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There is no rim world remote enough to exceed their reach, no sovereignty that supercedes that of their masters, no morality that shrouds their righteous resolve.
There is some vicious arrogance in a man that won't let him admit what he knows in his heart... and not even a thousand years could dull her enjoyment at cutting such men down
Anchored forever to an oath sworn in a moment of desperation, these are no mere undead
To the freshly annointed Sanguine Lords there was no greater sport, stripping their armour as an invitation for the foolhardy, and relishing in the ocean that now divides them
The old Sanguine Lords could pull blood from men like pettles from a flower, floating across battlefields like gods, or bored children...
The true strength of the sanguine blade is the fear it induces as it is pulled whole from a man's veins
It's armour is cobbled together from those who fall, but it'll trade you what it doesn't wear. Keep your gold though, it has no use for it down here...