Peregrinator
 Zealot Build - Warhammer 40k: Darktide 

"The Iron Kelp of Incron"

Born in the dripping, pitch-black underbelly of Incron's Port Malice, this man was never destined for the priesthood; he was simply an exceptionally sharp, resilient urchin. As a young tide-forager, he survived by plunging into freezing, chemical-choked waters to wrench scrap from rusted hulls. In a world where the weak drowned or were eaten by native sea-beasts, he forged an absolute, cutthroat self-reliance. He mastered the brutal seamanship and complex rigging required to navigate the shifting, lawless under-piers, earning him the nickname Iron Kelp from the local dockworkers for being impossibly tough and impossible to drown.

Though his practical grit kept him alive, a near-fatal plunge into a churning engine intake changed everything, leaving him with a mind fractured by a roaring holy vision he attributes to the God-Emperor. Yet even after this shattering accident, he maintained his iron grip on his smuggling networks, utilizing his newfound fanatical drive to expand his underworld influence until his erratic preaching eventually led to his arrest for Misplaced Faith after he violently corrected a high-ranking Ministorum cleric on holy doctrine, landing him in chains aboard the Tancred Bastion.

Now deployed to Tertium as a resourceful, jack-of-all-trades penal reject, his uncanny ability to survive long, isolated scouting treks across the hive's underbelly or the barren wastes outside Tertium has earned him a new moniker among Grendyl’s warband: "Peregrinator"—The Wanderer. Within the warband, he is viewed with a mix of cautious respect and deep suspicion. Handlers treat him like a dangerous, unhinged tool; too valuable to execute, but too volatile to fully trust. However, beneath his screaming holy fury lies the calculating mind of a survivor. When the booming voice in his head falls silent, he can instantly suppress his fanaticism, lowering his head to blend seamlessly into the faceless masses of Tertium's lower hives to perform quiet espionage and recon tasks right under the enemy's nose. Bellowing prayers in a thick, rolling accent when the steel meets the bone, he treats Nurgle’s rot as just another foul swamp to be mapped, scavenged, and purged for the Golden Throne.

Quote: 

"Ye call it a 'horde o' blasphemous heretics,' Pilgrim! Back home in Port Malice, we just called that 'Tuesday on the lower docks!' Now hold me flamer while I fix this blasted data-interrogator!"