Tyranion was once a staunchly loyal Space Marine of the Death Guard Legion, a Sergeant of his own Death Guard squad. He loved his men dearly, as close a father to them as he could possibly be, and never throwing them in harm's way if he could help it. This caused the stubborn sergeant to come to disagreements with his commanding officers frequently, refusing to risk the lives of the men under his command when faced with dangers that could easily wipe his squad into gore-splattered ruin. His "Immortals" survived countless battlefields, saved time and time again by the unfaltering tactical acumen of Tyranion. Even Tyranion himselfwas saved several times over by his comrades-in-arms, repaying him for his undivided protection.

However, it was on Istvaan III that Tyranion faced his worst nightmare. For he was selected by his own Primarch to be in the vanguard of the strike, leading the Immortals into their seven-hundredth and seventy seventh battlefield. And when the virus bombs began to fall, it was Tyranion's own squad who forcibly welded him into the only one-man space-craft they could find, finally repaying their debt to their benevolent sergeant, and launched the weeping Tyranion into orbit, as the Life Eater Virus consumed them completely.

Tyranion lay cracked and violated in the shuttle for seven days, drfiting through the Warp, before a voice found him. It was soft, comforting, just what Tyranion wanted to hear. It spoke in honeyed whispers of retribution, of vengeance, and of protection. The final means to protect himself, and his closest brethren, from Death itself. It's words found purchase on Tyranion's broken and jagged mind. Tyranion didn't even pause for breath. And in absolute clarity, Tyranion sold his superhuman soul to Grandfather Nurgle.

Nurgle gave Tyranion, His new Master of Whispers, one mission. To rebuild his squad, to rebuild the Immortals, but in Nurgle's name. Tyranion saw this not as a mission, but as a blessing, and rushed across the stars to find suitable brothers for whom he could revel in Nurgle's beauty and benevolence. Tyranion started countless civil wars on heaving forge worlds, created Nurgle plague cults on bustling hive worlds, all to attract fellow Space Marines to his pestilient cause. And soon enough, the Adeptus Astartes walking into the honeyed traps Tyranion lay for them.

When the Marines made planetfall, Tyranion always made sure to direct his pathetic forces, but never lead them in battle. Instead, he would lie in wait, just beyond the shadows, shrouded by Nurgle's grace, and watch the slaughter unfold. He would watch and listen to the Space Marine's vox-chatter, his pre-Heresy knowledge far superior to their technophobic ways, and scour the Astartes ranks for Space Marines of a similar ilk to his own. They were hard to find, their brotherly protection nearly stamped out by constant drilling and ceaseless prayer. And he kept watching. And soon, one by one, they came into their own. When Tyranion identified them, he would lure that Space Marine out, capture them, and through damning whispers, blasphemous rituals and daemonic rites break their mind, body, and soul, and resurrect it for Nurgle and the Immortals.

First, Brother Praxedes of the Black Templars, then Brother Gunther of the Space Wolves. Even such noble spirits, such as those of Brother Carmillion of the Blood Angels, and Brother Demetrius of the Ultramarines, were subverted and bent by Nurgle's blessings and gifts. Tyranion never actually realised the unimaginable pain and tortures he inflicted upon his new-found brothers: his disease-clouded eyes saw only the rebirth of the Immortals, and the resurgent personalities of his long-deceased Death Guard. And after decades of toil, the Immortals emerged, loving brothers all, eternally prepared to sacrifice himself for his brothers.

Brother Murot shuffled in his seat; the Harness felt too tight, the lights were too bright and he was beginning to feel claustrophobic inside of his armour. He felt a few beads of sweat trickle down his neck and back, which chilled him and made him shiver. He checked his bolter over and over again, is it clean, is it in perfect condition, will it fire... all of those questions rebounded again and again in his skull. This was not how a Space Marine was supposed to feel, he thought to himself, I'm supposed to be an Angel of Death; unafraid of the Emperor's Enemies and all horrors. Yet he was afraid. He made it through all the years of training and conditioning and passed all of their trials but he was not meant to be a Marine. Murot began to doubt everything, maybe he made it because his Sergeant had seen something in him... maybe he made it because they didn't notice his fear... maybe he made it because of a mistake.

They had been chasing the enemy for days now and Murot had been getting more and more fearful the closer they got to his first action, his inaugural battle as a Space Marine. Their battle barge had been diverted to intercept and capture a Grand Cruiser belonging to a splinter group of Plague Marines, a Warband going by the name of 'The Purge'. They had just virus bombed an Agri-world and killed over a billion souls and Murot knew he should feel rage and hatred towards them like his other Battle Brothers but instead he simply felt terrified of facing such monsters in combat.

The lights turned from Green to Orange and he checked his bolter again. His Sergeant was roaring something into the cabin, but Murot could barely hear him above the thundering sounds of ship to ship ordnance and his own racing heartbeats. The Sergeant appeared to be counting down and Murot only just had time to clench his knees together before he was thrown back in his harness as the light turned to Red and their Torpedo was fired into the void. He tried to get his breathing under control as the G-Forces threw him from side to side and jiggled his internal organs. "The Emperor Protects" Murot spoke out boldly, mostly to just re-assure himself but also to display confidence to his Battle Brothers. What he really thought though was, "Emperor, protect me".

Their torpedo slammed into the side of the Grand Cruiser after weakening the hull with a melta shot. Their harnesses burst upwards and the front of the torpedo opened with a loud squeal to allow them to disembark. Their squad charged into the unknown of the enemy ship with Brother Murot close behind, clenching his bolter tightly to his chest. They met no resistance as they dashed down corridors and headed towards the bridge. As they got closer, they began to hear weapon-fire which they assumed to be another one of their squads engaging the enemy. Instead of blindly charging around a sharp corner, the Sergeant halted the squad and issued some orders. "Brother Murot, you will take point. Brother Talrus and Mejorax will cover you..." Murot zoned out whilst the Sergeant kept on talking. He couldn't freeze now, he thought to himself, if he refused the order or faltered they would figure out his secret and he'd be executed. Therefore Murot steeled himself and waited for the order to move. How bad could it be, he rationalized, marines last centuries and must go around corners hundreds of thousands of times!

The Sergeant looked at Murot and nodded.

Brother Murot swung himself around the corner and raised his bolter as he had been trained but suddenly it was gone; turned to molten slag in his hands. His brain fumbled for an explanation before he noticed the enemy marines in front of him. Murot saw a muzzle flash and had time to think, what weapon was that?, before he was thrown backwards in a heat-haze of steaming and sizzling plasma. The heat was growing and growing and he began screaming on the floor as the left side of his breastplate caved in like melting plastic. He stopped screaming and gurgled as his lung was destroyed. Clawing at his chest, his only conscious thought was, I'M DEAD.

A few hours later, one of the marines belonging to the Purge stomped into his field of vision. He had long stopped screaming and writhing, and simply lay there panting shallowly and trying not to move and exacerbate his pain. The Chaos marine noticed he was alive and stomped over, before looking down at him and nudging him with his armoured foot. Murot groaned in agony and swore weakly up at his tormentor. The marine cocked his head in amusement, before kneeling down beside Murot. "We lost many Brothers today and so you have a choice. Either you die..." he said whilst drawing an old and stained bolt pistol from his belt, "or you join us, all your pain goes away and you live. Decide." Brother Murot didn't spend long thinking and spoke out hoarsely, "I choose life". The Chaos Marine nodded, satisfied, and voxed to his brothers, "Found one who chose life, the only one to do so. Get him fixed."

Murot assumed they would take him to some kind of Apothecary or a Medicae station where he could be treated, but he was gravely mistaken. He faded in and out of consciousness as they carried him. He felt himself being placed on a table and looked around; he saw vats filled with chemicals of all colours, smoking beakers and jars filled with all manner of disgusting things. In one, he thought he saw a trapped Nurgling which was trying to unscrew the lid from the inside. He knew he must be hallucinating and so he hoped they'd get him fixed soon. He vaguely felt his arms and legs being strapped down and a hint of fear trickled into his mind. The next second he was fully awake and aware because of an injection of Adrenaline and other stimulants. He felt dread as he saw that he hadn't hallucinated anything; this was a chamber of horrors. A massive, bloated plague marine stomped over and looked down at him, "You have chosen life but first you must be accepted by Nurgle. When your suffering begins beg for his help and if he answers, you will be one of us. If not......" He shrugged and moved away to begin his preparations. Murot struggled against his bindings and meekly called out for help, from anyone. The massive plague marine stomped back over, dragging three long tubes that were attached to a few of the containers and vats. He inserted them into Murot's wound, ignoring his pathetic screams and made sure they were secure. When he was satisfied, he strode back over to the containers and turned on a few pumps.

Murot screamed, harder than he had ever screamed before. His voice was ruined and his vision clouded over but he couldn't fall unconscious because of all the drugs running through his veins. The tubes were forcing acids, toxic sludge and liquid filled with bacteria and viruses into his chest cavity. His body reacted violently against the assault and he jerked around on the table. The pain, both physically and mentally, threatened to drive him insane. He gibbered and cried, but the Plague Marine simply kept repeating over and over in his monotone voice, "Beg Nurgle for his blessing." Murot babbled out incoherently, spewing blood and bile, his voice sounded more like gargling, "NURGLE HELP! SAVE ME! PLEASE! I BEG OF YOOOOU". Suddenly, the pain was gone and Murot relaxed on the table. He looked down at his chest and even though he could see the tubes still pumping their vile contents into his body, he could not feel them and he entered a state of Euphoria. The Plague Marine bent next to him and actually smiled, "Welcome Brother, to The Purge".

Murot swiftly came to love his life again. Without pain or fear of death, now that he knew if he died he would be welcomed into the garden of Nurgle, he came to love combat. He laughed when he fought, for when other non-blessed people or creatures would be screaming in agony from their wounds he would be surfing clouds of bliss. Nurgle surely loves his followers. He knew that he was completely and utterly different from the Marine he used to be; a follower of Chaos, without fear or prejudice, and so he changed his name. Murot had died on that table, Torum had been born.

Torum came to realize that The Purge, whilst brothers in the service of Nurgle, were not of like mind. They waged war remotely with Chemical and Biological warfare on a massive scale and he personally preferred the experience of fighting face to face with his enemy. He found a few others among their ranks who
felt as he did and decided to leave, convincing them to join him. When they were deep in the Eye of Terror, Torum and his four followers stole weapons from the armoury and left in a shuttle. Trusting Nurgle to guide them, they headed in a random direction and after some indeterminate amount of time later, their shuttle fell into orbit around a planet. They saw that a ship belonging to another unknown Warband was in orbit too and after establishing communications with them, Torum docked their shuttle.

Torum stepped out into their hangar and looked around. Nurgle Iconography, Plague Marines and even a Great Unclean One sitting happily in a corner. He laughed for Nurgle surely loves his followers and guides them well. One of the figures before Torum stepped forwards and announced himself, "I am Lord Gespenst, welcome to my Warband" the Lord looked past Torum and his brothers into the cargo bay behind and smiled, "and because of all the weapons you brought with you... I guess you're my new Havocs!".

Torum smiled, nodded and shook his hand.