Wracks

The Wracks are the surgical handiwork of the Haemonculi, Drukhari cut and rebuilt into living instruments of torment who serve their creators as attendants, bodyguards and butchers. The most unsettling truth about them is that their monstrous condition was, in almost every case, sought out and freely embraced. After centuries adrift in the jaded cruelty of Commorragh, some Drukhari grow so numb to sensation that they seek out a Haemonculus and beg to be unmade and remade into something keener and more terrible than the flesh they were born to.

Stripped of finery and clad in little more than rough wrappings and a featureless mask that erases whatever self they once possessed, the Wracks endure any degradation their masters devise. Pain no longer troubles them, and the toxins that would fell a lesser warrior in an instant merely wash through veins long since rebuilt to savour poison. They wade into the enemy wielding the cruel implements of the flesh-crafter's trade, hooked blades and injectors and surgical claws, dismantling their foes with the same clinical patience to which they were themselves once subjected.

For all their debasement, the Wracks are creatures of ambition. Each labours in the hope that its devotion will one day be rewarded with elevation, for the ranks of the dreaded Haemonculi are filled from among their number. A Wrack who distinguishes itself may rise to the station of Acothyst, a foreman of horrors granted rarer and deadlier tools such as the hexrifle or the stinger pistol, and in time toward mastery of the coven's arts itself.