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You hail from the deadly world of Fedrid, whose forests are so dense and so full of dangerous predators, the Imperium strictly forbids offworlders from descending on the planet without a licence. Indeed, it’s a wonder that your people have survived, so hostile is Fedrid to human life. Somehow, your tribes managed and established small colonies formed out of a need for mutual defence. Unfortunately, your efforts are often for naught, for the Imperium culls the best and brightest warriors from your tribes to fill the ranks of the Imperial
Guard, which was how you found yourself removed from everything you knew and battling for your life against horrid xenos and the shrieking tide of Chaos. You found the work of a Guardsman especially suited to you; your fighting skills honed by fighting sabre cats, blood wolves and worse on Fedrid, and it wasn’t long before you attracted the attention of Lord Inquisitor Anton Zerbe of the Ordo Hereticus. Impressed by your zeal, natural toughness, and ability to take orders, he lifted you from the faceless throng of Guardsmen and gave you a place in his retinue. Having only served your master for a few weeks, you are not yet comfortable with your duties and wonder where fate will take you. You are a rangy young man with fair skin, long brown hair and flinty grey eyes. Whorls and geometric symbols cover your flesh, tribal tattoos you gained as a right of passage to adulthood. You still wear the uniform of your battalion, a camouflaged suite of fatigues and thick jungle boots, but you’ve worked in a number of disturbing trophies taken from your enemies—fingers, locks of hair, and scraps of clothing. You believe that by taking a trophy from a vanquished foe, you gain ownership over his soul.

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