TEXT: Mynarc the Unforgiven
  By Phil Kelly
  T
  here are those among
  the distinguished and
  powerful individuals of the
  Inquisition who have, at one
  time, sought to wield the
  potent energies of Chaos to
  their own ends. They
  dedicate their researches to
  turning Chaos against itself,
  freely using their psychic gifts
  and becoming steeped in the
  blasphemous law of the Dark
  Gods. But over time, Chaos
  corrupts, and many an
  Inquisitor who believed he
  was master of the ruinous
  powers he consorted with
  has found that he was in fact
  the servant.
  Many hundreds of years ago,
  Interrogator Mynarc became
  known within the Ordo
  Malleus as a promising
  student of the venerable and
  well-respected Glorian Sarck.
  Sarck had at one point been
  under the tutelage of none
  other than Inquisitor-Master
  Zaranchek Xanthus himself,
  founder of the Xanthite
  faction of the Inquisition.
  Like Xanthus, Sarck believed
  that Chaos was but a
  reflection of humanity, and
  could no more permanently
  be destroyed than a shadow.
  Sarck indoctrinated many of
  his pupils with this belief, but
  Interrogator Mynarc
  constantly called into
  question the methods of his
  superiors. It was this capacity
  to challenge the wisdom of
  his elders that impressed
  Sarck, and the ancient
  took it upon himself to
  forge the confident and
  capable Mynarc into a
  worthy protege.
  Early in the 32nd Millennium,
  Xanthus came under
  suspicion for his unorthodox
  actions, ultimately being
  declared Excommunicate
  Traitoris and burnt at the
  stake by a cell of his former
  peers. His associates and
  students went into hiding,
  but the puritan factions
  responsible for Xanthus’s
  execution were not idle.
  Sarck and Mynarc were
  hounded mercilessly for years
  before they were finally able
  to escape the pursuit of their
  fellows. They encountered a
  tribe of nocturnal troglodytes
  on the remote planet of
  Cneiras near the Freisen
  Cusp, the winding maze of
  subterranean tunnels
  providing a perfect refuge
  from prying eyes. Sarck, using
  sheer force of personality and
  a little of his psychic ability,
  convinced them he was the
  prophet of their gods and
  once again took up his
  researches into the
  Immaterium. 
  Mynarc soon came to realise
  that the discovery of the
  troglodyte civilisation had a
  far darker reason
  than pure
  happenstance.
  The pallid
  degenerates that scuttled
  around Mynarc as he
  wandered their labyrinth
  disgusted him, for they were
  ravenous and fed
  indiscriminately upon insects,
  night-soil, even their own kin.
  Worse still, they openly
  worshipped the Ruinous
  Powers, something his master
  Sarck seemed to encourage
  rather than condemn. A
  change was coming over
  Sarck, with the passing of
  each week he came to
  resemble their cave-dwelling
  hosts to an alarming extent,
  all but ignoring Mynarc as his
  fevered research slowly bore
  its sickly fruit. Sacrifice, ritual
  torture, and cold-blooded
  murder had all become
  commonplace in the ancient
  Inquisitor’s ‘experiments’.
  Mynarc could see what was
  happening, but his pleas for
  moderation and caution fell
  upon deaf ears. Over the
  endless months of
  confinement in the dark
  tunnels his respect for his
  master’s esoteric knowledge
  
  turned to jealousy, and his
  concern for the ancient’s
  spiritual well-being soured
  into contempt.
  Over time, Mynarc built up
  the resolve to confront his
  master and force him to pay
  the price for his blasphemous
  and heretical studies. He
  found the being that had
  once been Sarck crouched
  over a struggling troglodyte
  in his laboratory, rivulets of
  its dark blood glistening in
  the light of the glowing rune-
  glyphs around the walls. The
  thick, guttural syllables
  coming from his master’s
  fang-ridged mouth seemed to
  roil and pulse around the
  small room, and it was all
  Mynarc could do to retain
  consciousness. On a carved
  tabernacle in the centre of
  the room lay a long-bladed
  falchion, its surface
  shimmering and steaming as
  Sarck poured the warm blood
  of his sacrifice onto the
  thirsting metal of the blade.
  Mynarc was well-versed in
  Chaos lore, and when
  comprehension of his
  master’s purpose dawned his
  suspicions of his mentor’s
  true allegiance were
  confirmed. 
  As the ritual neared its
  conclusion, Mynarc sprinted
  from his hiding place and
  smashed into the crooked
  form of his master with bone-
  splintering force. The
  venerable Inquisitor was
  thrown into a rack of
  specimen jars and slid down
  amidst jagged splinters of
  glass into a crumpled heap,
  spluttering and coughing a
  bloody gruel of spittle down
  his ceremonial robes. Mynarc
  snatched the sword from its
  gory resting place, spinning it
  round and stabbing down
  with it so that it skewered
  Sarck from collar to hip just
  as the last words of the ritual
  left the ancient’s bloodied
  lips. A hideous, shrieking
  wind escaped from the robes
  of the dead Inquisitor,
  extinguishing the torches
  lined throughout the
  passages and knocking
  Mynarc from his feet before it
  was drawn into the fabric of
  the sword itself. The room
  was plunged into silence and
  near darkness, a faint
  glimmer from the smoking
  sword in Mynarc’s hand the
  only source of light. Mynarc
  recoiled from it as if it were a
  serpent before realising the
  sword was all that lay
  between him and
  incarceration within a pitch-
  black maze full of flesh-eating
  degenerates. 
  The journey through the
  labyrinth cost Mynarc dearly.
  His decision to take the
  daemonsword, replete with
  the soul of his former master,
  no doubt saved his life on
  numerous occasions as he
  was forced to fight through
  pack after pack of frenzied
  troglodytes seeking to avenge
  the death of their dark god’s
  prophet. He found that the
  sword gave him strength,
  both physically and
  psychically, and closed his
  ears to the honeyed words
  and dark temptations
  promised by the soul
  within the sword. At
  first, the silent
  denizens of the warren
  were easily repulsed
  by his superior
  strength and ability,
  and they proved
  extremely susceptible
  to his burgeoning
  psychic powers. 
  But over a week of
  cramped, hellish
  confusion and
  starvation took its toll,
  and Mynarc began to
  listen to the tainted
  whisperings of his
  
  WS
  BS
  S
  T
  I
  Wp
  Sg
  Nv
  Ld
  Mynarc
  89
  74
  73
  65
  84
  96
  80
  81
  89
  Mynarc the Unforgiven
  Mynarc is right-handed
  Equipment: The daemonsword Sarck (see below), power armour on all locations except
  head, Master-crafted bolt pistol (may re-roll one failed to hit roll per turn), two bolt pistol
  reloads. 
  Special Abilities: Feint, Force of Will, Leader, Fearsome, Cannibal Hunger (see below).
  Psychic Powers: Warp Walk, Curse of Charybdis, Warp Strength.
  The Daemonsword Sarck:
  This daemonsword, possessed not by a true daemon but by the soul of Mynarc’s corrupted
  mentor, influences and guides Mynarc down the dark path he has chosen. It counts as a
  Falchion and possesses the Bound, Brain Leech and Vampyre powers. Sarck has a Willpower
  of 94; if ever Mynarc falls below this Willpower total himself, Sarck will count as having the
  Deathlust power for the rest of the battle. 
  Cannibal Hunger:
  Whether the result of his peculiar corruption or purely habit, Mynarc has taken to eating
  parts of those he kills. He often keeps trophies such as the heads, eyes or strips of flesh that
  he has torn from his foes. If he takes someone out of action in close combat he will spend all
  remaining actions that turn feasting on the body of his foe. Treat these actions as unarmed
  attacks.  
  murdered master. He started
  to look forward to the
  skirmishes with the
  troglodytes, exhilarated by
  the feeling of power he
  gained from the kill.
  Eventually he gave in to the
  gnawing hunger within him
  and the cajoling of his master
  trapped within the sword,
  and feasted on the cold,
  clammy flesh of those that
  stood in his way. 
  By the time Mynarc reached
  the surface, he had begun a
  transformation of his own.
  The gore-drenched creature
  that crawled and scrambled
  out of the warrens of Cneiras,
  clutching the daemonsword
  to his breast as if it were his
  own child, was no longer the
  Mynarc that entered them.
  Over the centuries, Mynarc
  has come to embrace Chaos
  in all its glory, and is now far
  more powerful than his
  master ever was. His face has
  twisted and distorted into a
  sneering, horned mask, and
  he wears a baroque suit of
  daemon-infested power
  armour stained with the
  blood of his countless
  victims. Mynarc has kept his
  propensity for eating the
  flesh of those he kills,
  sporting strips of their
  desiccated flesh with the
  pride a Space Marine would
  display a purity seal. He still
  carries the daemonsword
  Sarck, with which he has
  developed a symbiotic
  relationship; the
  daemonsword guides
  Mynarc’s actions and acts as a
  conduit to the Warp, whilst
  the slaughter Mynarc
  perpetuates with casual
  abandon fulfils the evil lusts
  of his mentor. His psychic
  powers have blossomed, and
  he is able to bend reality on a
  whim with a gesture and a
  word, for he has become one
  of the favoured sons of
  Chaos. In the last few years
  alone, Mynarc has caused the
  massacre and wholesale
  sacrifice of no less than three
  entire planetary populations
  in the Freisen Cusp, and is
  thought to be carving a trail
  toward Terra itself. He is
  closely pursued by the Ordo
  Malleus, who will go to any
  lengths to terminate this
  monstrosity before he causes
  further devastation. 
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Warhammer/40k/Inquisitor Skirmish/SG_site_files/Mynarc.pdf