"The hands of the dead do not tremble in the frigid midnight air. Fatigue does not weigh on their form. Their stiffened stance, unwavering under callous winds. Where the vision of the living fades into obscurity, the darkvision of the cursed, illuminates. To a sharpshooter, patience is a virtue and in the ranks of the assassins of death, eternity is the ordinary. What hope might the living have in the face of cold killing perfection? And, what hope could withstand the sight of the unrelenting exanimate? In life, they were the finest of their kin. In death, stripped of the imperfections of mortal men, they serve fearless, feral. Lusting to maim and to slaughter. They ruthlessly serve as the Marksmen of Cursed Death."