There once was a man of little social substance named Darran Parthe. Tall and handsome, possessed of dark brown hair and blue-green eyes and light skin tone, he used to be quite a popular individual during his youth, but as time passed, he found himself drawn into his work as a surgeon more and more. Though he seemed externally to remain as charming as ever, his social life vanished, his internal world shrank and corroded, until it seemed the man piloting the body was rendered all but heartless, connecting with others but barely for the facade he put on, his imagination filled only with how to better his work, to ensure he and the machines he worked with and upgraded never failed to save a life.

And yea, he might have continued on in this work for centuries, for his clientele was always the rich of the world, rich enough that he could afford the gene treatments to keep himself young; but with wealth often comes boredom, and one day, a client of his asked of Darran a most unusual treatment. "A hole implanted into my belly," they asked, "that one might use as they'd use the female genitalia." And whilst very odd, Darran had no reason to deny the client what they asked, not when they were offering twice as much money as for any normal surgery, and despite the uniqueness of the operation, it was performed exactly according to plan.

The client promised to bring in more patients for future surgeries of this ilk, and keeping their word, new members of the upper class soon began to roll in, requesting an odd implant here, and a cosmetic patchup there, and a queer device attached just so, in addition to the doctor's more usual surgeries. He acquired more and better surgical devices, using his wealth to get into the good graces of his clients, and his own skill to eventually implant his tools into his very body, for though incredibly precise, mere machinery could never match the skill of a human mind unless it was controlled by a human mind.

And finally, certain members of his clientele began to open their hearts to him, revealing their allegiances to a force called Chaos. They did not explain directly what it was, but implied that mere association with its members had damned Darran already, barring him from the God-Emperor's light, though in return opening him to the attentions of beings far greater. The doctor remained unfased, for even religiousness had faded in him, be it of the Emperor or of any supposed God of Chaos; what mattered to him now was his work, and ensuring his work was never inaccurate, not even by a fraction of a millimeter. Such inaccuracies had become ever more unacceptable to him. To err was to fail, and so he vowed he would never err again, not if it meant his surgeries were unsuccessful.

The gaze of Slaanesh had turned upon him. And to those who worshipped her and experienced Darran's work, it might appear that she was very curious to see how he progressed.