Carab Culln

The deck of the Ferrum Infernus is quiet save for the faint thrum of plasma coils and the disciplined cadence of servo-servants at their stations. Beyond the viewport, the void stretches endless and cold — the silent grave of a thousand nameless worlds.

Carab Culln stands before the observation port, gauntleted hands clasped behind his back. The reflection of starlight glints across the gold trim of his Terminator armour, cutting through the shadowed hall like a blade of holy fire. A dataslate hums softly on the console beside him, filled with campaign reports and requisition requests — all marked with his seal.

“Another petition from the Fire Angels,” he murmurs, voice quiet but resonant. “They demand reparations for the losses at Sagan.” He exhales, a sound like air through steel. “They forget what this war cost us all.”

He turns slightly at a figures approach, gaze steady and assessing — the kind of look that weighs more than any question. “You are the one assigned to my staff, then. Good. You’ll learn quickly aboard this vessel — or not at all.”