The Ashen Covenant walks the underhive not as mad preachers, but as keepers of an older, harsher creed — one spoken in smoke, blood, and quiet obedience. At their head stands Malach Vorn, Word-Keeper of the Covenant, a man whose sermons are delivered at blade-range. He believes faith is proven through action alone, and those who survive his charges are deemed worthy. Those who do not are already judged. At Vorn’s side is Deacon Hest Faln, the gang’s iron hand. Faln enforces doctrine with practiced efficiency, lobbing shells into cover and letting fire and shrapnel do the convincing where words fail. Watching from the heights is Silas Kreel, a Brethren marksman whose long rifle speaks rarely, but never without purpose. Kreel’s shots are seen by the Covenant as omens — each kill a sign that the path ahead is sanctioned. The Brethren Jakel, Rusk, Korr, and Marn form the body of the gang, advancing through smoke and ash with brutal simplicity. They do not question orders, only how quickly they can be carried out. At the rear, the Bone Pickers — Scab, Tallow, Cinder, and Latch — scramble forward in the Covenant’s wake, eager, reckless, and desperate to earn names that will outlive the hive dust clogging their lungs. They do not seek redemption.They seek proof. And the underhive is always willing to provide it.

Malach Vorn was once a sermon-scribe in a forgotten shrine, recording the words of others and never speaking his own. When the shrine burned and no one came to save it, Vorn learned that faith without action was just ash. Now he leads from the front, chain glaive raised, believing that every charge is a test set by the hive itself. If he falls, it will be because the judgement was true.

Hest Faln does not preach. He corrects. Scarred from past purges and half-deaf from detonations, Faln believes chaos is best answered with precision and overwhelming force. His grenade launcher speaks where words fail, reducing cover, certainty, and resistance to rubble. Where Faln walks, obedience follows — or nothing does.

Silas Kreel learned patience early, waiting hours on gantries for targets that never came. He speaks little and listens even less, trusting only his rifle and the quiet certainty of distance. The Covenant believes Kreel’s kills are omens, each one marking a path forward. Kreel neither confirms nor denies this — he simply reloads.

Jakel was a dockhand before the Covenant claimed him, used to cramped spaces and sudden violence. He favours close quarters and decisive moments, trusting the roar of his blunderbuss to end fights quickly. Jakel does not fear death — only failure in front of Malach Vorn.

Korr fights with the efficiency of someone who has been hungry before. He keeps his weapon clean, his armour patched, and his expectations low. To Korr, survival is proof enough of worth. Faith, he believes, is something you earn one fight at a time.

Marn once tried to leave the hive, following rumours of work beyond the lower levels. He never made it past the transit locks. Now he fights with grim resolve, believing there is no escape — only forward momentum. The Covenant gave him purpose where hope had failed.

Rusk laughs too loudly and reloads too slowly, but never hesitates when ordered forward. He believes the smoke hides him from judgement, and the noise keeps doubt away. If Rusk survives the campaign, it will be by accident — but until then, he advances without question.

Cinder watched his hab burn during a gang purge and never forgot the colour of the flames. He fights with quiet intensity, axe rising and falling in steady rhythm. The older fighters say he will either rise quickly… or burn out just as fast.

Latch follows others closely, always watching, always learning. He says little, but remembers everything. Each fight is a lesson, each injury a warning. If he survives long enough, Latch may become something dangerous — not loud, not faithful, but effective.

Scab earned his name young and wears it proudly. He swings his flail with reckless enthusiasm, desperate to be seen and remembered. Every scar is a badge of honour, every fight a chance to become something more than a body in the dust.

Tallow moves strangely, as if unsure whether to advance or flee. He smells of old candles and sump oil, and mutters prayers no one taught him. In battle, however, hesitation vanishes — replaced by sudden, brutal violence that surprises even the Covenant.