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Roleplaying in the Grim Darkness of the 41st Millennium

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This accursed Age needs heroes more than ever before. Shattered by the Great Rift, the galaxy is on the brink of oblivion and madness. There are those who fight for a shred of hope, a glimmering promise that this millennium may yet endure. What will you fight for? What will you sacrifice? Enter a galaxy full of danger and mystery, plagued by the star-spanning schemes of the Dark Gods. You will defend the last bastions of civilization against a rising tide of corruption. You will explore ancient ruins of races long-vanished. You will uncover lost secrets and devious schemes. This is a game of danger and mystery. This is a game of action and adventure. This is a game about the struggle to hold back the doomsday clock from striking midnight for an entire galaxy. This is your story of wrath and glory.

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ULIWG

ISBN

CREDITS Lead Designer

Cover Art

Ross Watson

Diego Gisbert Llorens

Designers

Interior Art

Owen Barnes, Aaron Dembski-Bowden, John Dunn, Andrea Gausman, Jordan Goldfarb, Darrell Hayhurst, W. Jason Peck, Wendelyn A. Reischl, Stephen Rhodes, William Thrasher

Jacob Atienza, John Blanche, Alberto Bontempi, Matt Bradbury, Victor Corbella, Sacha Diener, Wayne England, Imaginary Friends Studio, Nikolaus Ingeneri, Karl Kopinski, Adrian Smith, Florian Stitz, Bryan Syme, Andrea Uderzo, The Games Workshop Studio

Editors

Publisher

Sean Tait Bircher and Robin English-Bircher

Markus Plötz

Art Director

Studio Manager for Ulisses North America

Maik Schmidt

Timothy Brian Brown

Graphic Design and Layout Maik Schmidt and Thomas Michalski

Special Thanks Nathan Dowdell, Andy Hoare, Len Pimentel and Michael Surbrook Thanks to Games Workshop Playtesters

John Dunn with Joseph Bohms, Joseph Evard, Brian Leist, Matthew Marques, Jason Wortman “Aurora Glorificus” James Layton with Michael Copping, Matthew Cramsie, Benjamin Davis, Damon Steff, Leigh Tuckman, Linette Voller “No Guts, No Glory!” Sean Connor with Simon Butler, Stephen Pitson, Valerie Scott Jupe Rantalainen with Joakim Björkgren, Jaakko Brostrom, Iiris Kaasinen, Joonas Katko, Tuure Keränen, Hannupekka Kinnunen, Outi Mussalo, Outi Ojala, Jone Seraste, Aino Sykkö “The Abraxas Tactical Center” Ben Keeler with, Peter Keeler, Daryl Kohlerschmidt, John Lacy, Lee Langston, Brian Simpson “Cincinnatus th” Trevor Stamper with Louis Barrera, Brandon Barrera, David Borouch, Brian Gilkison, Steve Harmon, John Olszewski “The Gentleman’s Society” Greg Nagler with Jon Crenshaw, Terry Cruse, David Howse, Michael Howse, JP Meisenburg “Bolter and Chainsword” Matthew Hunt, “Kurgan the Lurker” with Julien Del Rosario, “Slips“, Alex Baur, “Acebaur“, Joshua Ryan Wells, “Conn Eremon“, Gord Schubert, “Eddie Orlock“, Dustin Browne, “Duz_“ “Denver RPG Meetup” Wendelyn A. Reischl with Jonathan Bowen, Toby Carpenter, Jeff Cohen, Jason Peterson, John Ross, Jonathan Van Luik “Ulisses Spiele Stamm” Michael Mingers with Dominik Krischer, Philipp Neitzel, Christian Lonsing, Carsten Moos, Mháire Stritter Robert Adducci with Ismael Alvarez, Mario Puentes, Cheryl K. Pierce, Laura Thompson, Joel Marsh “The Ordo Alearum” Kai Großkordt with Anni Buck, Andreas Föll, Birte Großkordt, Axel Pohl, Ernst Roth, Thomas Schönherr, David Willner “Genghiz’ Ladz” Michael Merrell with Bill “teh ebil bunneh” Keyes, Tammy Sue Keyes, Gordon Feiner, Curtis Craddok, Ron Ritchie, Arne Jamtgard, Matt James “Tier 5 Guardsmen” Harper Robinson with Steven Jordan Kozmary, Victor Menezes, Neal Muller, Frank Zhu Warhammer 40,, Wrath & Glory: Blessings Unheralded © Copyright Games Workshop Limited Warhammer 40, Roleplay, the Warhammer 40, Roleplay logo, Wrath & Glory, Revelations, the Wrath & Glory logo, GW, Games Workshop, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,, 40,, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likeness thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world, and used under licence. Published under License to Ulisses North America. Ulisses North America and the Ulisses North America logo are trademarks of Ulisses Spiele. All rights reserved to their respective owners.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS Table of Contents 2 Blood of the Covenant 4 Foreword It is the 41st Millennium Introduction What is a Roleplaying Game? 16 Chapter 1: The Dark Imperium The Threat of the Warp The Aeldari The Ynnari The Orks The T’au Empire Tyranids The Necron Dynasties The Great Rift The Dark Imperium The Gilead System The Varonius Dynasty and the Straits of Andraste The Heartworlds The Reach The Membrane Worlds Chapter 2: Rules The Core Rules Game Dice Keywords Glossary The Core Mechanic Making Tests Rounding Test Flowchart Types of Tests Shifting Buying Success Escalation Tiers The Wrath Dice Wrath Points Glory Ruin Fail-Forward Chapter 3: Character Creation Creation Summary Character Creation Summary:

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Ascension Ammunition and Reloads Establish a Concept Combat Options Tiers Critical Hits Rank Interaction Attacks Framework Damage Select a Species Explosives and Area Select an Archetype Effect Attacks Archetype Anatomy Combat Effects Adeptus Ministorum Combat Complications Adepta Sororitas The Memorable Injury Astra Militarum Table Agents of the Imperium Vehicles in Combat Adeptus Astartes Voidship Combat Adeptus Mechanicus Chapter 5: Adventuring Scum Passage Of Time Renegades Encounter Time Aeldari Narrative Time Orks Movement Assign Attributes Transportation Purchased Attributes Travel Pace Traits Environmental Hazards Purchase Skills Suffocation Purchase Talents Electricity Select Wargear Extreme Heat/Cold Choose Special Abilities Falling Psychic Powers Fire Backgrounds Radiation Character Advancement Warp Travel Keywords List Travelling the Ascending Immaterium Ascension Package Social Interactions Anatomy Threatening Tasks Chapter 4: Combat Investigations Combat Encounters Influence, Rarity, and Wealth.. Encounter Overview Influence Initiative Rarity Characters and Threats Wealth Actions in Combat Campaign Cards Movement Actions Resting Terrain and Cover Regroup Combat Actions Respite Making an Attack Chapter 6: Wargear Melee Attacks Weapons Ranged Attacks Personal Weapons

Reloads and Ammunition .. Weapon Traits Ranged Weapons Bolt Weapons Flame Weapons Las Weapons Melta Weapons Plasma Weapons Projectile Weapons Missiles and Missile Launchers Grenades & Grenade Launchers Exotic Ranged Weapons .. Eldar Ranged Weapons Ork Ranged Weapons Melee Weapons Chain Weapons Force Weapons Power Weapons Exotic Melee Weapons Eldar Melee Weapons Ork Melee Weapons Weapon Upgrades Reloads and Ammunition Armour Basic Armour Powered Armour Astartes Armour Force Shields Eldar Armour Ork Armour Tools & Equipment Imperial Equipment Eldar Equipment Ork Equipment Cybernetics Augmetics Cybernetic Implants Ork Bioniks Eldar Cybernetics Vehicles Imperial Vehicles Ork Vehicles Eldar Vehicles Voidships Example Voidships The Long Voyage Trinkets & Charms

Chapter 7: Psychic Powers The Coming of the Cicatrix Maledictum Using Psychic Powers Steps to activating a Psychic Power Dangers of the Warp Selecting Powers Psychic Powers Definitions Minor Psychic Powers Universal Psychic Disciplines The Lure of the Infernal .. Aeldari Psychic Powers Corruption Corruption Tests When to Make a Corruption Test Causes of Corruption How to Make a Corruption Test Temptations of the Warp Corruption Levels The Ultimate Fate Malignancies Malignancy Tests Gaining a Malignancy Mental Trauma Minor Mutations Severe Mutations Chapter 8: Game Master The Role of the Game Master The Basics Principles of Good Game Mastering Game Master Preparation and Creating a Story Bringing the Dark Imperium to Life Themes in Wrath & Glory Campaigns and Frameworks .. Choose a Tier Frameworks Campaign Length The Odd Man Out Adventures Guidelines for Creating Adventures

Balancing Encounters Make a Stand, or Live to Fight Another Day Let them Know the Threat is Coming Death and Consequences.. Non-Player Characters Guidelines for Running NPCs Game Preferences Awarding Wrath Amount and Challenge of Combat Character Progression Awarding Build Points Ranking Up and Milestones Milestone Examples Chapter 9: Bestiary Threats Special Abilities Resolve (Ruin) Ruin Actions Bestiary Anatomy Imperial Threats Chaos Threats Ork Threats Eldar Threats Other Xenos Named Adversaries Character Sheet Index x

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BLOOD OF THE COVENANT By Aaron Dembski-Bowden

The Princess Niah’cara was royal-born, and had been falling ever since. To some, she was the Huntress of the Scarlet Heavens. To others, she was an unfolding lesson into the dangers of ego and delusion. These detractors, of which there were many, called her the Princess of Dust. The Path of the Outcast had not been kind to her, but it had been unkinder still to her enemies. They lay dead. She did not. Niah’cara answered the summons when it came, dressing in robes of layered silk cut in the colours of her fallen Craftworld. As she made her way to the Farseer’s chambers, she mused on one notion above all: The mon-keigh cannot be trusted. She had been told so many times along the continuum of years, and perhaps it was as true now as it had always been. Niah’cara was born before the galaxy tore itself in two, when one half was left to bleed and sicken and rot in rebellion. She had dealt with humans many times before the dawn of these dark days. She had faced them in the cold of the void, overseeing their destruction from a bridge of wraithbone beneath the great fins of solar sails. She had fought them in the shadows of their ruined cities, hunting them as prey, sometimes needing to clean their stinking, primordial blood from her cameleoline cloak. But everything changed with the rupturing of the night sky. Her kin-band still spat the word mon-keigh, but that curse was losing its acid edge. Her people were past the point where they could freely indulge in the luxury of mistrust. To stand alone was to die alone. And so, Niah’cara was chosen. She would journey in the company of those whose blood she would once have spilled. They had not yet told her this, nor could she read it in the turning of fate’s wheel. But she did not

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need foresight to know how it would all play out. Someone must go, and the logic of that decision led straight to her. Others would go in time… but someone must go first. That was why she had been summoned. She approached Farseer Vyriah in his meditative garden, her tread silent on the wraithbone pathway that wound between the precious flora. Indulging herself, she ran her ungloved fingers along the frond of an orange fern, the plant lovingly cultivated from Exodite cuttings, reseeded century after century when inevitable age or misfortune took the tree’s life. Vyriah had always been most diligent in the care and preservation of his onboard gardens. The arched walls of pale wraithbone reached up to a transparent dome, cradling it, letting the light of the heavens glow upon the botanical garden. And above that dome, the stars waited. Choked in the miasma of the warp-poison that stained the skies and cut the galaxy in half, but shining still, for a while longer at least. No others of Niah’cara’s kin-band claimed chambers of such meticulous beauty, even if that beauty had, for decades, been blighted by celestial horror. The seer knelt in repose, eyes closed in reflection, but Niah’cara saw through the illusion of his serenity. The faint tension in his shoulders betrayed him as openly as a spoken confession. She approached without speaking, inclining her head as she took the seventh and eighth steps, as custom dictated. His voice outweighed hers in matters pertaining to the ship’s function, but she owed him no bow. She was, after all, royalty. Vyriah’s eyes opened. His face lifted to regard hers, and he rose to his feet a moment later. When he greeted her by title as well as name, her curiosity awakened. When he bowed to her, lower than tradition’s mandate, she recognised the degree of his politeness for what it was.

‘You play to my vanity,’ she chided him, with a flicker of amusement. ‘It is not like you to be so unsubtle.’ Sometimes it seemed as though Vyriah was old when the galaxy was still young. His dark eyes alighted on hers, sharing nothing, seeing everything. ‘You know,’ he said. ‘You know the purpose off th this rpo pose se o his is summons.’ ‘How could I not?’ Niah’cara p pressed her re ress essse ed d h e er fingertips together before her robes, iin gesture nag esstu ure of acceptance. ‘I will go, Farseer. I will walk will wi ll w alk th al alk tthe e path you see before me. When do you yo ou wish wiish w s me me to leave?’

including mandated REM-focused downtime), the opposite was universally true. Urgency suggested strife. It suggested flaws and disruptions. It suggested a breakage in the ritual order of life. He lifted his gel-wet hands from the domed head-bowl of the deactivated war automaton, and tentatively tuned into the vox array. ‘Ilmar Ilm mar a A Apex pe pex ex 09 , , 8, aassigned ssig ssig ss igne n d to o g guided u de ui ded cr ccranial ran a iiaal an n ne network twor tw work ork rre or regeneration. ege ege gene n raattiio on n. I rre request/demand eq qu ue esst//de dem maand nd cclarity lari la riity tyy re regarding ega gard rdiin ng th tthe e mo most osstt rrecently ece ec ecen en ntl tly rre received ece ceiv ceiv ived d ssignal. si ign gnal al. Spec S Sp Specify pe ecciiffy th the he na n nature atu t re re o off th tthis his is m mess me message ess ssag ssag age an and nd co confi on nfi firrm m it iits ts sso source/origin.’ ou urrce c /o /ori rigi gn gi n..’

The Preacher To say Ilmar resented the message e would wo w ou ulld ld be be to underplay the depths of his irritation. attio ion. on n.. IItt wa w was as a glitch, sent in error, and he didn’t even evve en deign deig de ign to acknowledge it at first. Ghost-messages essssaag ge ess fl fle ew ew through the vox array in their hundreds ndr dred eds every eve ev erry day; such was the curse of so manyy connected con onn ne ect cte ed d minds. Since the message was patently t yn tl no nonsense, ons nse en nse e, he sought to ignore it. He only replied p ie pl ed with with wi th a wordless pulse of acknowledgement/refusal men nt/ t/re reffu usa sal sal when the chiming in his implanted nte t d vox-rig vvo ox x--rriig ig refused to abate. After his return pulse, it fell silent. The he fo ffollowing olllowin ow wing in ng silence was a most blessed development, ent nt, an aand nd d he he continued his work in peace, manipulating pulat ullaattin ng the fused connectors inside a tormented cogitae-scry relay. However, his peace was short-lived. d. Ilmar was still elbow deep in robotic boti bo tic brainb ai br ain n-housing when the signal sounded a second sse eco on nd d time, tim me e,, exactly forty-three seconds later. The Th he e inexact in ne exa xact ct timing gave him far more pause than the th he message me m ess sssag age ag itself, for it suggested impatience on behalf nb ehaallf off eh the messenger. That couldn’t be good. Indeed, it suggested the possibility ili lity ty of urgency. Ilmar had no recollection on off a time in his existence when urgency from fro rom m his hiis h is superiors had preceded something pleasant. ple leaassan ant. t. IIn t. n -tth hrre hre ee ye yyears, eaarrs, s, his experience, which reached fifty-three ervi er vicce e ((not no n ot two months, and six days of active sservice

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The reply came in a stream of binaric cant, pulsing in quick stutters, transmitting understanding far more efficiently than vocalised words. Ilmar ceased all work as comprehension dawned. If he had been entirely human, his blood might have run cold. Although the tech-priest didn’t possess much blood in strictly natural terms (with most of it replaced by a haemosynth fluid regulating his bionic and augmetic anatomy), he nevertheless felt something his unmodified ancestors would have called a chill down their spines. This, too, was impossible, since his spine was a steel carbofibre alloy, but even his enhanced mind wasn’t immune to the pressure of psychosomatic reaction. ‘These orders are incorrect,’ he sent back across the link. Silence answered him. That, also, couldn’t be good. The crashing, thudding, clanking sounds of the forge chamber carried on around him as Ilmar Apex lifted his red hood into place, reached for his axe-staff of office, and left his station without a word. His superiors made their lair on the nineteenth sublevel. Ilmar secured passage on a freight platform descending into the planet’s crust, which took one hour and fifty-two minutes. During this time, he could do nothing but stand and watch the rock and metal walls of the shaft pass in agonising slowness. Usually the grind of the elevators’ cogworks and the repetitive view of the slowly scrolling tunnel offered a sense of serenity.

But he never even made it off the freight elevator. A Skitarii Alpha, cowled and armed, intercepted him with an abruptness that made it clear his arrival had been predicted. ‘You are denied,’ the Alpha said by way of greeting. It held out a bionic hand, warning him from proceeding. Ilmar’s augmetic eye lenses met this unexpected guardian’s machine-eyes in kind. Rank separated the two men, as well as the quality of their sacred bionics. ‘I must speak with one of the foundry hierarchs,’ Ilmar insisted. He stated the demand vocally and in a spurt of binaric cant at the same time, betraying his rising discomfort. ‘The orders I have received are devoid of sense.’ The Alpha remained impassive, implacable. ‘You are denied.’ Panic—or the strained echo of that too-human emotion—began to stain Ilmar’s thought processes. There was a catch in his speech, a human hesitation that indicated his eroding selfcontrol as unwelcome emotion took hold. ‘These orders must be incorrect. I… I have never left Avachrus.’ ‘The orders stand,’ declared the Alpha. ‘Return to your district and make ready for your journey off-world.’ Fear goaded Ilmar into speaking one last time. ‘This must be a mistake. It must be.’

Not this time. He had never gone this deep before. He had never needed to, and what awaited him at the end of the journey infected his ordered thoughts with unfamiliar unease.

The Skitarii Alpha, devoid of all emotive responses thus far, finally bristled at the tech-priest’s words. Bionic fingers curled tighter around the grip and stock of its radium carbine.

The deeper catacombs formed a labyrinth that led to the central facility. Ilmar lacked clearance to access most of the core chambers, including the sealed-off facilities housing the Eternal Engines, guarded by warded bulkheads and phalanxes of Skitarii. He intended to avoid the barricaded districts and make haste to his hierarchs’ chambers. He needed answers, and the high priests and priestesses would have them.

‘Our masters do not make mistakes.’

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Ilmar knew better than to argue; blasphemy and ill-discipline would hardly enhance his position. So he bowed, backed away, and took his doubts with him. He had weapons to prime and a journey to prepare for.

The Slayer Emerah was the last, the only one still breathing. Her companions and her master had passed on without her, gone ahead to dwell forever in glory at the God-Emperor’s side. She needed no medicae instruments to know their spirits had fled their bodies; gunfire and hacking blades had carved them apart with brutal elegance. Their blood-flecked faces and staring eyes told the only story that mattered now. She was alone. Emerah had been alone before, but not since coming into the Inquisitor’s service. From the night Quintarus found her in the rain, clad in her sacred raiment, holding her holy blades and standing above the body of her first kill, she had been welcomed among his warband. Quintarus had valued her. He had cherished her for her beliefs as much as for her talents. He had seen to her further training and granted her new blades, stronger and better than anything her home world’s smiths were capable of forging. Since joining his service, she’d never set foot on Ostia again. Twelve years. Twelve years of service to the vision of Inquisitor Quintarus. Twelve years of painting her swords and her skin with the blood of traitors. Twelve years of killing in the GodEmperor’s name, sending apostates’ spirits to the Master of Mankind to make up for the filthiness of her own soul. These were the precepts of her faith, and so she clung to them as Quintarus shaped her from a murderess into a slaughterer. Every man and woman was born corrupt, and absolution was found only in the freeing of heretical souls. Such killing pleased the God-Emperor. Such slaughter cleansed the soul. Some of her companions had sneered at first, in the months before they too came to value her. Death Cultist, they called her, diminishing her faith to the delusions of a primitive coven. Over time, they had learned. Over time, guarded by her swords and mindful of her beliefs, they had become her family.

must do in the event of his death: Avoid their headquarters, for there were others in the Most Holy Inquisition that even the Inquisitor himself couldn’t trust. In the event of his demise, his surviving companions were to make their way to the Varonius Flotilla. He had allies there, among the dynasty. And there, on neutral ground, they should await contact from his trusted brethren. This deep in the sunless hive, in this undercity of teeming masses where the shadows were cut by harsh red and purple lumen-strips, she was entirely without allies. Her foes, those Quintarus had hunted and whose souls she had promised to her blades, were still out there. They’d know she still lived, and they would come for her as they’d come for her warband. She knew it was foolish to linger, yet she stayed long enough to crouch by each body, taking a memento from each of her fallen companions, and closing their eyes with the softest brush of her gloved fingertips. Quintarus was last. Before she could stroke his staring eyes closed, she sensed the shadows dance to her left. Emerah moved in an adrenal blur, twisting in the air, arm outstretched, a fan of throwing knives flashing silver into the darkness. She heard cries of pain, and the scuffle of boots and bodies. She kept moving. Into the shadows she plunged, her photovisor down and betraying the sludgy heat smears of her foes. Her reinforced bodysuit creaked with explosions of movement and twists of muscle. Her swords smacked into human meat and bit deep into bodies, each cut birthing a hot spray of lifeblood that saturated the air with the scent of copper.

And now they were gone.

Then she stood in the darkness, as still as the death she’d delivered, motionless in the heart of her butchery. The five cooling bodies twitched at her feet as their spirits flew free. The final, involuntary tremors of the rightfully slain; their souls now cast to the God-Emperor’s throne.

There was a contingency plan. She knew none of the details, only the first step she’d have to take. Quintarus had made it clear what his warband

Perhaps Quintarus and her companions would witness these fresh souls arriving, and they would smile, knowing Emerah was fated to avenge them.

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Time was short. More foes would come, enemies far better equipped than these scummers and scouts. She returned to Quintarus, tonguecleaning the blood from her blades. After the ritual seven licks of each sword, she wiped the rest of the gore on her bodysuit. Another set of sanguine stains to join the countless others. Emerah closed her master’s eyes with a gentle caress off fingers speckled byy tth the blood his ca are essss o ng n ge errs st sstill tiilll spec sp peckl eckklled ec led ed b h he e bl b lloo oo o od off h od iss killers. She glanced over the body, unsure what ki ill lle errss.. S he g he l n la ncced do vve er tth he bo b dyy, un nsu sure re w hat ha at to to memento, his would watch take take ta ke aass a me m ment me ntto n o,, tthat hat hi ha h is sh sshade haad de wo w oul oulld wa w atcch her Tempting, over ov over er h er forevermore. er fo orrev evermo ermor er mo ore re. T re. Te em emp mp pti pttiing g, off ccourse, ours ou ours r e e,, tto o ta ttake ke ke his sword and pistol, plundering his weapons h hi is sw wor ord aan nd pi p ist stol ol,, bu butt p pl lun nde deri ring h i w is eap ea po ons ns would mean he wield wo w oul uld m uld me eaan n h e co ccouldn’t uld ul dn n’tt w i ld ie ld tthem hem in hem he n tthe he he and present them God-Emperor aafterlife af fte erl rlif lif ife an nd pr p res esen entt tth he em m tto o th tthe he Go G odd--Em d Empe peror pe ror ro glory. iin n all allll ttheir heirr g he llo ory ry. No, only one No o, on o llyy o n ttrinket ne rink rink ri nket ett made She ma m ade ad de ssense. ensse ense en e e.. Sh S he reached into his rea re ach ache ac he ed iin nto to h is is ruptured ru up pttur u ed ed fl flaak ak vest ve est st and aan n nd d pulled pu p ull lled ed free frre ee the the th Inquisitorial Inq In qu uissitto orriaal rosette, rro ose sett etttte, e, the tth he stylised sttyyllis ised d letter let ettte er I of of his hiiss career car aree re ee er and and an

calling. The fine chain looped around her arm five times, bound tightly to her armoured bodysuit. She would wear it from now until the day she took final vengeance in his name. Emerah rose, spoke a whispered prayer over the bodies of her fallen friends, and left them in the darkness.

The Warrior They came for him during the morning Fire Rites aboard the warship Vow of Absolution. Boltguns barked and kicked as the gathered brethren fired training rounds at flickering hololithic targets moving around the dark metal chamber. Distortions in the play of light marked each impact. Two thralls, robed in the white of the Chapter, approached Gulkir and made their obeisance. ‘Honoured Brother, hear our words,’ said the first of them. Their voices were muffled by their hoods and half-drowned in the cacophony of gun range thunder. Gulkir lowered his bolter, turning to them. He bid them rise with a curt nod. ’speak, and I shall listen.’ They rose as commanded. The Chapter’s chalice showed crimson on their robed chests, its cup marked with an ivory Aquila. They covered these symbols briefly, as they pressed their palms to their hearts in the traditional gesture of discharging a grave duty. ‘You are summoned, Honoured Brother,’ said the first thrall. Gulkir had prayed for those words, and upon hearing them, he felt adrenaline begin a slow flood of his system, and the thud of his primary heart beating faster. He’d craved this honour, as had many of his brothers, and now that he stood on the precipice of attaining it, he had to fight to hold back a smile. ‘Inform Brother-Captain Syres that I will attend him at once.’ But instead of obeying at once, the thralls shared a glance from beneath their white hoods. Gulkir narrowed his dark eyes, a moment before the second thrall spoke.

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‘The summons is not from Captain Syres, Honoured Brother. Your presence is commanded by Chaplain Shahin.’ Shahin? The revelation offered no enlightenment, but Gulkir nodded a second time. ‘Very well. I will attend the Brother-Chaplain immediately.’ This time, the thralls didn’t just hesitate, they bowed as they corrected him once more. ‘Chaplain Shahin bids you to attend him in full battleplate, Honoured Brother. He grants you six hours to arm and armour yourself.’ Gulkir whirled without warning, firing on the move, emptying his bolter across the training chamber. Every shot struck a hololith with a flicker of impact. Once he’d spent every training round from his weapon, he ejected the magazine and left it on the ground for a servitor to deal with later. Without another word, he stalked from the training halls and returned to his armouring chamber. It took some time to don his power armour. Servitors and slaves drill-locked each piece in order, chanting the ritual words as they worked. Gulkir stood the entire time, letting them bolt and bind the layers of ceramite into place, scarcely listening to their sacred chants. When the infusion of strength came with the aggravated hum of his back-mounted power pack, he took his helm from one of the robed slaves, and clutched his boltgun from a clawed servitor’s grip. Offering them neither thanks nor acknowledgement, he stalked from his armoury.

‘I have committed no sin. I have failed in none of my duties.’ Gulkir lifted his gaze, then rose to his feet in a drawl of armour joints. ‘Why, then, did you wish me to come before you? Surely nothing I have done is worthy of chastisement.’ ‘You have failed in nothing, Brother Gulkir. I did not summon you here for punishment.’ Gulkir waited, twisted within by the tension. He knew no fear, yet a nameless discomfort dawned behind his eyes. ‘You cast your name into the chalice, for assignment to the front lines.’ Shahin’s tone made it clear this was no question. Gulkir confirmed the truth with wordless pride, banging his fist against the Imperialis sigil upon his breastplate. Yet Shahin, older than Gulkir by a century and more, gestured to the stained glass windows set high in the marble walls of the shipboard Reclusiam. With no sunlight to stream through them, synthetic sunshine was produced by ancient illuminators mounted behind the walls. Largest, proudest of all, was the scene of Tygranas Dalir, the Emperor’s Archangel, first Chapter Master of the Absolvers. He was a figure of white, haloed in gold, standing upon a field of ochre and grey at the head of a great and faithful horde. That was the day Tygranas Dalir had pledged the Absolvers to the defence of the subsector. The day of the Chapter’s greatest acclaim and glory.

Shahin was waiting for him in the Reclusiam, armoured but not armed, the sacred white of his Terminator wargear showing patches of armour cement, plating fusion, and other recent repairs. The Chaplain was unhelmed, his skin dark, his eyes darker still, and he saluted, fist to heart, at Gulkir’s approach.

‘Our vigil changes,’ Shahin continued, ‘as our numbers fall. If we do not adapt, we will lose this war. And thus, you will not be rejoining the Company on the front line, my brother. Captain Syres has granted me the choice of a single warrior to send on a mission of great import. I have chosen you.’

Gulkir knelt for the war-priest’s blessing, receiving it in a guttural intonation and a light brush of gauntleted fingertips on the top of his head.

Gulkir commanded his face to stoic blandness, while hope and disappointment waged war in his heart. Denied the righteousness of waging war alongside his brothers? Assigned elsewhere, to a new, unique duty?

‘You summoned me, Brother-Chaplain,’ the warrior said. Shahin inclined his head in a slow nod. ‘I did.’

‘What are your orders, Brother-Chaplain? Where am I to deploy?’

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Terminator joints rumbled as Shahin drew forth a hololithic beamer. The projection flickered to life, springing up from his palm, bathing both warriors in the harsh blue light of a stellar map. Runes flashed around embattled worlds. Symbols picked out individual ships.

Yes, things had gone quite wrong, quite fast. And this was far from his first offence aboard the Meridian Blade. They’d threatened him with a Commissar’s mercy if he ended up in the brig one more time.

Shahin focused the image, zooming in to the Gilead System and its orbiting host of worlds and moons. A few moments later, he zoomed in all the way to a gathering of vessels in the void: the smaller escorts ringing their capital ship. Gulkir knew it at once. No one in the system could fail to recognise the grand cruiser Ducal Circlet.

It was during the laborious and aching process of rebuilding his thoughts that the bulkhead ground open on the other side of the cell. The squeal of its hinges was a chainblade through his skull.

He turned his eyes to Shahin once more. ‘Is this a jest, Brother-Chaplain?’ ‘No jest,’ Shahin replied. ‘You have been chosen as the Chapter’s first warrior assigned to serve alongside the agents of the Varonius bloodline.’

The Tracker Olaj Ghaiven—Laj to his friends, who were admittedly few and far between—leaned back against the walls of his cell and tried to put his head back together, figuratively speaking. Every movement earned a grunt of effort and triggered a fresh wave of nausea. Even his bones ached, singing a dull, throbbing song at the joints. His thoughts were in pieces, and his hands weren’t much better; they were swollen, tight, hot with infection. Bruising had blackened all of his knuckles. Three of them were skinned down to the bone. Laj curled both hands into fists just to see if he could, then growled at the pain which bloomed in response. He opened them at once, which hurt almost as much. No, he thought, I won’t be doing that again. Besides, making fists was how he ended up in the brig in the first place. He took stock of his position and tried to reassemble more than the vaguest memories. There’d been a fight, of course. A nasty one. Nastier than usual. Guardsmen thinking they were the real deal just because they pranced around in uniforms. Knives being pulled when someone couldn’t handle a joke (or handle the ship-brewed piss that counted as amasec, here).

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Now, here he was.

‘Olaj Ghaiven.’ Laj had, at some point, slid sideways to lie on the decking of his cell. He looked awkwardly up at the speaker: a bridge officer, core crew by the look of the ostentatious uniform. After blinking several times, he managed to make out the man’s face. ‘Oh.’ Laj forced the words from his dry, thick tongue. ‘Hello, Lieutenant Rannik. Lovely to see you.’ ‘Quite,’ the officer said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. His nostrils briefly flared. ‘You appear to have soiled yourself.’ Laj, lying curled almost foetal in his misery, nodded sagely. He regretted it at once, as the motion set his head ringing again. ‘That’s entirely possible, chief. Ruling nothing out at this point.’ ‘And I see you’ve painted the deck with vomit more than once.’ Laj decided not to nod again. It hadn’t been much fun. ‘Keen eyes you’ve got there, Rannik. You’ll make captain one day.’ The officer sighed. ‘Can you walk?’ Laj gave a bloody grin, missing three of his front teeth. ‘To my own execution? With this hangover? Can’t you send the ship’s Commissar here? Consider it my final wish.’ The officer straightened his uniform with exaggerated patience. ‘Despite your belligerence and the deaths of the three loyal Guard involved in your… altercation… you are to be spared execution.’

Laj stopped licking at the foul taste in his mouth, trying to clean his teeth. He slowly—very, very slowly—began the adventure of hauling himself to sit upright. It took some time. ‘Run that by me once more, if you please.’ Lieutenant Rannik cleared his throat, though inwardly he’d abandoned any hope of bringing formality to this… situation. ‘You are to be spared execution, by signed and sealed order of the Varonius Dynasty. However, your time on this vessel is at an end. And if you’ll permit a personal addendum to this sordid tale, I shan’t be sorry to see the back of you.’ Laj wasn’t thrilled about where this was leading. ‘I paid for passage off Gilead Primus. I paid a bloody fortune to get out of this system.’ Rannik remained unmoved. ‘If you’ll indulge me with the technicalities: You paid for passage when the Meridian Blade would make its next attempt to leave the system. That was months ago. No ship is leaving this system, Mister Ghaiven. No more attempts. No more failures. That should be abundantly clear by now. Your time here, breathing our air and fouling our halls with your presence, is at an end.’ Back to Gilead Primus, then. It wasn’t an execution, true, but it wasn’t much better. He’d made a few enemies in the slums of Gulgatha Hive. The bounty hunting was good there, but the gangs were getting a little too organised in odd, unnerving ways that no hunter liked to see. A little too close-knit. Gangers and hangers-on showing up looking just a little wrong, somehow. Alien blood in those veins, Laj had thought. It was the reason he’d wanted off the planet. ‘Come,’ Rannik said, with no small distaste. ‘If you’re finished wallowing in your own filth, my orders are to take you to an ablutions chamber, and escort you onward to receive your pardon.’ Laj tried to rise. He made it up on his fourth attempt, though he swayed unsteadily. ‘A pardon from the dynasty. Lucky me. Who signed it?’ The bounty hunter leered, and Rannik fought to keep his disgust from showing. ‘Lady Yaril Varonius herself,’ he replied. ‘And I recommend

you do not keep her waiting any longer than you already have.’

The Dynast She watched them arrive, one by one. At first none of them spoke, not to her, not to each other. They came to the table in the stellar cartography chamber, waiting for Yaril Varonius to shed light on the nature of this gathering. She wore her tricorne hat, feathered with Uscari hawk plumage and set at a prim, proper angle, as well as her officer’s jacket with its gold frogging and burnished steel shoulder guards. Expensive vambraces of Catachan leather added protection to her forearms, and a power sabre hung from an adamantium chain, low on her belt. She looked to be exactly what she was: a scion of a surpassingly wealthy family, and a woman that had earned her rank through competence and experience as well as the blessings of good blood. Of the newcomers, the Space Marine dominated the gathering. The Absolver, Gulkir. A towering presence of white ceramite, his armour humming with the flow of power from its backpack. He blinked less often than a human would, and stared at whatever held his attention with a surreal focus that was somehow both ferocious and serene. His dark skin showed curling tattoos of white ink along his cheekbones, their meanings unclear to anyone outside his honoured Chapter. The seat left for him was too small to hold his bulky weight, so he stood at the table’s opposite end, patient the way only near-immortals could be. What occupied his attention most of all was the figure seated furthest from him. He watched the cloaked, hauntingly elegant alien with a gaze that held all the warmth of a target lock. In truth, the Aeldari woman drew everyone’s stares more often than not. Even Yaril, who’d dealt with the Eldar many times in her rejuvenatextended lifespan, found the Ranger Niah’cara difficult to ignore. She was too still when she didn’t move, and too smooth, too liquid, when she did. Her inhumanity destroyed any aesthetic beauty she might have possessed, leaving her—in the humans’ eyes—as a slender, alien marionette, with skin so flawless it seemed to lack pores, and slanted eyes that revealed no emotion.

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Yaril had mastered the Aeldari language to the degree a human could, which is to say she spoke a barbaric dialect only giving an impression of the true tongue. The Ranger’s name translated poorly into Low Gothic, with human lexicons struggling to frame the metaphorical nature of Eldar naming conventions. Something relating to hunting in skies of blood, perhaps pertaining to her prowess with the wraithbone rifle resting by her seat, always guarded by one of the Ranger’s long-fingered hands. Niah’cara showed no discomfort at the attention. She kept her almond-shaped eyes upon Yaril at the head of the table, scarcely acknowledging the others at all. Then there was the bounty hunter. Yaril had smelt him almost as soon as she’d seen him; the bitter

scent of his clothes and the ingrained dirt that his most recent bathing hadn’t managed to wash away. Olaj Ghaiven leaned back in his chair, fingers knitted over a belly that was slowly running to a paunch, relaxing like a lounging king with his filthy boots up on the table. He bristled with weaponry from head to toe: knives, grenades, pistols, ammunition magazines—all of it belted and buckled to his long duster coat or bound to his flak vest. A heavy hiking sack slumping on the deck held the rest of his possessions, most notably a shotgun, an autorifle, and an oversized bolt pistol strapped to the canvas flaps. The man was an arsenal. They appraised each other, and he showed yellowing teeth in a sly smile as he met Yaril’s eyes. He doffed an imaginary hat to her, in teasing greeting. She didn’t rise to the bait. Opposite the bounty hunter was the Inquisitorial acolyte. A warrior claiming membership of some bloodsoaked reflection of Imperial faith, armoured in a synth-hide bodysuit, wearing a masked helmet she refused to remove. Emerah, one of Inquisitor Tymer Quintarus’s acolytes, and no doubt trained as an assassin. Yaril hadn’t summoned her, and yet here she was. Quintarus had been a good man, relative to the rank he held. His death was a loss to the Flotilla and another nail in the coffin of stability within the Gilead System. Yaril’s father, Jakel Varonius, had brought the now-masterless agent to his daughter’s attention, and Yaril welcomed the chance to include one of Quintarus’s elite warband. The eye lenses of Emerah’s mask clicked and purred as they rotated and refocused whenever she turned her head. She was brazen in her examinations of the others, and her gloved hands never rested far from one of the array of blades sheathed upon her armour. Lastly, the tech-priest Ilmar. A young Magos Errant, skilled in a host of craft rather than devoting himself to a single specialisation. The Mechanicus hierarchs of Avachrus had sent their wayward adept with a brief (by their lengthy and meticulous standards) document detailing Ilmar’s achievements so far. It showed him as an interesting prospect: promoted above the simplistic duties of an enginseer, yet not quite

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elevated into a position to attain the arch-lore he craved.

‘Well, Your Worship?’ the bounty hunter asked, ‘why are we here?’

Ilmar didn’t just watch the others, he scanned them, recording every detail with the machinery that replaced parts of his mind. His axe-staff of office lay across the table, the split-coloured skull symbol of the Opus Machina declaring his allegiance to the principles and priesthood of Sacred Mars. Where Gulkir’s suit of ceramite armour emitted a ceaseless thrum, Ilmar’s extensive bionics clicked and ticked and purred. His hood was up, though with no attempt to hide what remained of his face; a rebreather mask covered his mouth and nose, while a tri-lens array had replaced one eye and cheekbone.

‘Because, Olaj—’

All right, Yaril thought. Time to break the silence.

She hesitated again, seeking the right words.

‘I am Yaril Varonius, eldest daughter of the Varonius rogue trader dynasty, captain of the ship Arikella and—like all of you—trapped within the Gilead System. You’re here today because…’

We need… what? Agents? Operatives? Allies? All true, but not enough of the truth.

She faltered. In that moment, the Ranger turned her head with silky grace to finally look over the others; the bounty hunter scratched his belly and spat on the deck; the Absolver and the Avachran tech-priest both rested their hands on their weapons as the Aeldari female moved; and the acolyte thumbed the Inquisitorial rosette she wore around her wrist, stroking its contours.

‘Just Laj, Your Ladyship.’ Yaril inclined her head, resolved not to lose all momentum. She even smiled at the interruption. ‘You’ve been brought together because the unrest and corruption in the Gilead System grows darker by the day. My father believes things need to change, before it’s too late. These corruptions can’t be fought with armies and artillery. We need…’

Yaril met each of her guests’ stares in turn, and finally settled on the absolute truth. If this was to work, better to begin from a foundation on honesty. ‘We need your help.’

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FOREWORD Wrath and Glory – and what a grand, bellicose name that is to say aloud – is a labour of love. It is a glittering spire on a long-standing citadel of lore beloved to millions across the world. Its foundations were laid down over thirty years ago, and since that time it has been built up, storey by storey, to become a monstrous, beautiful cathedral of war. It is garrisoned by countless crusading armies, battalions of tanks and fleets of spaceships, and it is fought over every hour of every day. Constantly reinforced and buttressed by the books, games, novels and comics that support it, it is vast enough to house an unlimited variety of sagas told by those brave souls who venture within. It’s probably a good idea to bring a gun, or at the least a very pointy stick. The universe of Warhammer 40, is under siege like never before. This vintage setting has been given new urgency by the unfolding story of the Dark Imperium, and it leads to the brink of utter disaster. Since the great cataclysm at the end of the 41st Millennium, nothing is truly set in stone. Humanity could still overcome its daemons (literally) to ascend to a new age of progress and conquest, or it could be consumed utterly by the darkness. The status quo of the God-Emperor’s bloody regime, having grown stagnant and corrupt, has been shattered forever by the Great Rift. In the Imperium Nihilus, cut off from the Golden Throne of Terra by a galaxy-spanning warp storm, the actions of the few can affect the fates of the many as never before. Embattled worlds are stranded without hope of reinforcement, potential saviours are slain every day, and even simple communication between warzones can require great sacrifice. Plot hooks, calls to action, and deadly deeds in the name of survival are everywhere you look. This is where your grand adventure will likely be set. The adepts behind the Wrath and Glory books have earned their purity seals a dozen times over, and know this universe like the back of their piston-enhanced, psyker-gnarled hands. Ross and his team have peered into the grim dark future and delivered a spectacular vision – a sector of space where the Chaos-worshipping scions of the Dark Gods are ascendant. Desperate measures are the only way to keep a glimmer of hope alive. Who will be the deciding factor between total ruination and hard-won victory? Yes indeed, it’s you and your gaming friends.

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The Wrath and Glory team have taken the notion of a ragged band of heroes and made it more rewarding than ever before. Perhaps your protagonists are old friends, allies of convenience, or even natural enemies, but the situation is so dire they have been forced to work together. Each band of adventurers incorporates different archetypes, talents, even species – internal clashes and conflicting agendas will see your character developing alongside those of your friends, and often in unexpected ways. There are great riches out there for those with the wit to claim them, dreams to be had and nightmares to overcome. In these direst of times, a single arcane phrase or carefully aimed lasgun blast can determine whether an entire city – or even a world – lives to see another day. In the Warhammer 40, setting, not all warriors are created equal, but a cleverly designed tier system allows for a free-form character design process. There are balancing factors to ensure the mighty Space Marines can fight alongside brave but alltoo-human Imperial Guard troopers and perfidious Eldar outcasts on an even playing field. As a result is entirely up to you what role you take as the lethal spectacle of the Imperium Nihilus unfolds before you – why not have a flick through the lavish pages of this book and see what inspires you? Whatever you choose, you can be certain it will both challenge and reward you, allowing you to tell a thrilling story of your own in the process. The universe of Warhammer 40, is a games master’s paradise and a player’s delight. But be warned; it is a setting so rich, so deep, it’s possible to get lost in it for years or even decades at a time. Some will never find their way out; if I’m honest with you, after so many years of immersion I think I might be one of them. And you know what? With Wrath and Glory, I’m looking forward plunging further in. war a d to op lung lu ng gin ing fu urt r he her in her n.

Phil Kelly Senior Background Se S enior niior or B ackg ackg ac gro ou Writer Games Workshop G Ga ame es Wo ork rks rks

IT IS THE 41 ST MILLENNIUM For more than a hundred centuries, the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of His inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, for whom blood is drunk and flesh eaten. Human blood and human flesh—the stuff of which the Imperium is made. To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. It is a universe you can live today—if you dare—for this is a dark and terrible era where you will find little comfort or hope. If you want to take part in the adventure, then prepare yourself now. Forget the power of technology, science and common humanity. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for there is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods. But the universe is a big place and, whatever happens, you will not be missed…

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INTRODUCTION This accursed Age needs heroes more than ever before. Shattered by the Great Rift, the galaxy is on the brink of oblivion and madness. There are those who fight for a shred of hope, a glimmering promise that this millennium may yet endure. What will you fight for? What will you sacrifice? Those who challenge the growing darkness must consider these questions. Prepare to enter a galaxy full of danger and mystery, plagued by the star-spanning schemes of the Dark Gods. You will defend the last bastions of civilisation against a rising tide of corruption. You will explore ancient ruins of races long-vanished. You will uncover lost secrets and devious schemes. Welcome to Warhammer 40, Roleplay: Wrath & Glory. Survival is not guaranteed; there are multitudes of aliens, heretics, and daemons intent on revelling in the flames as the galaxy burns, eager to rip apart any would-be saviours who attempt to interfere. Combat in Wrath & Glory is not a dignified exchange of blows; it is a savage, ultraviolent display of carnage and woe. Using dice and classic traits of Warhammer 40,, your characters can accomplish goals, slaughter enemies, and overcome the incredible challenges that lie in their path. This is a game of danger and mystery. This is a game of action and adventure. This is a game about the struggle to hold back the doomsday clock from striking midnight for an entire galaxy. This is Wrath & Glory.

What is a Roleplaying Game? A roleplaying game is a storytelling experience that incorporates elements of the games of make-believe that many of us played in our youth. However, a roleplaying game is a game that also involves roleplay – the rules in this book provide form and structure to the experience. The setting of Wrath & Glory is the 41st Millennium, the grim darkness of the far future where there is only war. Here you will find nearly endless possibilities for your stories and robust structure to give your roleplay a framework within the game. In Warhammer 40, Roleplay: Wrath & Glory, you create a character and team up with other characters created by your friends. Together, you explore distant worlds, uncover sinister conspiracies, and battle monstrous aliens, daemons, or heretics. While Wrath & Glory does use dice, maps, and miniatures, the exciting action is born in your imagination. There, you have no limits to create or visualise anything you can imagine. You have effectively an unlimited effects budget and unlimited technology to make the most exciting and memorable “film” starring your character and your choices. The Game Master, or GM, is a person who is the “referee” of the game, the lead storyteller, and the arbiter of any rules disputes. The GM narrates the action of non-player characters (NPCs) and typically creates adventures for the player characters to explore – though there are many pre-made adventures for Wrath & Glory that your group can use as well. The GM makes an RPG very flexible, because they are able to react to the twists and turns in the story introduced by the players. The GM can react to any situation, crafting plot twists, special NPCs, and battles to make any adventure exciting and fresh. Each adventure is itself the heart of an RPG – they are like films, novels, or comic books, except that the characters created by the players are the stars featured in every story.

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What You Need to Play

Players

To get the most out of your experience with the Wrath & Glory RPG and begin your adventures in the grim darkness of the far future, it is strongly recommended that you have access to the following:

Playing Warhammer 40, Roleplay: Wrath & Glory requires at least two players, and a session of play can comfortably include up to six. One player is the Game Master (GM), and the other players each control a player character as one of the main characters in the ongoing story of the game.

◆ Players: One Game Master and from one to five players who control the player characters. ◆ Player Characters: You may create your own using the rules in Chapter 2 of this book, or you may use pre-generated characters (one for each player). ◆ Dice: Roughly ten or more D6s for each player, with one D6 being of a distinctly different colour than the rest. ◆ Paper and Pencil: Useful for keeping notes, keeping track of game effects and resources, and drawing out maps or environments. ◆ Tokens or Beads: Roughly five per player to keep track of Wrath, plus six total for Glory, and about a dozen for the GM’s pool of Ruin.

The role of the GM is to set the scenes, describe environments, present interesting encounters and mysteries, and manage characters not controlled by the other players. Player Characters Each of the other players control a player character, the main characters of the game’s story. The responsibility of these players is to work together to engage with the GM’s challenges, explain how their characters act in any encounter or respond to their environment, and encourage everyone involved to make sure that having fun is at the center of the experience. Each player character (PC or “hero”) is represented by a character sheet.

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Dice Wrath & Glory uses common 6-sided dice, abbreviated to d6’s in this book. Making rolls in Wrath & Glory is simple: a player puts together a pool of d6s equal to the sum of the appropriate Skill for the situation they are rolling, and its linked Attribute. To resolve a roll (commonly called a test), the player counts the number of dice with a result of ; each of those dice provides 1 success or “icon.” Dice with a result of 6 provide 2 icons. The total number of icons on the roll determine whether the test succeeded or failed. One dice is special in nearly every test, designed by being a different colour than the other dice. This is the Wrath Dice, and it has special effects in the game if its result was a 1 or a 6.

Paper and Pencil Papers and pencils are important to record any information for the game. Some examples include temporary benefits or impairments to a character’s abilities, important events, clues or hints to story elements, or the names of NPCs that the characters encounter during their adventures. Paper and pencils are also important to the GM to record damage to the NPCs during a battle, drawing maps for encounters, or writing down notes for key things to remember about a particular session.

Tokens, Beads, Poker Chips or other markers Wrath & Glory uses three resources that require some management during the course of the game. Two are right there in the name: Wrath (a resource for individual players) and Glory (a resource for the group). A third resource, Ruin, is for the Game Master’s use.

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Wrath is the key resource that players track during each session of the game. Wrath is something that sets the player characters apart from “normal folk” in Warhammer 40, Players can spend Wrath to succeed against the odds, achieve spectacular results, and persevere against overwhelming odds on the battlefields of the 41st Millennium. Most characters begin each session with 2 Wrath and have the opportunity to earn more over the course of each session. Glory is a benefit that the group can spend to help one another in tough situations, turn almost-butnot-quite results into a success, or perform other impressive feats. The Glory pool begins at 0 at the start of each game, and increases as player characters take actions during the game or by choosing to “bank” bonuses from individual rolls. Ruin is a resource that the GM uses for various effects, often fueling NPC actions in combat. Ruin starts with a number equal to the number of players at the beginning of each session. The GM may gain more Ruin for their pool over the course of the game, depending on the players’ rolls. Some NPCs may generate Ruin on their own, as well. All of these resources can be tracked using a pencil and paper, but it is strongly recommended that you use something physical to represent Wrath, Glory, and Ruin in your game. Tokens and multi-colored beads are best, but poker chips and even other dice may also work fine for your group. Using a physical representation of these resources offers several advantages. It is easier to track resources by simply adding or subtracting tokens from the table. It is also easier for players to understand how many resources are available for each other and for the group. Lastly, it can be quite stimulating to observe the GM’s pool of Ruin steadily increasing as the game moves towards its climax, heightening tension and building a sense of unease as the players approach the finale!

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It is the forty-first millennium by mankind’s reckoning of history, and much has transpired since those early centuries spent cradled on Terra. It is an age of war, an age of loss, an age of unfathomable ravening darkness. And yet, it is also an age of heroism, of sacrifice, and of triumph over impossible odds. For ten thousand years, the Imperium of Man has stood as a bulwark against the Long Night which once swallowed humanity, sometimes bowed by treachery or cataclysm, but never broken. The Imperium currently stands amidst its greatest losses since the Emperor of Mankind was betrayed by his son and champion, Horus. The galaxy has been sundered by a Warp rift of unfathomable size and ferocity, a sign of the Dark Gods’ eternal malice, and fully half of the million worlds that fly the Imperium’s banners are all but lost to Terra behind this curtain of baleful unreality. What remains intact of an empire that once spanned the galaxy is now the Imperium Sanctus, while the swathe of worlds shrouded by the Great Rift are known as the Imperium Nihilus, when attention can be spared for them at all. And yet hope endures, thanks to the unflagging spirit of Mankind’s defenders, and the leadership of the Imperium’s greatest champions.

The Emperor Protects Nothing is more foundational to the Imperium of Man than the sovereignty of the God-Emperor. Once the mightiest paragon of humanity, he travelled across the galaxy on his Great Crusade ten thousand years ago, uniting lost and fractured worlds under his banner. A terrible betrayal ended all of this, and laid low the peerless ruler. Now, his ruined and broken body is maintained—barely— by the arcane machinery of the Golden Throne on Terra. From this machine his prodigious psychic might still emanates as the Astronomican that guides ships through the Warp, a dimension beyond the physical that enables the Imperium’s expansion as surely as it threatens it by the malefic wills of the Daemons therein. Although once he stood embodied as a warrior and king, the Emperor is now worshipped as a god on every Imperial world. The exact tenets of this faith can and do vary, given the vast scope of the galaxy, but none doubt that the Emperor protects and guides humanity, even if he must now do so through intermediaries such as the Living Saint, Celestine, or his returned son, the lost Primarch Roboute Guilliman. The Primarchs At the dawn of the Great Crusade, the Emperor created a score of mighty beings to lead his armies, demigods wrought in his likeness by genetic sorcery and arcane tech-craft. These sons of the Emperor, these Primarchs, were to be his captains, the leaders of his armies. But when the Emperor’s work was completed, the infant demigods were scattered across the galaxy by the power of the Dark Gods. Even the Ruinous Powers could not unmake these mighty champions, so they sought to deny their power to the Emperor’s crusade, and to corrupt them. In this,they partially rushbrookrathbone.co.ukgh the Emperor was eventually reunited with his lost sons, fully half of their number that wrought his works eventually turned to the banner of the traitorous Warmaster Horus, once the greatest of all the Emperor’s Primarchs. The cataclysm that followed ended the Great Crusade and cost the Imperium greatly, with the years to come only further diminishing its glory as the remaining Primarchs loyal to the Emperor’s vision were lost or slain in the dark time that came to be known as the Horus Heresy.

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And yet, the legacy of the Primarchs endures even after all these millennia, for good and for ill. Although the traitor Horus was slain by his father, his forsaken conspirators in rebellion endured, embraced as champions by the powers of Chaos. Ascended to immortal Daemonhood, these archheretics now stand as some of the most terrible enemies to humanity in all existence. But they are not the only surviving Primarchs. For millennia, legends have endured about the possible return of the living loyalist Primarchs, from sagas told of the Wolftime where Leman Russ will return, to the search by the Salamanders Space Marines for the artefacts of Vulkan they believe will lead them to their progenitor. In these waning years of the forty-first millennium, once such legend came true, when the stasis-entombed body of Roboute Guilliman was revived and restored from its mortal wounds. Eventually returned to Terra, Guilliman assumed control as the Lord Commander of the Imperium, and in the eyes of many, now stands as humanity’s best—and perhaps last—hope against the malice of the Dark Gods.

The Imperial Adepts The governance of the Imperium does not rest solely in the hands of the Avenging Son. Even the incredible intellect of a Primarch would be taxed beyond its capabilities in ordering the affairs of so many worlds and lives without aid. For much of the day-to-day operation of the Imperium, rulership falls to local authorities, and the responsibility for coordinating these countless petty lords and governors falls to the various branches of the Imperial Adepts, also known as the Adeptus Terra. The bureaucracy that makes up this body is massive beyond reckoning, such that few can even conceive of its scope. Such a ponderous government is necessary to rule so wide an empire as the Imperium of Man. Among the different branches of the Adeptus are those responsible for everything from taxation to the waging of war to the proper veneration of the God-Emperor. Authority is jealously hoarded by the Adeptus Terra, and internecine squabbling over jurisdiction is common. However, there are two branches of the Adept’s that dwarf the others, in size and in prominence. The scribes of the Adeptus Administratum are among the most prolific in the Imperium, filling whole worlds

with data-stacks and archives to properly care for Imperial logistics. Without Administratum oversight, it would be nigh-impossible to accomplish anything on the scale necessary to organise even a single sector. If the Administratum’s diligence is necessary to keep the metaphorical gears of the Imperium turning, then it is the Adeptus Mechanicus who keep them moving in literal fact. In this age, humanity relies on countless technological marvels and lost secrets, from mighty Warpcapable voidships and battlefield-razing Titan war machines, to the humble lasgun and the vox-casters by which battalions coordinate and governors address their populations. Production and maintenance of these technologies is the sole province of the Tech-Priesthood of Mars. Their binharic rites and arcane knowledge are the ultimate basis for almost every aspect of the Imperial war machine. Adeptus Administratum The vast and bloated bureaucracy of the Imperium is the domain of the Adeptus Administratum, a legion of archivists and clerks more numerous than the stars themselves. For every world left to the Imperium, tithes must be assessed and regiments of troops conscripted to maintain every other world. These resources and levies must then be distributed across half a galaxy, ensuring that no world is without defenders, without food, or without industry to aid the Imperium’s survival. In truth, it is an impossible task. The vagaries of the Warp delay or redirect messages and ships, to say nothing of the difficulty in tallying such vast quantities of warriors, goods, and materiel. A rounding error by a junior scribe might spell the death of many thousands. If left uncaught for long, such an error might doom an entire world. Even so, the Imperium as a whole absorbs such losses stoically, with famines and disasters that would ruin a lesser empire simply the cost of survival for the whole. This responsibility tends to leave the Administratum adepts humorless and pedantic, prone to checking and rechecking every figure before the slightest bit of forward momentum begins. Worlds have burned while the Administratum calculated a response to

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invasion, and retribution is often delivered years too late to impact ongoing conflicts. The hand of the Imperium moves but slowly with the Administratum’s guidance, yet it is preferable to it not moving at all. Adeptus Mechanicus Alone among all the branches of the Adeptus Terra, the Adeptus Mechanicus is not technically part of the Imperium, but an allied empire in its own right. Some argue this is a distinction without a difference, as the two nations work together under the guidance of the Emperor and equally rely on many common resources, such as the guidance of the Navis Nobilite and the tithes gathered by the Administratum. Although the Adeptus Mechanicus call the Emperor by the title of Omnissiah and are ruled from Mars rather than Terra, the argument goes, any meaningful division from the Imperium would be doomed to failure. Nevertheless, the matter of independence is not treated by any scion of the Forge Worlds, who view the Quest for Knowledge that forms their doctrine as paramount. This sacred task of recovering lost knowledge from humanity’s forgotten past is the ultimate goal of all endeavors pursued by the scions of Mars. All other duties are subsidiary to the Quest—at least in theory. In practice, there is rarely a conflict, as the stable running of the Imperium and the fueling of its war machine serves the Adeptus Mechanicus well in their goals. When a dispute of doctrine or deed does arise, a mix of careful negotiation and stubborn brinksmanship typically follows. It is both the duty and the exclusive power of the Tech-priests to maintain the infrastructure of the Imperium, but equally important in bargaining is the vast quantity of raw material provided from Imperial worlds that the Forge-Worlds consume to produce their ancient technologies. Only the most primitive Imperial worlds can survive long without the aid of the Adeptus Mechanicus, just as only a handful of Forge-Worlds could meet the needs of production for any length of time without Imperial tithes. In this, the skeptics of the Tech-Priesthood’s sovereignty are proven at least partially correct, but the principle of the matter has nevertheless driven deep schisms and crises throughout Imperial history.

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Worlds of the Imperium Over a million worlds made up the Imperium at its height, and even with the galaxy sundered in half by the Great Rift, the remains of the Imperium Sanctus eclipse the dreams of which most conquerors are capable. Across the planets that can still be accounted for, uncountable billions of men and women go about their lives as part of thousands of cultures, each with their own purpose in service to the Imperium. From the monotonous farming cycles of the agri-serfs to the brutal struggle for life amidst volcanic upheaval or deadly fungal forests, humanity survives and even thrives in innumerable different environs far from its ancient homeworld For the Imperium, defending its territory from a hostile galaxy is a matter of principle. Although the Imperium fights for every human settlement it can, not all worlds are equal. Some desolate rocks on the rim of the galaxy are home to longforgotten listening posts, the source of reports the Adeptus Administratum does not get around to filing until centuries past relevance, while other worlds are husks of civilisation curled around played-out mines or abandoned staging grounds for ancient crusades. The populations of these worlds may live their whole lives without seeing any contact with the Imperium beyond the rare arrival of an overdue tithe-ship, but they still worship the God-Emperor and pray for his light to return the bounty of ancient legends to their homes. Even these ruined worlds can serve the Imperium’s needs, however, when conscription crews and press-gangs for the Astra Militarum and the Imperial Navy come calling. Other, more vital worlds to the Imperium fill innumerable roles, from breadbasket to factory, with those that have greater blessings such as vast resource deposits or ancient tech-relics fulfilling a proportionately greater duty to the Emperor. Among the most vital and influential worlds are the Forge-Worlds of the Adeptus Mechanicus, or the homes of various Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes. From such planets rise forces such as the Titan Legions or the Space Marines, the Emperor’s Angels of Death, and by their blades and guns are the battles for other worlds won. The most important system in all the Imperium is the Sol system, home of humanity and of its ancient cradle on Terra. Although millennia of exploitation and development have left

Terra d T devoid id d off naturall resources and d without ih life beyond the billions of petitioners to the Emperor’s glory, it remains the most influential planet of all those held by humanity. Terra alone has been home to the Emperor himself for ten thousand years, with his palace and the Golden Throne it houses taking up an entire continent of its blessed soil. And yet, the Emperor is not the only wonder of the Sol system, although he is surely its greatest. Beyond the orbit of the Imperium’s throneworld are the indomitable fortress of Luna, the ancient forges of Mars, and the secret fastnesses of Titan that secure some of the most dangerous secrets in the galaxy. Sol is the heart of the Imperium, a fortress held for millennia unbroken, but in these troubled times, even Terra is not sacrosanct against invasion. The forces of the Dark Gods have recently dared to assault it for the first time since the fall of Horus, and likely not for the last. Holy Terra Terra is the birthplace of humanity, of the Emperor, and of the Imperium. Its past is legend, and even its present merely a distant dream to most in the galaxy. Words can scarcely suffice to explain its importance, as Mankind’s origin and as the Emperor’s home. Once, the most ancient records say, it was bountiful, rich in life and resources, but over course of history, it has been tapped out, with even the vast oceans consumed by ages of industry. Now, all that remains is the Imperial Palace, and the sprawling cities devoted to its service.

On Terra, O T nothing hi occurs which hi h is hi i not meant to serve the Emperor in some way. Pilgrims from across the galaxy arrive to behold his glory, tithe-processionals vast beyond reckoning bring tribute beyond avarice, and the Black Ships bring a harvest of psykers to fuel the Astronomican’s light. Amid the churning masses of humanity, the vigils of the Adeptus Custodes, the bodyguards of the Emperor, and the watchful eyes of the Inquisitorial Ordos maintain the security of this most sacred of worlds. False piety is rooted out, self-serving bureaucrats are caught and punished, and the guardianship of the Golden Throne never ceases. The Vaults of Mars What Terra is to most of Humanity, Mars is to the Adeptus Mechanicus. On the ancient red planet, the first steps on the Quest for Knowledge truly began, and some of its greatest discoveries remain buried within its ancient data-vaults and archives. More knowledge has been sealed away or lost beneath the red sands of Mars than has ever been held by lesser Forge-Worlds. The forges of Mars are peerless, and capable of more advanced production than anywhere else in the galaxy, and in its orbit, the shipyards known as the Ring of the Iron construct whole fleets, squadron by squadron. And yet, for all the glory of Mars’ forges and shipyards, for all the vaunted knowledge of its Magi, and the prowess of its Skitarii legions, its story is one of tragedy, for it has remained on the

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wane since the ancient Age of Technology, when its greatest marvels were constructed. Everything produced since then has been but a reflection of those ancient glories, and many of Mars’ most legendary heroes, such as the famous Magos Arkhan Land, are known but for their ability to reconstruct fragmentary secrets of the marvels from that time. A Million Worlds, Uncountable Lives Beyond Terra, Mars, and the other wonders of Sol are a million worlds home to humanity, each with its own civilisation. Although cataloguing the innumerable societies that make up the Imperium is all but impossible except in the vaguest sense, the Administratum maintains broad classifications for all Imperial worlds. The widest class of worlds are the so-called Civilised Worlds, also known as Imperial Worlds. In this category fall most of the Imperium’s major population centers, but little else unites them. The techno-gangers that dwell in the continent-cities of a hive world have next to nothing in common with the primitive tribesmen of a feral world or the dutiful serfs of a feudal world, but in lacking easy classification, they find themselves categorised together. From these worlds are drawn the bulk of the Astra Militarum, and most of the Imperium’s industry that does not come from the Forge Worlds. Production of goods is not limited to the more advanced Civilised Worlds, either, for the needs of the Imperial tithes are such that even simple tribesmen have been put to work assembling machinery far beyond their ken. Vital the survival of the Civilised Worlds, and indeed all of the Imperium, are planets such as Agri-worlds and Mining Worlds. From these two types of systems come vital foodstuffs and raw materials in abundance, provided on a scale that beggars the imagination. The produce of an agri-world can feed much of a sector if properly rationed, with more stored in vast granaries in distant systems in case of an interruption in shipments. Mining worlds are similarly devoted to a singular purpose on a grand scale, whether that is the extraction of common ores, the distilling of precious promethium, or the assembly of the rare metals that the Adeptus Mechanicus covets to create adamantium, plasteel, ceramite, and other necessary composites.

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The products of the mining worlds eventually make their way to the Forge-Worlds of the Adeptus Mechanicus, where they are crafted by Tech-Priests and work crews into all manner of technological wonders. From vast manufactorums arise everything from guns and tanks to voidship engines and world-devastating torpedoes. The Forge-Worlds are also home to such military forces as the Titan Legions, the Legio Cybernetica, and the Questor Mechanicus. For all the technological power of the Forge-Worlds, some planets are home to dangers that can rival even their potent weapons. On the inhospitable Death Worlds, humanity ekes out an imperiled existence in spite of conditions ranging from constant tectonic activity to toxic atmospheres or endless swarms of predators. In some cases, Death Worlds are viewed as prime recruiting grounds for the Astra Militarum, such as with the famous world of Catachan, while in other cases, they are the source of rare and precious resources. A few Death Worlds house human populations simply too stubborn to die, but of little use to the Imperium at large. Beyond these basic classifications are countless other worlds fulfilling roles crucial or marginal throughout the Imperium. The Administratum recognises fortress worlds that guard vital Warp passages, shrine worlds devoted to the Emperor’s glory, and Chapter homeworlds that serve the Adeptus Astartes, among many more too varied and obscure to list.

The Threat of the Warp The Immaterium. The Sea of Souls. The Empyrean. The Realm of Chaos. All these names and more describe a single, unknowable dimension beyond the boundaries of what most of humanity considers to be reality. In this strange space, time is fluid, thoughts and dreams are real, and nightmares take flesh. The power of the Warp sometimes bleeds into the material universe to a greater or lesser extent, causing everything from the effects of psychic powers to the terrible rift that splits the galaxy apart. And throughout it all, there are the Warp’s own native denizens, immortal Daemons who seek to control and corrupt everything they can. Knowledge of the Warp’s secrets can drive mortals to madness or worse, but without it, the Imperium itself would wither and die as faster-than-light travel and communication became impossible.

The Gods of Chaos The ultimate powers of the Warp are the four immortal beings known collectively as the Dark Gods or the Ruinous Powers. They are ill-understood by humanity, often perceived as Daemonic entities of vast scope among those who know of them at all. The truth of their existence is much more complicated and difficult to distill. In some ways, this perception of the Chaos Gods can be said to be true, with each possessing a malign intelligence and will in accordance with its immutable goals. But in other ways, they are more akin to cosmic laws and principles, as much a constant within the Warp as the gravitic and electromagnetic tides of the material universe. With the Warp as a realm of thought made manifest, the Ruinous Powers exist as expressions of primal desires within all sentient life—anger, pleasure, hope, and despair. The Chaos Gods are both more and less than the Daemons that serve them, but it might be simpler to say only that they are. The will of the Emperor is said to hold them in check, but the expansion of the Great Rift has proven that even he cannot overpower them entirely. Khorne Also known as the Blood God and the Lord of Skulls, Khorne is the oldest of all the Ruinous Powers. Some heretical texts claim he was born from the first violent impulse of any thinking being, and will endure for as long as blood is shed. The Blood God’s power flows from violent acts and thoughts, and all war empowers him. Even in the defeat of his mortal servants does Khorne grow stronger, for their spilt blood is as much a tribute to him as that of their enemies. If Khorne has a weakness, it is a lack of subtlety, for his is the way of raw and unbridled rage. Although capable of strategy, his Daemon legions and mortal thralls alike prefer to wade into battle swiftly and directly, the better to offer up their blood sacrifices. Slaanesh Born from the Fall of the Eldar ten thousand years ago, Slaanesh is the youngest of the Ruinous Powers. However, glutted on the psychic energies of the Eldar empire and by the continued striving of all sentient life, Slaanesh’s realms and powers within the Warp are easily the equal of any of

his b hi brothers. h Sometimes S i called lll d the h Dark D k Prince, Pi Slaanesh draws strength from desire, inspiring his thralls to always seek more from life. Aesthetes and hedonists, the cultists of Slaanesh are devotees of excess whose endless search for new experiences only serves to deaden themselves to their current lives. It is not in the nature of Slaanesh to be satisfied, and this is passed on to all those whose lives he touches. Tzeentch In some ways the subtlest and most inscrutable of all the Chaos Gods, Tzeentch is called the Architect of Fate, the Great Conspirator, and the

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Changer Ch h off W Ways. IIt iis T Tzeentch h who h most plainly l i l demonstrates the infinite possibilities of the Warp, for his is the domain of change itself. In Tzeentch’s realm, the fractured pathways of the future wind on endlessly as his Daemons cavort in evermutating forms towards the ends their lord finds most desirable. Mortals dedicate themselves to Tzeentch seeking power, knowledge, or sorcerous might, for all these are gifts he can grant if it serves his ends. The servants of Tzeentch are among the most feared psykers in all the galaxy, but more fearsome still is the foreknowledge and cunning his armies display, as the mists of time unveil to their wills. Nurgle Although known to many as the Fly Lord, the Master of Pestilence, and the Great Corruptor, the servants of the God of Decay prefer to refer to him as Grandfather Nurgle. To his followers, he is a jovial, even kindly-seeming master, always delighted to see his plagues spread through the mortal realm and touch more subjects with his carefully-concocted gifts. His apparent joviality conceals a malice much like any of the other Dark Gods, however, for Nurgle would like nothing better than a slow, lingering descent into decay for all that is. Although stasis is anathema to the forces of Chaos, Nurgle nevertheless represents the urge in thinking life to lie down and give

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iinto the h iinevitable, i bl and d to allow ll d despair, i d doubt, b and lethargy to triumph over all. This places him as the foremost rival to Tzeentch, whose everchanging schemes are built from the hopes and inspirations that lie in direct opposition to those urges. Between the two of them, they represent the conflict between action and inaction that underpins mortal existence.

Servants of the Dark Gods For all their terrible and malign power, the powers of Chaos cannot act on the material universe directly. For that, they have a multitude of servants, from the innumerable Daemons native to the Warp, to mortals pledged to the victory of Chaos in exchange for power, revenge, or some other motivation. Chaos Daemons What mankind calls Daemons are the native denizens of the Immaterium, given shape and flesh by the fears and nightmares of the mortals whose lives they assault. Daemons come in a bewildering array of forms and powers, but some broad classifications have been developed by the Ordo Malleus and servants of Chaos alike. Greater Daemons are the most powerful, direct servants of the Dark Gods, and the will of Chaos made manifest. From the raw physical might

of Khorne’s Bloodthirsters and the devastating sorcery of Tzeentch’s Lords of Change, to the allure of Slaanesh’s Keepers of Secrets and the virulent plagues of Nurgle’s Great Unclean Ones, the power of Greater Daemons is unmatched. Daemon Princes are similar in might to Greater Daemons, but of a vastly different origin, for they were once living servants of the Dark Gods ascended to direct service in the Warp. The most powerful of these are the Daemon Primarchs who betrayed the Emperor and were granted immortality by their masters for their treachery. Lesser Daemons are those that serve in the rank and file of the Daemon hordes, although they are still more terrible than all but the most potent mortal warriors. Finally, Daemonic beasts exist, more akin to wild animals than anything else, but still imbued with the immortal malice of the Dark Gods. Lesser Daemons and Daemonic beasts are frequently bound to serve mortal summoners, but Greater Daemons and Daemon Princes brook no sorcerer’s mastery, and instead lead heretics and weaker Daemons alike when called into the mortal realm. Chaos Space Marines The foremost of the mortal servants of the Ruinous Powers are the Space Marines who turned away from the Imperium, whether at the dawn of the Horus Heresy or as part of some later betrayal. Augmenting their superhuman might with the Dark Gods’ gifts, these heretic Astartes are capable of shattering armies and razing worlds. The majority of Chaos Space Marines owe allegiance to one of the Traitor Legions that followed Horus, but the ancient warriors are by no means the only the Adeptus Astartes to fall prey to the lure of Chaos. As individuals or whole chapters, the ranks of these arch-traitors have swelled over time, replacing those lost to the Long War against the Imperium or who have ascended to the Dark Gods’ side. Cults and Traitors The most numerous of all the Dark Gods servants in the material universe are not manifested Daemons or mighty heretic Astartes, but debased traitors who have foresworn the Emperor for personal gain. Some such traitors are simply individuals who make secret pacts, offering their souls for power. Others are organised cults, worshipping the Dark Gods in secret and undermining the Imperium through their concerted efforts. Whether

coordinated or alone, the sheer number of deluded servants of Chaos across the Imperium is beyond reckoning, with only the most vigilant worlds unmarred by their works. When these cultists are left to fester unchecked, they can be as much of a threat as any direct invasion, for they spread their heretical dogma to subvert others, and sabotage the Imperium from within. Given the chance, like calls to like, and such traitors eventually call upon Daemons or Chaos warbands to assist them in their goals. Many cults find the reward for their service to be a swift death by the forces they have summoned to them, but some manage to not only survive, but gain further reward from their masters.