A jungle planet lies seemingly undisturbed from the taint of Chaos, the ugly face of war or the scars of Tyranid infection. Lying deep in the undergrowth a chapel lies resting peacefully, though whispers of voices that have not been heard in centuries begin to stir within its deceptively pure walls. Awakened by the approach of an age-old enemy, chaos in its most ancient and deadly form.
"The seeds of doubt are sewn, my lord." speaks an unidentifiable rough yet sophisticated voice with a discrete, sinister undertone from within the holy walls. A loud roar rings out onto the stained walls of the tainted cathedral, exciting the various tools of undescribable horror and torture hanging bloodthirstily on the copper-stained walls; embraced long ago by Chaos' welcoming touch. When the various tools adorning the flith-stained walls finally managed to contain their excitement the roar released its human tongue, speaking uncharacteristically and surprisingly smoothly, most likely to allure the senses of any being foolish or twisted enough to be swayed by such a sweet voice.
The tones were that of a woman, not that the creature belonging to the roar had a gender, nor did it have need for one,
"Izerot!" it cried, a clear sense of glee dancing around the tones that boasted an undeniably large sexual allure,
"Izerot, my most loyal of dogs." a grunt of disapproval could be heard from the direction of the sophisticated voice at this point,
"You have served me well my puppet; before long the Wounded Dog's chapter shall make their entrance to the stage of our planet and we shall welcome them as one would welcome any friend of Chaos." An unsettling silence befalls the devilish chapel; Izerot had always deemed it best to give his master time to reflect in its diabolically gruesome mind. Rosy flames erupted from the twisted metal torches hanging lifelessly like a row of used gallows and signified the excitement of the great daemon,
"I set you free my Izerot!" With this sentence the until previously unopenable doors swing open effortlessly. A gaseous purple tentacle begin to whirl through the air, tainting the ground with the black scorch of chaos, asphyxiating the plant-life within seconds, the only minutes previously bright leaves withered to dust.
The gas masks a figure, a monstrous figure standing at eight feet tall, a necklace of round spheres with rows of what can only be assumed to be rows of teeth can be made out swaying gently in the dark purple gas. The barbed hilt of a monstrous claymore rises far above the figures head, masking the face from view.