Editing Negators (section)

===The King in Red===
In self-imposed exile from the Imperium's remnants, Aodhán's strength has only grown. Though he managed to reject Daemon Princehood, the Warp left its barbs in him, and he has slowly become something not-quite-mortal. His skin has become like burnished bronze, his eyes blazing and his rage manifesting around him as a blistering heat. He no longer wears his armour, having little need, and leaves footsteps of flame in his wake.

Aodhán was always an adventurer before a leader, and, without the harness of the Imperium holding him down, this can be quite clearly seen in the erratic workings of the modern Negators. He makes little attempt to keep his Legion loyal - they stay with him as, though turned craven and cruel, they feel themselves bonded as brothers - and routinely vanishes from the estate carved out in Commorragh, often without warning. Once every hundred or so years, he will feast for fifty days, as though building his strength, before embarking upon one such endeavor. He inevitably returns battered, beaten, and awash with the smell of rot, but wearing a winning smile, as though each time he comes a step closer to achieving some great feat.

Aodhán rarely leads his Legion to war, letting them persecute their own raids upon realspace. When not adventuring or embarking upon a rare campaign with the full muster of his Legion, he amuses himself with the delights of the Dark City. His spirits, however, are turbulent, and though he is at many times possessed of a rapacious love for life and its joys, he often takes to brooding, either out of boredom or something darker.

Deep within, Aodhán feels a spark of guilt for the current shape of the galaxy and his hand in it, and foresees a vision of a universe picked clean of life, where there are no great heroes or valiant deeds to do, and no bards to tell his tale or sing his songs, only the laughter of craven gods and the wailing of their tortured supplicants. He drowns these fears in pleasures of the flesh, fighting and feasting and savouring hundreds of concubines, but they remain always, a nagging shard of encroaching doom at the back of his mind.