Dutch Kaldor

In a galaxy… where the deadliest jungles whisper the names of the damned… one man hunts the hunters.

His name… is Dutch Kaldor.



Born beneath the choking canopies of Catachan, Dutch didn’t learn to survive, he learned to kill anything that tried to stop him. By the age of sixteen, he’d wrestled a Spineback Basilisk to the ground with nothing but a rust-patched machete and a refusal for being eaten. By eighteen, he was already a sergeant in the Catachan Jungle Fighters, leading squads into the green hell where sunlight never touches the ground below the canopies.

But everything changed during the invasion of the Ultima Segmentum by Hive Fleet Kraken. In a single nightmarish sweep, the skies cracked open with the chittering shrieks of the Tyranids. His squad, Kappa-Nine, held the line for six agonizing months without support as everything around them was overrun. When dawn broke, there was no line left to hold. There were no men left to save. Only Dutch… drenched in ichor, wielding a knife the size of a small chainsword, screaming defiance into the endless swarm. They didn't count on him coming back, yet when Imperial relief finally arrived they found slaughtered nests and a man sitting atop the carcass of a hive tyrant sharpening his blade.

Now… he carries a grudge carved deeper than the scars on his arms. He hunts Tyranids the way lesser men hunt game, precisely, methodically, mercilessly. With his oversized combat knife, a modified heavy las-carbine, and a cigar that never seems to go out, Dutch moves from warzone to warzone like a storm looking for a place to break.

Some call him a hero. Some call him a madman. But the Tyranids… acknowledge him as

The Predator.



Dutch Kaldor didn’t simply survive the jungle, he embodied the cruelty of nature and the vicious urge to survive. The first thing people notice about him is the size, fitting the catachan moniker of baby ogryns. A wall of sinew and scar tissue carved by a lifetime of hostile terrain. Muscles like knotted cable, a torso broad enough to use as cover, and hands that look like they were built specifically to break things that don’t want to be broken. But strength alone doesn’t explain Dutch, not really. The jungle doesn’t spare the strongest. It spares the ones who refuse to die.

And Dutch Kaldor… refuses.



Dutch moves through the undergrowth with the precision of a veteran hunter. He’s torn open the thorax of a Ravener with his bare hands. He’s held down a thrashing lictor long enough to jam a belt knife into its skull, after it severed the tendons in his left arm. He once endured five days with a broken femur, splinting it with a jungle root and dragging himself across ten kilometers of razor-vine terrain to ambush the Tyranid warrior brood hunting him. He killed three in under twelve seconds.

He refuses to die until the score is settled.



He’s been poisoned by jungle spores that liquefy organs in other men within hours. He’s been stung by a Catachan Shadow Wasp and continued fighting while foaming blood. He’s had his ribs crushed by a Carnifex charge and still managed to crawl under its bulk to drive a grenade into the seam of its carapace. Medicae personnel report his vitals during battlefield extraction are barely human most of the time, heart rate steady, breathing slow, pain response nearly absent. They attribute it to shock, adrenaline, conditioning or mutation.

Dutch thrives on scarcity. Where other soldiers require supply lines and support, he becomes the supply line. Give him a knife, a length of cord, and half a canteen of water, and he’ll build a trap field capable of crippling a Tyranid advance. He’s fashioned weapons out of: sharpened femur bones from dead Tyranids lashweed vines cured over a fire for makeshift garrotes. acid sacs repurposed into explosive charges. mantid-husk shells shaped into shrapnel for improvised claymores. He once collapsed a Mycetic Spore by rigging a dead Lictor’s talon with a tripwire made of braided hair of an eldar banshee.

The Tyranids sense him long before he attacks not through sight or scent, but through absence. To the swarm, he is a void, a silent dead-zone where the Hive Mind cannot reach. When Dutch enters combat: Hormagaunts lose coordination, tripping and snarling like confused animals. Warriors struggle to receive synapse signals, their movements disjointed and clumsy. Lictors hesitate, disoriented and uncertain, like predators tasting fear for the first time. On more than one occasion, Dutch has walked straight into a brood without firing a shot. The swarm reeled in confusion, instinctive behavior warring with the sudden psychic blackout around him. While they faltered, Dutch advanced, calm and methodical, cutting them down one by one. The terror of a psychic blank.

They don't see him because he has no soul, a cold-blooded killer out for vengeance.



Dutch rarely speaks of tactics. When he does, it’s in blunt, hard-earned truisms: " If it bleeds, we can kill it " He doesn’t lead squads anymore, not since Kappa-Nine fell. Now he moves alone for the most part, operating behind enemy lines, sabotage, recon, assassination far behind enemy lines but nothing brings him as much as satisfaction as taking out the biggest, baddest tyranids, nothing excites him like the thrill of the hunt. He doesn’t fight because he’s ordered to. He fights because the Emperor chooses him to go where others won’t return. He fights because something was taken from him. A debt owed to his brothers and sisters in war. A debt to be paid in Tyranid blood.



Dutch Kaldor is... The Catachan Predator