entire Guard regiments were “blessed” with final rites of execution, their blood spilled to sanctify Cryptus from further alien corruption. To this day, the survivors remember not the Tyranid horror, but the deathly silence of the Crimson Shrouds and their whispered refrain: “All must be made ready for the grave.”
- Oaths of Ashes (Unknown.M41) - When the forge world of Adrastis IV fell to heretek corruption, the Crimson Shrouds swore the Oaths of Ashes: to purge the planet even if it meant the destruction of its Mechanicum wonders. Descending into the firestorms of its manufactoria, the Chapter waged war with flame and blade, ritually incinerating every spire, forge, and data vault.
By the campaign’s end, Adrastis IV was nothing but a cinder world, its value to the Imperium forever lost. Yet the Crimson Shrouds called it victory, for they had erased corruption at the root, leaving no seed for heresy to grow. Tech-priests across the galaxy cursed their name, but the Chapter only recorded the oath as fulfilled: the world had been “returned to silence.”
- Nihil Obsequy (Unknown.M42) - In the dark era of the Cicatrix Maledictum, the Crimson Shrouds fought in the Imperium Nihilus, where hope itself is in short supply. The most infamous of their recent wars is the Nihil Obsequy, a wandering crusade across void-shattered sectors where the Chapter hunted daemonic incursions without request, descending upon beleaguered worlds like carrion crows. Their ships appeared suddenly, their warriors conducted rites in silence, and when the battle ended, so too did the world’s population.
For those who witnessed the Nihil Obsequy, the Crimson Shrouds became avatars of despair. Though daemonic incursions were destroyed utterly, so too were those they had “protected.” When asked why, their Mortifiers only spoke: “The dead do not fall to heresy.” In this age of endings, they seem more death cult than Chapter, yet still they fight and still they kill in the Emperor’s name.
Chapter Homeworld[]
The Crimson Shrouds dwell upon the world of Aeterna Nox, a feudal and brooding realm eternally locked in a shroud of half light. Two great moons, Mournstar and Graveveil, circle endlessly above, their orbits casting shifting veils of shadow across the land so that true daylight never reaches the surface. The skies are forever painted in hues of bruised crimson and dull silver, while the land itself is marked by jagged mountain ridges, black forests, and windswept plains where twilight never breaks. It is said that the people of Aeterna Nox have never seen the full brilliance of the Emperor’s sun, only its dim echo bleeding through layers of shadow, and so their eyes are pale, their skin wan, and their faith steeped in superstition and dread.
Life upon Aeterna Nox is brutal and short, shaped by its endless feudal wars and blood oaths sworn between fractured kingdoms. Lords rule from towering castles of obsidian and basalt, their banners forever tested by rival kin, while the peasants scratch out lives in mud, misery, and perpetual conflict. To survive is to be blooded early, children are armed at adolescence, and men and women alike are tested in endless border raids. Ritual duels, executions, and sacrifice are common, for the lords believe spilling blood sanctifies the land against the ever present “shadows” they claim prowl the night. The coming of the Crimson Shrouds only deepened these practices, for the Chapter recruits only from the most hardened of duelists, and their rites reshape ancient feudal superstitions into grim reflections of their own death bound creed.
To be chosen by the Crimson Shrouds is to be both exalted and doomed. The Astartes descend from the sky not as saviors but as reapers, clad in sable war-plate, selecting their aspirants in trials that end in bloodshed. The peasants whisper that those taken are not elevated, but rather swallowed by the twilight forever, their souls pledged to wage war in the Emperor’s service until the end of all things. The Chapter’s fortress monastery, the Sepulchre of Silence, rises from the hollowed heart of Muntele Sângelui Îngheța, a titanic black mountain said to be the resting place of gods slain before mankind’s memory. From its heights, the Crimson Shrouds watch their world as death-priests watch over a grave, their silent vigil as eternal as the twilight that blankets Aeterna Nox.
Fortress-Monastery[]
- "We are remembered not in monuments, but in nightmares."
- —carved into the walls of the Sepulchre of Silence
The Sepulchre of Silence rises from the hollowed heart of Muntele Sângelui Îngheța, known as the "Mountain of Frozen Blood", its jagged black spires clawing the twilight sky like the talons of some long dead god. From a distance, it appears less as a fortress and more as a colossal mausoleum, carved into the mountain with no thought of beauty or comfort, only permanence and intimidation. Its gates are vast, forged from black iron streaked with crimson, etched with the dirges of fallen Shrouds and the names of enemies slain in campaigns long past. Even the wind that howls down the mountain passes through the citadel like mournful breath, carrying with it the scent of incense, scorched stone, and old blood. To approach the Sepulchre is to step into a cathedral of death, a place where the living are reminded at every turn that mortality is a chain that even angels cannot escape.
Inside, the monastery is a labyrinth of vaults, halls, and sanctuaries, each room built with a purpose of ritual as much as warfare. The Dormitories of the Fallen hold the bodies of brothers claimed by the Black Rage, preserved in crimson shrouds and blackened armour, their presence considered both sacred and instructional. Novitiates train under the gaze of these silent veterans, learning that death is not a possibility but a companion. The Halls of Dirge echo ceaselessly with chants, whispered prayers, and the tolling of great bells whenever a brother is lost to the Red Thirst or the fury of battle. Every corridor, every stairwell, is lined with murals and bas, reliefs depicting acts of war, mourning, and sacrifice, less history than constant admonition, ensuring that each brother internalises the duality of their existence: angel and harbinger, saviour and executioner.
At the summit of the Sepulchre lies the Sanctum of the Mortifiers, where Chapter leadership, Chaplains, and the Chapter Master conduct rites that are as terrifying as they are holy. From here, the Crimson Shrouds survey Aeterna Nox and the sectors beyond, sending strike forces into warzones with the same measured solemnity as a priest casting a funeral pall. The walls are etched with the memories of campaigns, of victories purchased in blood, and of failures that cannot be redeemed. Within this chamber, a brother may look upon the relics of Sanguinius and the trophies of foes alike and feel both pride and foreboding; for the Sepulchre teaches that power and duty are inseparable from grief, and that the Shrouds’ existence is a vigil that cannot end. Even in times of peace, the Sepulchre of Silence is a constant reminder that the Crimson Shrouds are less defenders than pallbearers, watchers of life and death in the eternal twilight of their homeworld.
Chapter Organization[]
Officer Ranks[]
| Crimson Shrouds Title | Translation/Thetic Meaning | Notes |
|---|---|---|
| Chapter Master equivalent. At the summit of command stands the Domn Voivode, a warlord-king in the truest sense, ruling his Chapter as one might rule a haunted realm. The title carries with it both reverence and dread, for the Voivode is not merely a master of war, but the keeper of his Chapter’s curse, shepherding his sons between nobility and damnation. When he strides to battle, he is less man than legend, a monarch of steel and sorrow. | ||
| Captain equivalent. The title of Voievod is carved in crimson and shadow. Among the Chapter, a Voievod is more than a commander—he is a sovereign upon the battlefield, a master of life and death. His every command carries the inevitability of fate, his voice the echo of a ruler pronouncing judgment. To his brothers, he is not simply a captain of war, but a noble guardian, cursed and yet exalted, who leads from the front like the monarchs of forgotten kingdoms. | ||
| The Voina (Lieutenant), named for war itself (voina), serve as the right hands of the Voivode, their eyes and blades in the chaos of the battlefield. | Lieutenant equivalent. These are warriors on the cusp of higher command, tested in blood, their names whispered in the vaults of prophecy and fate. |
Specialist Ranks[]
| Crimson Shrouds Title | Translation/Thetic Meaning | Notes |
|---|---|---|
| (lit. noble, chieftain, lord of lands or kin) | Reclusiarch equivalent. Those who rise higher than captains in command, or who are entrusted with mastery over greater hosts, bear the title of Cneaz Moroi. The word carries echoes of forgotten princes who once ruled the shadowed valleys and dark forests of old, and its weight is felt across the Chapter. A Cneaz is both lord and warden, burdened with the care of his warriors as though they were kin of his own blood. In their presence, brothers see both the nobility of Sanguinius and the curse that gnaws at his line. | |
| Chaplain equivalent. The spiritual guides of the Chapter are the Moroi, named for the restless spirits of old folk legend. They are not joyous preachers but gaunt, funereal figures who walk among their brothers as mourners at an endless wake. Clad in sable, their croziuses wrought into shapes of fanged skulls and broken chalices, they whisper sermons of death and redemption, urging their brethren to drink deeply of sacrifice in Sanguinius’ name. | ||
| The Honour Guard of the Crimson Shrouds, are whispered of even within the Chapter as beings set apart. Living revenants who walk the line between legend and dread. Drawn only from the most seasoned and merciless of the Crimson Shrouds, these warriors are not chosen for their strength of arm alone, but for the abyssal depths of will that allow them to master the twin hungers that define their bloodline. To stand among the Kargatane is to wear the scars of centuries, to have bled on a hundred battlefields and yet endure, not merely as a warrior but as an avatar of the Chapter’s myth. They are clad in black plate more baroque than any other, adorned with crimson etchings like veins across their armour, their visages wrought into pale, fang-like helms that strike fear into both serf and enemy alike. The Kargatane are not only the Honour Guard of the Crimson Shrouds, they are its dread incarnate, walking legends who remind the galaxy that the sons of Sanguinius endure not as angels, but as shadows with blood upon their hands. | ||
| Chief Apothecary equivalent. | ||
| Apothecary equivalent. Those who guard the blood and the gene-seed are known as Sânge-Keepers—wardens of the blood. They are both physicians and ritual custodians, bearing within their reliquaries the vitae of their Primarch and his sons. Their art is more than surgical; it is sacred, a blood-rite passed from keeper to keeper, binding the Chapter to its lineage as much as it binds flesh to bone. | ||
| Chief Librarian equivalent, master of the archives. | ||
| Librarian equivalent. The psykers of the Chapter are known as Stregoni, sorcerous figures whispered of even among their brethren. Like the warlocks of old Carpathian tales, they draw upon the warp as though invoking forgotten rites of blood and shadow. Their minds blaze with arcane fire, and yet behind their pale eyes lies the eternal struggle to resist the Black Rage, for no soul walks closer to the abyss than they. | ||
| Master of the Forge equivalent (means 'overseer'). | ||
| (means 'blacksmith') | Techmarine equivalent. | |
| Chapter Champion of the Grand Voivode. | ||
| Company Champion of a Hospodar (Captain). | ||
| Commander over the hundred battle-brothers responsible for defending the Chapter's flagship - Noctis Dracul - against enemy boarding assaults. |
Line Ranks[]
| Crimson Shrouds Title | Translation/Thetic Meaning | Notes |
|---|---|---|
| Veteran Marine equivalent. | ||
| Veteran Sergeant equivalent. The champions of the companies are called Haiduci, after the old warrior-bandits who struck terror into tyrants’ hearts. These are not mere squad leaders but exemplars of their brothers—scarred, unyielding, and grim. A Haiduc bears centuries of campaigns upon his shoulders, his armour etched with crimson scars of both honour and penance. | ||
| Sergeant equivalent. The Viteaz is the hardened spear-point of the squad, the exemplar who embodies the iron discipline and martial ferocity of his kin. To follow a Viteaz into battle is to be shielded by his defiance and steeled by his example. Their title is spoken with both respect and fear, for they are warriors who have borne centuries of blood upon their blades and survived, each scar a testament to their worth. A Viteaz does not merely lead—he endures, and his brothers endure with him. | ||
| Battle-Brother equivalent. | ||
| Scout Marine equivalent. | ||
| Neophyte equivalent. | ||
| Aspirant equivalent. |
Specialist Units & Formations[]
Wraiths[]
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The veteran Pallbearers are the apex strike force of the Crimson Shrouds, consisting of the Chapter’s most experienced warriors and those who have survived the Black Rage without succumbing to it. They are specialists in Rapid Deployment Operations, often deployed from orbital craft in lightning assaults that leave the enemy crushed before they can even mount a defense. Their black sabre armour, trimmed in crimson, serves as both camouflage in darkness and symbol of death, while their approach is always surgical, precise, and ritualistic. In battle, the Pallbearers act as both spearhead and anchor for the Chapter’s campaigns. They often strike first to open corridors for the rest of the companies, carving paths through fortified positions with sabre, bolter, and terminator-grade firepower. The Black Rage occasionally consumes brothers within the 1st Company during prolonged engagements, but this is seen as a necessary sacrifice, a reinforcement of the Chapter’s creed that death is both teacher and companion. | ||
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The Mourning Blades are the Crimson Shrouds’ specialists in Strategic Interdiction Operations. Tasked with severing enemy supply lines, communications, and command structures, they operate deep behind enemy lines. Each mission is carefully planned like a funeral procession, leaving behind staged corpses, carved symbols, and whispered messages designed to terrify survivors. Coordination with other companies is key: the Mourning Blades disrupt, isolate, and soften targets before the Pallbearers descend. Their tactics rely on mobility, stealth, and intelligence gathered by scouts. The company’s sergeants, called Dirge-Keepers, oversee every operation as both tactician and priest of death, ensuring that every interdiction not only damages the enemy but leaves psychological scars that linger long after the campaign concludes. | ||
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The Twilight Sentinels are recon and infiltration specialists, masters of Reconnaissance in Force. They move ahead of the Chapter, observing enemy deployments, probing defenses, and reporting weaknesses for tactical exploitation. Each Sentinel patrol operates almost independently, their movements coordinated by the Chapter’s vox-grid, yet each is trained to interpret battlefield signals instinctively, as if guided by the pallbearers’ collective will. In combat, the Twilight Sentinels often transition seamlessly into ambushes, skirmishes, and harassment operations. Their emphasis on observation and adaptation allows the Shrouds to strike with uncanny accuracy, arriving precisely where the enemy is weakest and leaving psychological terror in their wake. They are often the first to leave signs of the Chapter’s arrival: the half light silhouette of black-and-crimson warriors or the arranged corpses of fallen enemies, warning all who remain of what is to come. | ||
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TThe Wraiths of Mourning specialize in Psychological Warfare and terror assaults. They are tasked with undermining enemy morale before and during combat, employing screams, chants, and funeral-like rituals that echo across vox-networks and battlefield radios. Their operations are designed to leave survivors trembling with fear, whether through the sudden appearance of black-clad warriors in ruined cityscapes or the methodical display of the fallen, arranged like shrines to death. The Wraiths coordinate closely with the Mourning Blades and Twilight Sentinels. While the Blades isolate and the Sentinels report, the Wraiths shape the battlefield with dread. They often operate in small detachments, appearing where least expected, their attacks seemingly random yet calculated to ensure maximum terror. Even full companies of enemy soldiers often break before the first lethal strike is made, the Shrouds’ dirges and rituals acting as both psychological artillery and prelude to inevitable death. | ||
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The Shade Reapers specialize in Guerilla Actions, operating in long term campaigns across hostile terrain. They excel in attrition warfare, ambushing supply convoys, sabotaging fortifications, and striking isolated patrols. Their doctrine emphasizes patience and observation, waiting for the enemy to make a misstep before delivering swift and merciless punishment. Coordination with the other companies is intermittent; the Shade Reapers often operate alone, moving silently in shadowed forests, ruined cities, or the fractured moons of Aeterna Nox. When their strikes coincide with Rapid Deployment assaults or interdiction operations, the enemy often finds itself surrounded by unseen killers, overwhelmed in both body and mind. The Reapers are feared as ghosts of the battlefield—never seen coming, and never leaving survivors. | ||
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The Dirge Guard are the Chapter’s tactical reserve and specialists in Terror Assaults. When entire enemy forces must be shattered psychologically and physically, the Dirge Guard descend en masse, often following months of interdiction, reconnaissance, and fear campaigns. Their approach is theatrical and ritualistic: they arrive at twilight or in artificial darkness, black sabres gleaming, banners of crimson cloth whipping, and hymns of lament ringing across vox channels. In concert with the Wraiths of Mourning and Pallbearers, the Dirge Guard turns battles into spectacles of inevitability. Their assaults are designed to overwhelm the senses and break cohesion before lethal strikes are made, leaving survivors disoriented, terrified, and easily annihilated. Campaign reports note that few armies ever recover after a Dirge Guard assault, for the memory of such terror lingers long after the battlefield is cleared. | ||
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The Blood Vesper serve as rapid response shock troops and boarding specialists, often used to intervene in campaigns where immediate action is required. They excel in Rapid Deployment combined with surgical strikes on fortified positions, boarding actions against enemy vessels, and counter-insurgency operations. Their nickname reflects their role: dusk to dawn warriors who strike swiftly like a twilight tide of death. They coordinate closely with the Twilight Sentinels and Pallbearers, often following reconnaissance intel to execute devastating precision strikes. Blood Vesper squads are also tasked with recovering fallen brothers during campaigns, ensuring that rites of burial and consecration are observed even in the midst of battle, reinforcing the Chapter’s constant interplay of death, ritual, and war. | ||
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The Veilwardens are the Chapter’s scouts and aspirant trainers, responsible for securing future generations of warriors while executing reconnaissance and minor interdiction operations. They are the eyes and ears of the Sepulchre of Silence, moving silently, marking potential recruits, and shaping the battlefield even before the main force arrives. While often overlooked in large scale battles, their contribution is vital. They coordinate intelligence between companies, direct ambush points, and ensure that every rapid deployment or terror assault is reinforced by accurate knowledge of terrain, enemy strength, and psychological vulnerabilities. The Veilwardens’ meticulous observations and deadly precision maintain the Shrouds’ reputation as both unstoppable warriors and harbingers of fear. |
Order of Battle[]
Headquarters[]
Wraiths (Companies)[]
Chapter Recruitment[]
The recruitment of a new brother into the Crimson Shrouds is less an honor than a summons to death. Potential aspirants are drawn from the twilight, washed valleys and feudal holds of Aeterna Nox, selected not only for physical aptitude but for their capacity to endure suffering, loss, and the inevitability of death. Even before induction, aspirants are observed for years: their reactions to cruelty, their fortitude under hardship, and their ability to witness the suffering of others without despair or pity. Many are rejected silently, left to continue their mortal lives under the shadow of Muntele Sângelui Îngheța, forever marked by their near-selection, while others are marked with crimson tattoos that signify their fate. Once taken to the Sepulchre of Silence, aspirants are subjected to a sequence of trials that test body, mind, and soul. They are stripped bare in ritual chambers and presented before the Mortifiers, who measure their capacity for obedience and sacrifice.
Trial of Shadows[]
Aspirants, taken from the twilight feudal kingdoms of Aeterna Nox, are blindfolded and led deep into the Sepulchre of Silence, their ears filled with whispers of prayers and curses alike. When the blindfolds are torn away, they stand alone in the stygian dark, surrounded by endless stone corridors that seem to shift and breathe with malevolent intent. The labyrinth is not only physical but spiritual: the catacombs echo with phantoms, recorded shrieks of the dying, and spectral visions conjured by the Chapter’s psychically-gifted Chaplains. At every turn, death waits, not always real, not always feigned. An ambush by training servitors, a collapsing passage, or a poisoned chalice of water left as temptation. The labyrinth is a mirror, meant to expose what lurks within the aspirant’s soul, and the only constant is hunger: hunger for light, for survival, for deliverance.
Those who falter do not simply fail; they are erased. Crimson-armoured overseers stalk the halls, unseen until the moment they strike down a broken aspirant with a swift, ritual blade. The corpses are not discarded, but shrouded in blood-red cloth and displayed at junctions of the labyrinth, a silent lesson for those who press on. To stumble upon such a body is to feel the weight of inevitability, that failure is death, that only shadows remain for the weak. It is whispered among the serfs of the Chapter that the Sepulchre itself drinks the fear of the aspirants, that the dead who lie in their shrouds are not merely husks, but offerings to some ancient covenant bound within the mountain. For the aspirants, the sight of their fallen brothers becomes both a curse and a spur: proof that weakness will be claimed, and that survival demands becoming more than human.
Survivors of the Trial emerge not victorious, but hollowed. They are gaunt, their eyes pale and rimmed with shadow, their voices hushed and broken. It is in this state that the Chapter’s Apothecaries descend upon them, beginning the agonising grafting of gene-seed and augmetics. What follows is a baptism of fire and blood, where their humanity is slowly consumed in the crucible of pain. For weeks they lie upon cold stone, wracked by seizures, their bodies fighting the alien seed now coursing through their veins. Most perish; some descend into frenzy; a few emerge reborn, stripped of the softness of mortal men and reforged as something colder, sharper, and eternal. These survivors are no longer aspirants, they are neophytes of the Crimson Shrouds, their first steps into brotherhood marked not by triumph, but by the echo of the dead who could not follow.
Rite of Blood[]
After surviving both mind and body trials, aspirants enter the Rite of the Blood, where they are tested in combat, often against full fledged battle brothers, in ceremonial arenas echoing with funeral chants. This final stage determines whether they have the discipline to contain the Red Thirst and endure the Black Rage without succumbing prematurely. Once they emerge victorious, they are granted full battle plate, their armour black with crimson pauldrons, and their names are etched into the Book of Shadows, a living chronicle of all who have survived and all who have perished. For the new brother, this is both an elevation and a sentence: they are now a warrior of the Emperor, bound forever to the Chapter’s liturgy of war and mourning, their life a procession of campaigns, death rites, and the eternal vigil over humanity’s fragile light.
Chapter Beliefs[]
- "The Chapter endures, as do the shadows. Let the Imperium scorn us, so long as its enemies bleed in our wake."
- —Reclusiarch Morvain, Keeper of the Red Sacrament
Eternal Vigil of Blood[]
The Crimson Shrouds believe themselves to be the chosen wardens of humanity’s unending sorrow, the living guardians of a vigil that can never end. To shed blood in the Emperor’s name is, to them, not an act of conquest or victory, but a sacred libation poured upon the altar of His eternal throne. Every battle is treated as a rite, every slain foe an offering, and every brother lost a tolling bell that deepens the Chapter’s dirge. They do not celebrate triumphs; they mourn them. The greater the victory, the heavier the grief, for each conquest is bought with blood, and each loss feeds the dark hunger that lurks in their souls.
Cult of the Shroud[]
Central to their faith is the Shroud, the idea that all warriors of the Chapter are veiled in death even as they live. They wear their black armour as mortuary garb, and the crimson of their shoulders as the blood-cloth of sacrifice. Each brother is taught from induction that he is already dead, his life forfeit the moment he was chosen—and thus he fights with the terrible certainty of one who has nothing left to lose. The Shroud is not only a symbol but a state of being: a reminder that they are both protectors and executioners, pallbearers of the Imperium who march ceaselessly toward their own grave. To live as a Shroud is to exist in twilight, neither alive as mortal men, nor yet dead as the Emperor’s saints, but forever suspended in His will.
Redemption in Terror[]
Perhaps their most chilling belief is their conviction that fear itself is a weapon sanctified by the Emperor. To sow terror among the foe is, to the Crimson Shrouds, an act of mercy, an offering that hastens the enemy’s fall into despair before the final blow. Yet it is also an act of penance, for in spreading dread they seek to balance the curse of their own natures. Where others see inhuman cruelty, the Crimson Shrouds see sacred necessity: to frighten the Emperor’s enemies is to make them feel, in fleeting moments, the same shadow of damnation that haunts the sons of Sanguinius. Thus their doctrine is not merely one of war, but of redemption through horror, each strike, each rite of terror, a whispered prayer that their suffering will purchase even a fragment of absolution.
The Hollow Fang’s Vigil[]
The Dirge of Malachar has become the marrow of the Crimson Shrouds’ identity, a wound-turned-relic that bleeds into every ritual, every oath, and every whisper within the Sepulchre of Silence. Each brother of the Chapter carries a shard of that final battle in his soul, as if the shadow of Dragomir Veylac’s death still looms over their every campaign. To this day, before any major deployment, the Shrouds gather in the Hall of Black Echoes, where the bones of Veylac’s honor guard are sealed within obsidian reliquaries. There, the Chapter does not chant or sing as others do; instead, they stand in absolute silence for nine minutes—the span of time in which Veylac fought alone amidst the Ork horde before his signal fell silent. That silence is their hymn, a dirge without words, one that binds them in remembrance of sacrifice and terror both.
On the feast day of Malachar, observed once every Terran year, the Crimson Shrouds enact a grim rite known as The Hollow Fang’s Vigil. Each battle brother carves a shallow wound into his palm and lets the blood fall upon the floor of the Sepulchre, a crimson trail that runs toward the towering statue of Veylac which looms over the hall. The ritual is not mere symbolism; it is a reminder that every drop of blood spilled by the Chapter is a tithe to the Hollow Fang’s legacy, and that the price of survival is always written in sacrifice. The Chapter’s Chaplains lead the Vigil, their voices carrying the Dirge in a low, guttural chant, while the rest of the Chapter remains cloaked in silence, their eyes fixed upon the eternal gaze of their first master.
In their culture of war, the Dirge is not only remembered but enacted. Each company keeps a Dirgemaster, a veteran who carries the authority to intone Veylac’s sacrifice in the midst of battle. When the Dirgemaster raises his voice in the field, the brothers fight with renewed ferocity, for they believe the Hollow Fang himself guides their blades in that moment. More than inspiration, it is an oath binding, a promise that none will falter so long as Malachar’s memory burns within them. To enemies, the Dirge is a terror strange, discordant hymns echoing over vox channels and carried through the smoke, the promise of death uttered in words they cannot understand. To the Shrouds, it is faith. The Dirge of Malachar is not merely a history. It is their soul, their curse, and their binding law: that every silence must be broken with blood, and every brother’s death must carve fear into the hearts of the foe.
Chapter Gene-Seed[]
Genetic Flaws[]
Combat Doctrine[]
- "Fear is the weapon, blood the price, silence the victory"
- —Domn Voivode (Chapter Master) Dragomir Veylac, "The Hollow Fang"
The Crimson Shrouds fight as though every engagement is both a battle and a funeral rite, and their combat doctrine reflects this dual purpose. Their mastery of Rapid Deployment Operations allows them to strike like death incarnate, dropping from orbit with near ritualistic precision. Strike forces are inserted into enemy territory under the cover of darkness, the chapter’s black and crimson armour glinting faintly beneath the twin moons of Aeterna Nox or the smog choked skies of distant worlds. In these operations, speed is sacred: targets are obliterated before they can organize, leaders are executed in ceremonial fashion, and survivors are left to witness the inevitability of death, the Shrouds’ dirges echoing as both warning and lament.
Strategic Interdiction Operations and Reconnaissance in Force form the backbone of the Chapter’s longer campaigns. They are masters of striking deep behind enemy lines, severing supply chains, and cutting communication arteries while remaining invisible to orbital and ground sensors. Every action is precise yet theatrical, designed not merely to destroy but to unsettle. Scouts infiltrate enemy positions under cover of night, leaving marks of the Shrouds’ presence: corpses arranged in morbid tableaux, symbols carved into walls in the blood of the slain, and whispers of impending doom carried to survivors via captured vox recordings. The Chapter does not merely anticipate the enemy’s moves. They dictate them, forcing foes to fight within a landscape they themselves have turned into a nightmare.
The most feared aspects of the Crimson Shrouds’ doctrine are their Psychological Warfare, Guerilla Actions, and Terror Assaults. Entire campaigns are framed as protracted rituals of fear, where terror is as vital as casualties. Their approach is patient, deliberate: ambushes strike from shadows and ruins, survivors are ritually left to recount the horrors of massacre, and daemonic like figures in black and crimson war plate appear where none were expected, feeding legends among enemies that the Emperor himself has sent revenants to punish them. In these assaults, the Shrouds are simultaneously hunter and harbinger: a force that kills efficiently but ensures that every strike lingers in memory, haunting those who survive. To fight against the Crimson Shrouds is to see death itself orchestrated as an art form, leaving fear as the true battlefield victory.
The doctrine of the Crimson Shrouds is not only about killing efficiently; it is about shaping war into a ritual of inevitability. Each company operates like a phalanx of funeral priests, each strike a passage through mourning, each victory a testament to the chapter’s grim purpose. Where other Chapters seek glory or honor, the Shrouds seek the orchestration of despair: a theatre of death in which they alone control both the choreography and the tolling of the bell. They are not merely warriors they are pallbearers, and every engagement is a requiem for both the living and the dead.
Deathwatch Service[]
The Shroud Sent Forth[]
When the summons of the Long Vigil comes, the Crimson Shrouds do not send their sons willingly, nor lightly. For them, it is not merely an honour but a sundering. Each brother of the Chapter is bound in silence and blood to his kin, and to tear one away from the Sepulchre of Silence is to cut loose a fang from the maw. Yet the oath to the Deathwatch is older than pride, older than lineage. Even the Shrouds must answer when called, though they do so in a manner that unsettles those who receive their chosen. The Chapter does not give its sons, it relinquishes them like offerings to a grave.
The chosen is taken into the deepest vaults of Muntele Sângelui Îngheța, where he is anointed not with oils of sanctity but with the ichor like blood of the fallen. Brothers clad in sable armor chant dirges in tongues no outsider has ever heard, binding the warrior to his Chapter even as he is sent away. He is clad in a hood of crimson silk before his departure, concealing his features entirely. For the Crimson Shrouds believe no ally should ever look upon the face of one of their hunters and see only a man. He departs wordless, bearing not even his own name, but only the epithet bestowed upon him by the Chapter. The Inquisition’s records may write "Sergeant Koryth," but to his brethren, and in his own mind, he is “The Pale Shadow.”
For the Deathwatch, these Shrouds are gifts sharpened in terror. They bring with them not just skill in bolter and blade, but a gift for dread itself. Reports speak of Crimson Shrouds vanishing into voidships, reappearing only after prey has been broken by paranoia and panic. Other Chapters often view them with unease, for their silence, their ritual scars, and the way their eyes linger too long upon their fellows. Yet none can deny their efficacy. The Shrouds themselves see the Vigil as another crucible: the galaxy is a coffin vast beyond measure, and the Deathwatch but another tomb in which they may practice the art of death until they are called home to Muntele Sângelui Îngheța once more or fall nameless in the dark.
Returned to Silence[]
To return from the Long Vigil is to come back as a stranger. Among the Crimson Shrouds, such warriors are not greeted with celebration or triumph, but with wary silence and the shadow of doubt. It is whispered within the Sepulchre of Silence that a son who has walked among the stars apart from his kin no longer belongs wholly to the blood of Veylac. He has seen too much, fought alongside those whose ways are foreign, and breathed the strange airs of alien death. Though he returns draped once more in sable and crimson, his essence is thought to be scarred by that exile.
Those who come back are marked with a ritual scarification across the face, tracing the line of a death’s head, so that none forget the grave they crawled out of. They are bound in penitent silence for a full year within the inner catacombs of the Sepulchre, made to walk the lightless halls while chanting the names of their lost kin until their voices are broken. Only then are they permitted once more to join their brethren in war. Even so, they remain slightly apart, not quite distrusted, but never wholly embraced. Their brothers speak to them as one speaks to a revenant: a thing both honored and haunted, alive yet touched by death in a manner that does not wash clean.
Yet these Returned are often the most deadly hunters the Chapter possesses. The Deathwatch sharpens them into blades honed for every breed of xenos terror, and their scars make them pitiless. Their coldness deepens the aura of fear the Crimson Shrouds wield in war. To the Imperium, they are champions forged of silence and shadow. To their kin, they are phantoms, proof that one may wander the grave and yet walk back out again, forever changed. Some whisper they are touched too deeply by the Vigil, that the night clings to them in unnatural ways. But when the battle is joined and the enemy breaks beneath their gaze, none can deny their value. For what has walked in death’s halls does not fear the grave.
Notable Crimson Shrouds[]
- Domn Voivode (Chapter Master) Dragomir Veylac, "The Hollow Fang" - Remembered in hushed tones as the Hollow Fang, was chosen by the High Lords of Terra during the 23rd 'Sentinel' Founding to guide a fledgling Chapter into the shadowed galaxy of the 37th Millennium. A son of sorrowful blood, Veylac was drawn from the gene-line of the Blood Angels, but whispered records suggest he was a captain of the Impalers before his ascension, a warrior already cloaked in fear and renown. His title, the Hollow Fang, was earned in the crucible of the void, where his fangs tore into foes but his soul remained bereft of joy, hollowed by endless war. From the first days upon Aeterna Nox, he shaped the Crimson Shrouds into hunters, teaching them that terror was as much a weapon as the blade, and silence as deadly as bolter fire. To his warriors, he was more than commander, he was architect, prophet, and executioner.
For centuries, Dragomir Veylac ruled from the Sepulchre of Silence, guiding his Chapter with a hand equal parts iron and blood. He instilled into them doctrines of dread. Rapid descent from the heavens, calculated annihilation, and the mastery of psychological warfare. Veylac ensured that the Crimson Shrouds never became a blunt weapon of conquest, but a scalpel that carved out the heart of the enemy with precision and cruelty. He taught them to let their foes hear whispers in the dark, to break armies before bolters even roared. Under his command, they became the scourge of heretics and the nightmare of xenos, their black and crimson armor appearing like phantoms in twilight. Yet his warriors did not love him blindly; they revered him as one reveres the tombstone of an ancestor, a presence of inevitability, unchanging, unyielding, eternal.
Dragomir Veylac’s death came not in silence but in fire. During the Dirge of Malachar, the Crimson Shrouds fought against a tide of Orks who had drowned the feudal world of Tharn in endless green war. Veylac led the charge personally, descending into the heart of the horde with his honor guard, his fangs bared in a grim parody of life. Witnesses recount that he slew a warlord of mountainous stature with his own hands, but was crushed beneath the Orks’ weight, his armor torn apart even as his final strikes reaped a harvest of blood. His body was never recovered, his remains buried beneath a mound of alien dead. To the Crimson Shrouds, his death was not an ending but a dirge. The Hollow Fang had bled into the soil of the Imperium, sealing with his passing the doctrines and culture that would shape the Chapter for millennia to come. Even now, his name is intoned in whispers during the rites of war: Dragomir Veylac, Hollow Fang Eternal. - Domn Voivode (Chapter Master) Vladis Morcant, "Wraith Lord" - Vladis rose to the mantle of Chapter Master after the death of Dragomir Veylac, inheriting not only command but the crushing weight of expectation. Where Veylac had been a warrior of defiant radiance, Morcant was a figure of dusk cold, severe, and haunted. His ascension came not through ceremony but through blood; during the internecine strife that followed Malachar, when rival Captains vied for direction, Morcant broke the stalemate by cutting down three claimants in single combat within the Sepulchre of Silence. It was said that his final challenger was struck so swiftly that his head fell to the ground before his blood had time to flow. To the serfs and aspirants who whispered of him, Morcant was no man but a revenant, a ghost cloaked in flesh, whose eyes glowed with the memory of the Hollow Fang’s sacrifice.
For centuries, Morcant forged the Crimson Shrouds into something harsher, more spectral than even Veylac had imagined. He codified the Dirge of Malachar into formal doctrine, shaping silence and terror into deliberate weapons of war. Under his command, the Shrouds perfected their arts of shadow war, honing psychological strikes and ghostly interdictions until whole systems collapsed beneath their weight without ever seeing the Chapter’s full strength. Morcant’s reign saw victories etched across the galactic map, but it was also marked by a deepening of the Chapter’s inward austerity. Aspirants were tested beyond mortal endurance, and only those who could embrace silence, pain, and shadow without breaking were elevated. It was during Morcant’s tenure that the Shrouds began to speak of themselves not merely as guardians, but as the Veil between light and darkness, a creed that defined them ever after. His influence calcified the Chapter’s macabre identity, and even today, the serfs speak his name with the same shudder one reserves for a curse.
Morcant met his death as he had lived shrouded in grim majesty. During the Scouring of Veythrax, where tendrils of the Great Devourer threatened to engulf the Sargossan Reach, Morcant led his warriors in a desperate delaying action to buy time for a civilian evacuation. Clad in his sable armor, he became a specter amidst the swarms, his glaive Noctisfang reaping like a harvest across chitin and fang. Witnesses claim he fought for three days without rest, his form a black phantom lit only by the crimson streak of his weapon’s edge. In the end, surrounded and torn, he was seen to hurl himself into the great maw of a Tyranid bio-titan, detonating the charges laced into his warplate. The explosion toppled the beast and halted the advance long enough for the Shrouds to regroup and strike back. To this day, his name is not spoken lightly, for his shadow lingers over the Chapter like a veil of dread. In Morcant’s silence, the Crimson Shrouds learned to embrace the specter within themselves, and in his death, they found the unyielding truth that a Shroud must be more than mortal, they must be fear itself. - Domn Voivode (Chapter Master) Lucian Korvach, "The Moonfang," "Shade King" - Now Master of the Crimson Shrouds, Lucian was not born to inherit command, but to earn it amidst the blood and shadows of his Chapter’s most harrowing age. His rise began in the ash fields of Drosvane Prime, where he led a small band of brothers in a prolonged guerilla war against the Iron Warriors. For six months, Korvach and his warriors struck like wraiths, dismantling engines, slaying commanders, and vanishing into the voided ruins before retribution could land. It was during this campaign that his name, Korvach, a hunter’s name once given to him by his people for his silent stalking of prey in the twilight wastes—became synonymous with inevitability. No prey escaped him, no matter how well fortified or vigilant. When his predecessor fell upon the field of Harkon Reach, it was Lucian Korvach whom the Shrouds acclaimed as Master, not through ceremony, but through grim consensus. He had already been their shadow, now he would become their guide. After Lucian ascended to Chapter Master the first name given to him was Moonfang. To the Chapter, the epithet Moonfang carries dual meaning, it recalls both his relentless precision in the hunt, and his embodiment of the twilight nature of their homeworld. He is the fang of the night, the inevitable bite in the dark that the enemy never survives.
Under Korvach’s hand, the Crimson Shrouds have entered the Imperium Nihilus as both sword and specter, their doctrines sharpened to match the fractured age of the galaxy. Where Dragomir Veylac had forged the Chapter’s soul and Vladis Morcant had bound it in silence, Korvach has set it loose upon the enemy with calculated ruthlessness. He has emphasized Rapid Deployment and Interdiction Warfare as the lifeblood of the Shrouds’ strategy, perfecting their ability to bleed enemy forces dry in the dark before descending with surgical fury. Yet Korvach is no mere tactician, he has reshaped the Chapter’s spirit as well. To him, the Shrouds are predators in a galaxy that has already lost the sun; survival comes not through brute strength, but through cunning, timing, and the terror of inevitability. In his sermons within the Sepulchre of Silence, he teaches that to wear the Shroud is to embody the unseen hour before death strikes, to make of one’s presence a promise of doom.
The second name, spoken more heavily and with a mix of awe and dread, is Shade King. It was not won in a single battle but earned over decades of war within the Imperium Nihilus, where Korvach reshaped the Shrouds into predators that strike from unseen quarters. Across ruined voidships, ghost wreathed worlds, and shattered battlefields, his enemies named him the master of shadows, a sovereign who rules not from a throne but from the battlefield’s unseen places. To his warriors, the title embodies the strange reverence they hold for him. Now, in the Age of the Great Rift, Lucian Korvach has carried the Crimson Shrouds into grim prominence. Their fleets are whispered of like omens, their arrival signifying not salvation but the promise that an enemy’s time has ended. Where they pass, enemies falter before they are even met, undone by fear of what hunts them in the dark. Korvach himself is ever at the vanguard, striking from the void with blade and bolt, his name recorded in the blood-sagas of worlds that no longer exist. To his Chapter, he is not merely their Master, he is the living embodiment of the hunter’s creed, sleek and cold, a wraith who carries the legacy of Veylac’s flame and Morcant’s silence into a galaxy that has forgotten the dawn. In Korvach’s reign, the Crimson Shrouds are no longer a weapon waiting to be drawn, they are the knife already at the enemy’s throat. - Haiduci (Veteran Sergeant) Veyrac, "The Ashen" - Haiduci Veyrac was already a terror when he was chosen for the Long Vigil. Among the Crimson Shrouds, he had earned the epithet The Ashen for the pale, corpse like cast of his features, a sign of the Black Rage he had narrowly avoided and the endless nights he had spent stalking prey across the twilight wastes of Aeterna Nox. When the Deathwatch came to claim him, he went in silence, without farewell, and his brothers whispered that he was already dead. For nearly two centuries he was gone, and tales filtered back of his deeds: of the Tyranid brood kings he slew with his own hand, of the Necron crypts where he vanished for days alone, returning with his armour scoured and his eyes hollow. His name became half forgotten, a rumour that bled into myth.
When he returned at last to the Sepulchre of Silence, it was as if a wraith had stepped forth from the tomb. His flesh bore a lattice of scars, his eyes sunken and dark, his armour marked with the sigils of slain xenos. The ritual scarification of the Returned only deepened the death mask of his face. Veyrac accepted it without a word, enduring his year of silence as if it were nothing, and when he emerged, he spoke with a voice that carried the weight of endless graves. What he had learned among the Deathwatch reshaped the Crimson Shrouds. He pressed upon the Chapter Master the necessity of calculated terror. To learn the faces of the alien as the Deathwatch did, to know its hungers and fears, and to make those fears the weapon of the Shrouds. Under his influence, the Chapter’s Combat Doctrines twisted ever darker, their psychological warfare honed to a precise and terrible blade.
Legends now speak of him as more ghost than man. His brethren recall his gaze, unblinking, pitiless, as though he still judged them from the long corridors of the Watch Fortress. Some claim he carried with him the whispers of xenos dying screams, others that he had glimpsed the grave that awaits all sons of Sanguinius and returned bearing its cold breath. Veyrac the Ashen became more than a Haiduci; he became a myth within the Chapter’s twilight halls, the archetype of the Returned. To this day, those who come back from the Deathwatch walk in his shadow, expected to bear the same burden of silence, the same terror laden insight. The Crimson Shrouds whisper his name before battle, not as prayer, but as warning: that death itself may return from the void, and that it will wear their face.
Chapter Fleet[]
The fleet of the Crimson Shrouds is less a mere armada and more a drifting cathedral of war, cloaked in silence and dread. Its vessels, black as the void and inscribed with crimson runes of remembrance, prowl the star-lanes like carrion hunters, appearing without warning and vanishing into shadow just as swiftly. At its heart stands the Warspite-class Battle Barge the Noctis Dracul, a brooding leviathan that serves as fortress, reliquary, and executioner, surrounded by her sister barges, strike cruisers, and escort craft that form a crescent of death across the stars. To sight the fleet is to behold a procession of tombs set aflame, each vessel a sepulchre brimming with warriors who live only to bleed the enemies of mankind. The Chapter does not march to war in blaring fanfare, but arrives as the shroud before the grave, silent, inevitable, and merciless.
Every ship in the fleet bears a legacy of blood soaked campaigns, its bulkheads thick with the memories of past wars. The strike cruisers Sângeria Noapte, Umbra Dracul, Moroi Ascendant, and Veylac's Fang are the knives of the Chapter, striking deep into the heart of the foe with rapid deployment and precise execution. Their escorts, small but savage, are wolves that circle and harry prey, shepherding enemies into the guns of their larger kin. Even the Chapter’s medical frigate, the Noapte Roșie, is whispered of with unease. Its holds are said to carry more blood than water, and its halls echo with prayers half heard as the wounded are bound back into service or interred as relics. To the Crimson Shrouds, the fleet is not only their blade in the darkness but also their funeral procession, a grim cortege of warships eternally bearing their dead and their vengeance across the stars.
The Chapter fleet of the Crimson Shrouds is known to contain the following starships:
Battle Barges:
- Noctis Dracul, "Night of the Dragon" (Warspite-class Battle Barge) - The flagship of the Crimson Shrouds is the Warspite-class Battle Barge Noctis Dracul, a vessel as much a mausoleum as it is a weapon of war. Its name, “Night of the Dragon,” is drawn from the ancient tongues of Ilyatha, their twilight world, and evokes dread among both allies and enemies alike. The ship’s hull is a void black cathedral of adamantium, its prow carved into the semblance of a fanged maw, as though the vessel itself hungers for prey. From its cavernous launch bays spill the sons of Veylac like a tide of phantoms, descending upon worlds in a storm of fire and silence. Within, the Noctis Dracul is a labyrinth of cloisters, reliquaries, and echoing tomb-halls, its crew and serfs moving through its corridors with a reverence reserved for a shrine. Some whisper that the vessel itself moans and sighs in the quiet hours of warp travel, as if the spirits of the fallen remain bound to its eternal hunt.
To the Crimson Shrouds, the Noctis Dracul is not merely a weapon, but the heart of their Chapter’s soul—a sanctuary of shadow where their rituals, laments, and commemorations bind them together. Its command bridge, the Throne of Silence, is a vaulted chamber where every word is spoken with the weight of eternity, and where Korvach himself rules as master not only of his Chapter, but of this drifting sepulchre in the void. Legends claim that during the Dirge of Malachar, it was upon the Noctis Dracul’s deck that Dragomir Veylac delivered his final oath before casting himself into the storm of war. Since that day, the Battle Barge has been regarded as a vessel touched by destiny, more than ship, more than fortress. It is the eternal predator that prowls the galaxy’s endless dark, carrying the Crimson Shrouds’ silence, terror, and blood oaths into every warzone it descends upon.
- Noctis Veylac, "Night of Veylac" (Battle Barge) - Flagship of the 1st Wraith. Known as the dread heart of the Crimson Shrouds’ fleet, a vessel whose very silhouette is spoken of in hushed tones by serfs and foes alike. Bearing the name of the Chapter’s first master, Dragomir Veylac, it is both a weapon of annihilation and a sepulchre of memory, its cathedral-vaulted decks lined with funereal shrines and reliquaries of ash. Within its shadowed halls, the Chaplains lead the Dirge of Malachar before every war, and the ship’s bells toll like mourning knells across the void as it readies for battle. To the Crimson Shrouds, the Noctis Veylac is more than a warship—it is the living echo of their founder’s will, a black dragon adrift between stars, carrying the weight of sacrifice and the promise of retribution in its eternal passage through the endless night.
- Sângelui Requiem, "Requiem of Blood" (Battle Barge) - Flagship of the 2nd Wraith. The Sângelui Requiem is the Crimson Shrouds’ vessel of mourning and vengeance, its cavernous vox organs tolling dirges that reverberate through the void. Crimson banners hang like funeral shrouds from its vaulted interiors, each marked with the names of fallen brethren, and its launch decks are said to weep with the blood of the slain during ritual anointments before battle. It has a history steeped in martyrdom, having carried companies into battles where none were expected to return, yet through its endurance the vessel itself has become a reliquary of sacrifice, a shrine to the unbroken will of the Chapter.
- Mortis Strigoi, "Death of the Strigoi" (Battle Barge) - Flagship of the 3rd Wraith. Most dreaded of the Crimson Shrouds’ fleet is the Mortis Strigoi, whose prow bears the carved visage of a screaming wraith, illuminated from within by unholy crimson light. Its reputation is one of raw terror, a vessel deployed not only to kill but to unmake the enemy’s courage before battle is joined. It is said the Mortis Strigoi howls across the void, a sound that claws into mortal minds and cracks them long before the thunder of its bombardments. Entire planetary garrisons have surrendered upon sighting its silhouette in the heavens, choosing submission over the fate they imagine waits within its blackened hull.
- Umbra Nosferat, "Shadow of the Nosferatu" (Battle Barge) - Flagship of the 4th Wraith. Where Noctis Dracul inspires awe, the Umbra Nosferat inspires only fear. Draped in void warping shrouds and cloaked by augur disruptors, the vessel is known to materialise from the empyrean like a phantom, silently drifting into the heart of enemy fleets before unleashing sudden, surgical devastation. Its halls are lined with black iron chains and censers of burning ash, a constant pall that chokes all but the Astartes themselves. Entire enemy armadas have vanished into the Umbra Nosferat’s shadow, their destruction leaving behind only silence and wreckage to drift as ghostly warnings in the cold void.
Strike Cruisers:
- Sângeria Noapte, "The Bloody Night" (Strike Cruiser) - Flagship of the 5th Wraith. The Bloody Night, a ship whose very name is cursed among enemy warbands, for where it strikes, none are left to see dawn’s light.
- Umbra Dracul, "The Shadow of the Dragon" (Strike Cruiser) - Flagship of the 6th Wraith. A vessel whispered to descend upon worlds like the sudden sweep of a predator’s wings, its arrival heralding despair and silence.
- Moroi Ascendant (Strike Cruiser) - Flagship of the 7th Wraith. Named for the restless vampiric shades of old lore, this cruiser carries squads who fight like revenants risen from the grave, striking with spectral precision.
- Veylac's Fang (Strike Cruiser) - Flagship of the 8th Wraith. Bearing the name of the Chapter’s first master, it is a reminder of the Crimson Shrouds’ eternal vow, a hunter’s tooth driven deep into the throats of the Imperium’s enemies.
Escorts:
- Strigoi’s Claw (Frigate) - Named after the feral undead of ancient legend, this escort strikes swift and savage, tearing at the flanks of enemy convoys before vanishing into shadow.
- Colț Negru, "The Black Fang" (Frigate) - Lean and merciless, it is famed among the Chapter’s fleet for ramming through enemy squadrons, a dagger of adamantium driven without hesitation.
- Umbrafiac, "Shadow Drinker" (Frigate) - A ship that thrives in silence, masking its presence in the warp until it is too late, feeding on the fear of those who cannot see their hunter.
- Noapte Roșie, "The Red Night" (Medical Frigate) - Known in hushed tones as The Red Night, drifts like a funereal phantom through the void, a medical frigate whose decks echo with the whispered agony of wounded Crimson Shrouds, where blood is both preserved and consecrated in the Emperor’s name.
Chapter Relics[]
Chapter Appearance[]
Chapter Colours[]
The colours of the Crimson Shrouds are a heraldry of death, a funereal palette chosen not for splendour, but for what they represent to both brother and foe. Their armour is jet black, a voidborn shade that swallows light, rendering their forms as living shadows upon the battlefield. Over this darkness are borne the crimson of their lineage, painted upon their shoulders and arms, as though their very limbs are forever drenched in blood.
Chapter Badge[]
The Chapter Badge of the Crimson Shrouds is a stark and spectral image: a pallid skull veiled beneath a deep, shadowed hood, its visage caught forever between death and silence. It is not merely a sigil of recognition, but a dread heraldry steeped in ritual and blood. The skull signifies not only mortality, but the inevitability of judgment, a grim reminder that all who stand before the Crimson Shrouds will be brought low by the Emperor’s hand, delivered through their blade.
Relations[]
Allies[]
| Name | Iconography | Notes |
|---|---|---|
| Impalers |  |
The Crimson Shrouds were wrought from blood and shadow, their gene-seed carrying the haunted echo of Sanguinius, yet tempered through the tutelage of their forebears, the Impalers. Where the Shrouds embody the silence of the grave, the Impalers are the roar of the pyre: fierce sons of Baal whose cruelty upon the battlefield was matched only by their grim discipline. The two Chapters are bound by ties stronger than duty, for it was the Impalers who oversaw the Shrouds’ earliest campaigns, guiding them through the crucible of fire and loss. To this day, Crimson Shrouds who bear the rank of Captain make pilgrimage to fight beside their progenitors, a tradition that reminds them of the debt etched in blood between father and son. The muniments of both Chapters tell of the Purgation of Dathros, where the Impalers’ Third Company fought alongside the Crimson Shrouds’ newly formed First. The world had been hollowed by the chittering swarms of the Tyranids, its cities reduced to husks, its skies dark with winged monstrosities. It was here that the Shrouds earned their name, descending in silence from the storm clouds, their crimson-armoured forms wreathed in shrouds of smoke and blood. Shoulder to shoulder, Impalers and Shrouds fought amidst the ruins of the planetary capital, holding the gates of the Cathedral of Saint Dathros until the fires of orbital bombardment consumed the sky. Veterans speak of it still, of how the sons of silence stood firm with their forebears until the end, as if the mountain of their monastery itself had marched to war. Yet not all campaigns bore triumph. During the Black Lament of Veythar, when the traitorous Word Bearers sought to unbind the very souls of the planet’s populace in dark ritual, the Impalers and Crimson Shrouds answered together. For thirteen nights they clashed with daemonic legions that tore their way into reality. It was there the Shrouds’ Third Captain, Valen Drakov, fell beneath the talons of a winged abomination, his blood soaking into cursed soil. The Impalers took his body to their own sepulchres, interring him with honors as if he were their own kin. The loss carved deeply into the Shrouds, a reminder that their bond with the Impalers is paid for not only in victory but in grief shared and endured. Today, the Crimson Shrouds and the Impalers remain grim reflections of one another, two Chapters born of the same curse, but carrying it in different guises. When they march to war together, the enemies of the Imperium whisper of angels of death made manifold: the Impalers, roaring and wrathful, striking with cruel fury, while the Crimson Shrouds are phantoms of silence and inevitability. In their unity lies their strength, a brotherhood not merely forged in bloodline, but in campaigns fought shoulder to shoulder, in worlds both saved and damned. They are warriors who know the weight of their progenitor’s gaze and carry it still, like the eternal mountain that watches over the Sepulchre of Silence. |
Enemies[]
| Name | Iconography | Notes |
|---|---|---|
| Night Lords |  |
The hatred between the Crimson Shrouds and the Night Lords is a poison that has seeped into every battle where their paths have crossed, a rivalry born not only of bloodshed but of reflection. To the Crimson Shrouds, the Night Lords are the darkest echo of what they might become: predators who abandoned honour, angels who cast aside the Emperor’s light for self indulgence and terror. Each traitor bathed in shadows is a blasphemy to the Shrouds, who have carved their creed upon silence, fear, and death in the name of loyalty rather than treachery. In them they see the corruption of Sanguinius’ sons, the abyss without discipline, and thus they wage war with a fury that surpasses even their usual cold cruelty. For every Crimson Shroud, to face the Night Lords is to stare into a mirror that whispers of damnation—and to shatter it with blade and fire. The Night Lords, in turn, spit venom at the very existence of the Crimson Shrouds. To them, these sons of Sanguinius are pretenders, carrion thieves who drape themselves in fear and blood as though they had invented the art of terror. They mock the Shrouds as pale imitations of Konrad Curze’s children, calling them “false shadows” and “blood-drinkers who beg for permission to hunt.” Their derision is venomous, yet laced with fury, for the Crimson Shrouds have proven time and again that their mastery of dread does not fall short of the traitors. Indeed, many Night Lords whisper that the Shrouds’ loyalty to the Imperium makes their terror all the more unbearable: for where the Night Lords kill to sate themselves, the Crimson Shrouds kill with the righteous inevitability of executioners. Clashes between the two are not battles but nightmares, wars fought in void and on worlds swallowed in shadow. To witness both at war is to see death itself wage battle against despair: the Night Lords sowing carnage through cruelty and spectacle, the Crimson Shrouds answering with silent terror and precise annihilation. Every corpse left by the Shrouds is draped in crimson shrouds, denying the Night Lords the spectacle they crave. Every campaign between them is remembered in blood. Such as the Cryptus Massacre, where the Shrouds annihilated a Night Lord warband, their fortress left as a tomb of silence where even the echoes refused to linger. These clashes are wars of symbolism as much as survival, each side fighting not only for victory, but to prove their philosophy the stronger. And yet, beneath the fury, there lies a deeper truth that neither will admit: they loathe one another because they understand one another too well. The Crimson Shrouds embody what the Night Lords might have been had they clung to loyalty, while the Night Lords represent the abyss that ever claws at the sons of Sanguinius’ bloodline. Each battle is therefore more than a war of flesh, it is a war of identity, a struggle for the right to claim mastery over shadow and fear. The Imperium remembers the Shrouds as hunters draped in silence; the traitors curse them as thieves of their birthright. But both Chapters know the truth whispered only in their darkest hearts: they are not rivals by chance, but by reflection, bound together in a hatred that no bloodshed will ever quench. |
Notable Quotes[]
By the Crimson Shrouds:[]
- "I do not need to drink their blood to taste their fear. It runs hotter, faster, when the heart knows the knife is already in the dark."
- —Varak the Hollow-Eyed
- "I spoke his name into his ear as I split his throat. He died thinking I was his brother. Mercy enough, I think."
- —Kaelith ‘The Ash-Tongue’
- "Songs are for saints and martyrs. We make no music but the hammer of our bolters and the wet gurgling of dying throats."
- —Morvain ‘The Red Dirge’
- "Do not mistake our silence for absence. The shadow does not boast, it devours."
- —Soryn Veyl, ‘The Bleak Fang’
- "The Emperor calls for faith. Sanguinius calls for sacrifice. But it is fear that opens men’s hearts — and we are its heralds."
- —Draven Kael, ‘The Black Shroud’
- "I tore out his heart, not for need nor hunger, but because I wanted him to see it in my hand as he died."
- —Malchior ‘The Grave-Wolf’
- "Light blinds men. Break their lanterns, break their courage, and they will stumble screaming into our arms."
- —Teyvarn ‘The Lantern-Breaker’
- "They call us cursed. They are right. Curses endure longer than blessings, and the galaxy will remember ours."
- —Koryth ‘The Pale Shadow’
About the Crimson Shrouds:[]
Gallery[]
