Caelar Vane

In a world where the sun is a myth and the air is a poison, Hive Olegarius stands as a monument to man's greed. From the gilded spires of the aristocracy to the rust-choked industrial sumps, the planet Arpat Primaris has been sold piece by piece to the highest bidder. The law is no longer a shield; it is a transaction. But the corrupt didn't count on Caelar Vane. Once a celebrated Vigilant of the Adeptus Arbites, Vane was the man who kept the peace in a city that didn't want it. When he uncovered the rot at the heart of the precinct a conspiracy linking the Hive Lords to xenos-tech smugglers the system tried to delete him. They left him for dead in the acid rain of the under-levels, stripped of his rank and his squad.

But you can’t kill the Law. You can only make it angry.



Now, Vane is a shadow in the rain. Standing atop the ferro-crete barriers of the mid-hive, he looks out over a city that thinks it's safe. He wears no badge, only his custom-black armor and the helmet that has become a legend of the underworld. Behind the visor, an ominous red glow cuts through the downpour, a digital eye that sees through the lies of every guild-lord and gang-boss. In his hands, he carries his signature red combat shotgun, a heavy-caliber judge of character that speaks a language everyone understands. He doesn't need a warrant to kick in the doors. He doesn't need a jury to tell him who is guilty. And he's got a boomstick that can blow a hole in the side of a leman russ.



Caelar Vane is the Gavel that Brings Down The Emperor's Law.

"The crime is their foul existence"



"The Sentence is Death"



Caelar Vane is The Arbitrator



The heavy, brass-reinforced doors of The Gilded Oubliette hissed open. Caelar Vane stepped through them, a silhouette of black armor carved out of the city's toxic smog. He didn't rush. He didn't shout. He carried the Law in the heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots and the jagged, permanent scowl visible beneath the edge of his helm. His black helmet sat like a tombstone upon his massive shoulders. Behind the visor, an ominous red glow scanned the room, cutting through the haze of expensive incense and terrified silence. The music died. The laughter of the corrupt nobles curdled. They saw the height of him an imposing mountain of a man who looked like he had crawled out of a nightmare to deliver a final notice. Vane stood at the center of the marble floor, his arms at his sides, his presence radiating a cold, mechanical finality. "Vane," a Guild Liaison stammered from a velvet booth, clutching a glass of amasec with trembling fingers. "You... you have no authority here. You're a dead man. You have nothing." Vane remained motionless. The red light of his visor bathed the Liaison in a bloody hue. He didn't offer a speech. He didn't explain his crusade. He simply stared, the silence in the room stretching until it felt like it would snap before the monotony was broken by the resonant chuk-chunk of shotgun.



Case Closed. No Appeals.