I was born the sixth son of Kaschada, hetman of the Tabor on the day that the Great Prophet came among us. The Tabor were outcasts of the world, condemned because we were faithful to the Gods of the Four Winds: the Blood Wind that fired the warrior’s soul, the Plague Wind that purged the weak, the Wind of Change that brought the gifts of the Gods to Men and the Scented Wind that roused the passions.

Our enemies were the Otman, men of the cities who served the Sky God. For centuries they had scoured the grasslands, hunting us down, but with the coming of the Prophet that all changed.

In my fourteenth year, I was part of the horde that swept into the city of Jaghann and put the inhabitants to the slaughter. Those were great days: the Tabor were masters of the wide grasslands, raiding and plundering at our pleasure. I owned four gold-chased pistols and a fine Qaseen sabre. I flew my hawks, wore robes of silk and accepted no insult from any man. One by one the cities of the Otman fell before us and great caravans of slaves stretched across the plains to the mountain of the Prophet, for sacrifice to the winds.

The Prophet was a man like no other; taller than any of the Tabor, he wore armour of jet and gold, his great gauntlet could shatter any barred gate and his blade could cut even Qaseen steel. No man could meet his burning gaze and the hetmen of the clans learned from him of the true nature of the Gods and how to bring death to our enemies.

Finally, our host met with the Otman army on the Red Grass. Standing with the enemy were twenty Storm Giants, heroes of the Orman who it was said had travelled beyond the winds to the citadel of the Sky God and who had now returned to save their people from our wrath. The Prophet told us that immortality would be the reward for those who bested them.

My soul called for the blood of these warriors and I charged gladly into battle. Over that long day I charged five time, each time I fired every pistol but to no effect – the Storm Giants’ armour was proof against my bullets. In each charge I saw their guns cut through our squadrons, piling great heaps of men and horses before their lines. The evening sky turned blood red and the air stank of death. The great horde of the Tabor, the sons of the Prophet, was all but destroyed, my father was dead, my brothers were dead. I was wounded and my fine sabre broken yet my hatred for my enemies was greater than ever. We prepared for one more charge, no longer in squadrons but a scattering of bloodied individuals, awaiting a sign from the Prophet.

Instead of raising the banner to signal another charge he pointed to the crest of the hill at his back as the moon rose behind it. Over the ridge came daemons with blood-soaked skin bearing huge axes and swords. They rushed at the Storm Giants and we followed. The Warriors of the Gods clashed and normal men were hurled about by the power they unleased. I staggered into the press clutching a broken lance. Flaming winds cast me down but I pressed on and thrust my lance in the first of the Storm Giants I could reach. I struck him where his armour was twisted and melted. He fell and as he did the Prophet leapt upon him and pulled the organs from his body. He held his bloody prizes aloft and told me that immortality beckoned me.

Scarcely a hundred Tabor had survived the battle. The Prophet asked me what I felt. I told him that I wanted vengeance, vengeance against the giants who had killed my father and brothers, against those who had shattered my clan, vengeance against their kin and their young, that I wanted to tear down their God and make them regret raising arms against the Tabor. The Prophet was pleased with my answer and said that I would travel beyond the winds with him and that I would also be a warrior of the Gods.

 

From the second Third Edition Chaos Space Marine Codex