In the blasted wastes where faith and fire mingle, a new Procession rises from the mud. They call themselves the Choir of Saint Cecilia, pilgrims bound not by hope of peace but by the promise of an endless hymn.
Their prophet, the Pneumatarch, returned from death itself, eyeless yet thundering with a voice that rolls across the trenches like cannon fire. At his side lumbers the Hound, a giant Communicant whose hammer and shield crush all in his path. The Bastion crawls behind, a shrine of iron and bone dragged through the mire, faith anchored in steel. Driving the faithful onward is Cantor, the Castigator, with his punt gun. Its thunderous blast singing the hymn of slaughter.
To their enemies they are Cecilia’s Dead Choir, a nightmare chorus echoing through the smoke, each death another verse in a hymn that will not end.
