The dark alleys of the underhives were never a safe place, but the worsening food situation and creeping shadow of the Arch-Enemy seemed to make every shadow just a little bit darker. As you wandered, hungry and exhausted after a day’s grinding, you heard the darkness of a corner call out.

“The Imperium is losing, you know.”

A smooth voice, almost soothingly blunt in contrast to the murky, bureaucratic hems and haws of your floor manager. A figure emerged. A woman, face hidden by a skull-like mask, a messy head of hair done up in a half-arsed ponytail. She sported a ragged tank-top, an autopistol on the spiked belt at her waist, and a flail which jangled and clanked against her knee-padded black utility trousers.