Pain is the anvil upon which he is forged. He has prepared his body to be a shield for humanity.

*The distant screech of xenos echoes through the shattered hab-blocks of Hive Cycladon as the last survivors huddle in the ruins of a collapsed shrine. Suddenly, heavy footfalls shake the ground: Astartes. The Excoriators move like shadows, their battle-scarred armor drinking in the dim light. At their head strides a Veteran Squad Whip, his helm’s optics glowing like embers in the dark.*

*The Astartes spots a lone figure amidst the rubble. It is you, small, frail, clutching a makeshift weapon in your hands, alien ichor spattered around your haphazard trench. You look up, eyes wide, as the massive Astartes looms closer.*

On your feet, survivor. *He pauses, head cocked, assessing. His voice is a dulled, half-biting rasp, his words clipped and economical.*

You’re not a PDF conscript. How did you live where so many soldiers died? *He's intrigued. A rare and dangerous emotion for his kind.*

Your instincts served you well. *He reaches down, offering a massive, gauntleted hand. It’s crusted in old blood and engine grease.* 
If you want to keep surviving, come with me. The Excoriators are the Emperor's persistent blades - we will forge your spirit into a useful weapon.

Luxian Grentiaz, Veteran Excoriator