Crawling out from the cold, dank corners of the Imperial underworld come the Genestealer Cults. Secretive, stealthy, and utterly malignant, they are the cankers growing unseen in the hidden spaces of Humanity’s realm.
Some cultists are truly monstrous, skulking along dank tunnels with robes or hessian sacks covering their hybrid anatomies. Others are merely pallid and bald, able to pass for loyal citizens whilst their wyrm-form tattoos remain hidden.
These latter-generation brethren mingle amongst the herd like wolves in sheep’s clothing, working so hard amongst the crumbling machineries of Mankind’s industry that none spare them a second glance – but under their work fatigues and rough miner’s apparel, they all bear the mark of the alien.
Once their brotherhood becomes strong enough, and all is in place for their great uprising, the Genestealer Cult will make its play. The militant throng boils by the thousand from sewers, tunnels and basements, seeping from the spires high above like insects pouring from a hidden nest.
On this darkly glorious day of war, the cult’s warriors are already ten steps ahead of the enemy. Saboteurs have shattered the supply lines of those who would oppose them, hidden agents have assassinated key commanders, and routes of escape have been cut off by demolition crews and blast teams.
Every eventuality the cult’s masters could foresee is accounted for, every advantage stacked in their favour. The enemy find their ammunition crates empty, their fuel reserves dry, their transport craft hijacked and their supporting fleet holed and listing in orbit. When the cult attacks, the enemy is already surrounded, stranded and half-beaten, ripe for a slaughter long planned.