RENEGADES OF EXCESS SHARPSHOOTERS

There is a particular kind of pleasure that lives in stillness. The warband's rank and file understand excess as motion - consumption, collision, sensation layered until the body forgets it had limits. The Sharpshooters understand something older and more intimate than that. They understand waiting. The slow build. The breath held so long it becomes its own altered state. The crosshair resting on a target that doesn't yet know it's already decided. That unbearable, perfect tension between desire and release - held, held, held - and then gone. They chose the long rifle for the same reason they chose everything else the cult offered them. Not because it was efficient. Because it felt like something. The corruption shows differently on those who spend their days in silence. Where the rest of the warband wears their excess loudly - in scars, in excess flesh, in mutations that announce themselves from across a battlefield - the Sharpshooters carry theirs in the body's architecture. Horns