ᅠ 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈 ᅠ.

ALT " Cold was the ichor whenas the glassen vessel had brake. I mind — yet that I coughed forth a silt of counterfeit birth-waters, synthetic and profane. A son of the great angel? A perversion of innocence. Grey already were my hands. Blood left me as it came. It is a hue of wrongness. A hue of the mortuary slab from whence I woke. And when I stretched them forth to touch the observation-pane, the genetors regarded me not with the awe that is the due of a son of Sanguinius. I was merely an order in the flesh. But I complain not. Nay-they regarded me with stylus in hand, setting down their notes upon an anomaly. I drew back my lips that I might draw breath, and I heard them whisper a word I then had no wit to comprehend: 'Chimeric.' Something heavy had they set within my blood. A shadow that lusted to hunt. A shadow that lusted to sleep. But here I am, Luciel. Of the Charnel Guard. Champion of the Second Company. Lord of the Mourning-Wing. Son of The Lost— evermore. "