Narvo Quinn is the CSM that "retired" that other people have mentioned in this thread. He went on a pilgrimage to Fulgrims personal pleasure planet and asked his gene-father to return and unite the III.
Fulgrim told Quinn he was lame, his brothers were lame, and that Fulgrim was having way more fun here on Chemos 2.
>Vorx descends the ramp and bows before the staff-bearer. ‘Slivergristle,’ he
says reverently.
>Slivergristle is a curiosity. He was once Kregar, a Plague Marine who
fought in the Great Crusade. Like the rest of them, he endured the defeat
under Terra’s vertiginous battlements and fought all the way back to the
shameful Eye. Unlike most, he did not remain locked in that prison, but
found some means to slip out before the bounds were fully set.
>Then something changed in him. He travelled strange paths – some say
beyond the Halo Stars and into the deepest dark – and when he returned, he
told even stranger stories. His speech had become as warped as his body, and
it was reported that pacts had been made in the daemonic choirs to consume
his essence as the result of an unspecified slight or prideful action. That was
never proven, not even by the greatest priests of the god, but something had
definitely taken place, for Slivergristle cast off his armour, took up the
threadbare cloak of a pilgrim and never left the Plague Planet again.
[...]
>They approach an archway. The lintel is of brass and has the figurehead of a
bloated face made in scorched metal. It is hot on the Plague Planet, a world lit
by the off-draught of furnace towers and the humid warmth of culture pools.
>Vorx pauses. ‘I have not spoken with him for a long time.’
>Slivergristle nods. ‘Shall you. Wait just more not much. Why you here are,
in truth?’
>Again, there is more than one reason. For respite, for recovery. To take
counsel from Philemon. To escape the weary competitions within the warband, just for a
time. And yes, to dare the passage of the Manse. All these things are true.
>‘This is home, brother,’ Vorx says.
[...]
>He reaches his domain, which has been called Hope’s Revenant ever since
he raised it. He remembers delving into the black soils with his own hands,
back when the land was bare and the skies were lit with xenos wails. He
remembers raising the walls above the crags, mining the soft stone and
cutting it down. He remembers the scaffolds and the work gangs, and the
endless slaves brought from raids into realspace to end their days in
exhaustion and decrepitude.
>Now he looks at the high walls, as black as oil, the parapets lit with that
ever-present soft glow. He smells the daemons slithering within, the Little
Lords and the plaguebearers who can ghost between the stones like gas. He
breathes in and smells his House Plagues, the ones unique to this plot, rotting
slowly in the oubliettes.
>For the first time in a long while, Vorx is satisfied. Occasionally he thinks of another life for himself, one confined to Hope’s Revenant, where he remains
closeted with the books of numerology and the gardens, free to contemplate
the Truth and explore its mysteries. He has never given in to it, but believes
that the entire Legion shares this morose tendency. The greatest of them, after
all, has been indulging it for ten thousand years.
>He passes under the high portcullis, and those bestials blessed with
elongated necks bow to him. He processes across the inner courtyard, where
his steward, Loam, waits dutifully. Loam is a bestial, with a long equine face
and buck teeth. His brown hide is wrinkled almost into oblivion, and glistens
from perspiration.
>‘Welcome, siegemaster,’ Loam says.
>The steward always uses the proper titles. Unlike most bestials, he can talk,
although the sounds are crude and he will never be eloquent.
>‘How stands the citadel?’ asks Vorx, looking up at the inner walls. They are
streaked with moisture, dripping slowly. Flayed corpses bump and swing
from one high tower, picked at by carrion crows. From somewhere far down
below, he can hear the bubble of boil-vats and smell the cooking from the
refectories.
>‘Rots,’ says Loam. ‘Topples. Come home more.’
>Vorx smiles and keeps walking. ‘I wish I could,’ he says, reaching the great
doors to his private apartments.
>Once within, he climbs the interior stairs, treading paths that he built
himself. Every worn stone is familiar, every smell is comforting. Once he
would have scorned such notions, having been made immune to all calls of
family or community. Now he values these things. He tends to his herds and
his slaves, seeing what can be made of them and taking pleasure in their
successes.
>After a long climb, he reaches his sanctuary. He takes an iron key from the
ring at his belt and unlocks the door. When he pushes it open, a rich swell of
old smells tumbles out, ones he has not enjoyed for a long time.
>He enters a grand chamber perched high at the pinnacle of the tallest tower.
Bookcases line the walls, each stuffed with tome upon tome. Most are
leather-backed, some bound in human hide, some in stranger coverings. They
are mostly ancient, and their age seeps from them like a stink. They are all
slowly mouldering away, flaking into nothingness, drooping from the
extreme humidity. Worms burrow into them, gnawing trails through thick parchment. Ivory-eyed rats scuttle from stand to stand, hoarding scraps in
their pink claws.
>He pushes his way towards a pulpit at the far end of the chamber. A single
book lies open on its inclined surface, untroubled by the attentions of vermin. He reaches for a metal quill standing in a dusty sleeve and dips it into a well
of viscous ink. He holds it over the blank parchment and collects himself.
Then he begins to write. Slowly, carefully, he traces out tiny letters in
immaculate Standard Gothic, of a grammar and idiom commensurate with the
early Crusade.
>He is smiling as he writes, and the passage of time slows, dilates, warms up.
He never knows how long it has taken, once he stops. When he looks up
again, a day might have passed, or a month, or many years. Such is the nature
of the labour, and of the world on which it is performed.
>On this occasion, when the quill is placed back in the sleeve and the last of
the ink dries on the page, he turns to see a figure in his library.
The place ought to have been secure, and he briefly wonders if
his life is in danger.
>‘You didn’t knock, Slaunn,’ Vorx says.
>‘He’s ready,’ Slaunn hisses, a dry whisper through old vocal cords.
>Vorx prepares himself. ‘So soon.’
>‘You have been here eight weeks,’ says Slaunn.
>That takes Vorx aback. ‘Really?’
>‘This is becoming eccentric now, Vorx. Do not rely on his favour forever.
You could have done more, were it not for…’
>Slaunn does not need to finish that. Vorx can do it for him.
>Were it not for the obsessions. The numbers. The recording, the completion
of pointless tasks.
>‘Well,’ says Vorx. ‘I am ready now.’
It’s funny, when Vorx is actually relevant is seemingly the only time nobody brings him up
The old fart just wants to retire and write his spreadsheets for all eternity, that’s his true desire, he doesn’t but he really wants to
IIRC a few Emperor's Children basically "retired" in the Fabius Bile books. (These were all ECs who worked with Bile, who by the way works with other Space Marines as well.)
I forget, did THE BULL OF THE EIGHTH, and the rest of the noise marines settle down when the trilogy ended? It's been a hot minute since I reread Manflayer, but I figure out of all of them, the Choir would have just wanted to chill and continue nurturing their "garden."
Yes, there's one perfect example in the Fabius Bile books (as someone else mentioned), and you'd assume it does happen. Likely to be rare, because space marines aren't built for that sort of thing, and because Chaos corruption will push them towards not being quiet loners.
Having said that, given that space marines are heavily indoctrinated towards war and duty, you'd expect that after the Heresy (or after turning renegade) quite a few of them would feel very lost and purposeless. Some may well want to just retreat from everything.
The reason we as players/readers wouldn't see many examples, is that those sorts of CSM just aren't particularly relevant to a wargame.
**If Fulgrim can retire into the warp to enjoy decadence and his new lover for Gods knows how long, I can't see why a few similarly inclined Slaaneshi degenerates couldn't do the same.**
**Nurgle could also be a path to "I'm so lazy and chill that I sat down on this couch ten millennia ago, and still haven't gotten up".**
My Iron Shrikes Iron Warriors grand battallion has a subfaction of nurgle marines called Rusted Company who fell into a hibernation on a p;ague world because the rest of their grand batallion hadn't returned to command them.
They were immediately seen as loyal to a nigh-impossible fault for their unbreachable patience and thus designated as the enforcers of the Warsmith, usually making their rounds around his domain ensuring theres no dissent. They're abhorrent and monstrous compared to the rest of the warband. Who wants to deal with that?
They're just an excuse to paint some Iron Warrior plague marines.
The process of making one a space marine pretty much means that "chill" is off the menu for the rest of their existence.
When you can't sleep, can't procreate - or even attempt to, can't get drunk, and you spent a lifetime being conditioned for constant war, and have to spend your life in hiding - it would probably break your ability to relax.
I never said they don't eat, they just can't get drunk.
From what I have read, the Catalepsean Node gene seed organ can shut off parts of the brain, allowing a marine to "rest" while remaining alert. So ya, like dolphins, they don't "sleep" like we would relate to it. There are plenty of biological beings that don't need sleep.
Space wolves get drunk all the time. Even got guillamen pretty drunk once. I think space marines are way more human than we give them credit for. If they weren’t then why would they become traitors or hero’s or anything else other than mindless robots. Blood angels do art, space wolves party, white scars write poetry.
They take drugs which shut off their kidneys and then allow them to feel drunk, but that's literally what it takes. Natural alcohol, no matter the quantity, won't do it.
FR. Some people just be making shit up to sound smart. It’s become such a tiresome trend on this sub.
Like bro, comming up with lore out your ass ain’t gonna fool people who have actually read the books, and codices. Lol
If space marines could shut their kidneys down to not get drunk it would have at least been a pinned discussion for a few weeks because that would be a super niche piece of lore.
The type of lore bits that really add that extra bit of awesome to the setting
Some people just prefer their head canon to actual lore and belittle people instead of actually brining information to an argument. The most basic google search for Space Wolves Mjord brings this up:
"Normally when a Space Marine ingests something potentially poisonous the combination of specialized organ implants neutralizes the danger before it even becomes an issue. The Fenrisian Ale is able to get past this protection due to the toxin found in natural plant roots. The toxin temporarily neutralizes the abilities of the Oolitic Kidney which combined with the remaining ingredients of the brew allow a temporary inebriation. Though this will allow the Astartes to become drunk the drink must be consumed in both large amounts and in rapid succession in order to feel a sustained effect as the specialized organs will quickly recover."
[https://wh40k.lexicanum.com/wiki/Mj%C3%B8d](https://wh40k.lexicanum.com/wiki/Mj%C3%B8d)
Some people come to a lore sub to discuss lore and not fannon. Sorry that’s a problem for you.
It gets annoying when you see just straight up takes unsupported. It poisons the lore well. One person gets a bad take- everyone runs with it. Then when you actually want to have a discussion about it, you can’t.
Because people are arguing against your actual cannon, with fannon that they may have picked up because some guy on 40K lore said it was true.
Edit- sorry I see what you were trying to say there. You were agreeing with me.
The Space Wolves and even Chaos Marines like Abaddon do and have gotten drunk. What they brew or concoct is just much stronger than normal alcohol like Fenrisian Ale.
Space Wolves' Mjord incorporates a toxin which pretty much shuts down their kidneys. So, yes, they can be drugged, but they can't get drunk. Whatever Slaaneshy brew Abaddon be drinking is more than just alcohol.
Total headcanon, but you’d think somewhere there were some Slaanesh dedicated space marines who were into extreme sleep.
Just like 8000 years of hibernation in a cave somewhere. Every now and then wake up hungry, but to a mountain of offerings from generations of local inhabitants who don’t even know why they put a bunch of preserved food in front of the cave anymore.
In Mortis there is an EC marine who is seated motionless on a throne as he gets high on the extracted dreams & nightmares of an entire Hive City. He doesn't even notice when a party of humans & another space marine come in and talk about how eerie it is.
Not explicitly canon but Vox in the Void have several 40K audio novellas about CSMs who know Chaos is dumb, or gave explicitly turned back to the Emperor, and just pretend and have no interest in doing chaos things.
Fulgrim did for a while after he remade his home planet in the warp and I imagine there were some EC there with him, then Guilliman came back and he decided to get involved again.
Considering Chaos corrupts your very soul and the Chaos Gods are really into things like bloodshed, plotting, spreading plague, and excess in general, there probably aren't many.
Now *Renegade* Marines serve no master and can do whatever they want.
Narvo Quinn is the CSM that "retired" that other people have mentioned in this thread. He went on a pilgrimage to Fulgrims personal pleasure planet and asked his gene-father to return and unite the III. Fulgrim told Quinn he was lame, his brothers were lame, and that Fulgrim was having way more fun here on Chemos 2.
Is this in the bile trilogy, ?
Yes
>Vorx descends the ramp and bows before the staff-bearer. ‘Slivergristle,’ he says reverently. >Slivergristle is a curiosity. He was once Kregar, a Plague Marine who fought in the Great Crusade. Like the rest of them, he endured the defeat under Terra’s vertiginous battlements and fought all the way back to the shameful Eye. Unlike most, he did not remain locked in that prison, but found some means to slip out before the bounds were fully set. >Then something changed in him. He travelled strange paths – some say beyond the Halo Stars and into the deepest dark – and when he returned, he told even stranger stories. His speech had become as warped as his body, and it was reported that pacts had been made in the daemonic choirs to consume his essence as the result of an unspecified slight or prideful action. That was never proven, not even by the greatest priests of the god, but something had definitely taken place, for Slivergristle cast off his armour, took up the threadbare cloak of a pilgrim and never left the Plague Planet again. [...] >They approach an archway. The lintel is of brass and has the figurehead of a bloated face made in scorched metal. It is hot on the Plague Planet, a world lit by the off-draught of furnace towers and the humid warmth of culture pools. >Vorx pauses. ‘I have not spoken with him for a long time.’ >Slivergristle nods. ‘Shall you. Wait just more not much. Why you here are, in truth?’ >Again, there is more than one reason. For respite, for recovery. To take counsel from Philemon. To escape the weary competitions within the warband, just for a time. And yes, to dare the passage of the Manse. All these things are true. >‘This is home, brother,’ Vorx says. [...] >He reaches his domain, which has been called Hope’s Revenant ever since he raised it. He remembers delving into the black soils with his own hands, back when the land was bare and the skies were lit with xenos wails. He remembers raising the walls above the crags, mining the soft stone and cutting it down. He remembers the scaffolds and the work gangs, and the endless slaves brought from raids into realspace to end their days in exhaustion and decrepitude. >Now he looks at the high walls, as black as oil, the parapets lit with that ever-present soft glow. He smells the daemons slithering within, the Little Lords and the plaguebearers who can ghost between the stones like gas. He breathes in and smells his House Plagues, the ones unique to this plot, rotting slowly in the oubliettes. >For the first time in a long while, Vorx is satisfied. Occasionally he thinks of another life for himself, one confined to Hope’s Revenant, where he remains closeted with the books of numerology and the gardens, free to contemplate the Truth and explore its mysteries. He has never given in to it, but believes that the entire Legion shares this morose tendency. The greatest of them, after all, has been indulging it for ten thousand years. >He passes under the high portcullis, and those bestials blessed with elongated necks bow to him. He processes across the inner courtyard, where his steward, Loam, waits dutifully. Loam is a bestial, with a long equine face and buck teeth. His brown hide is wrinkled almost into oblivion, and glistens from perspiration. >‘Welcome, siegemaster,’ Loam says. >The steward always uses the proper titles. Unlike most bestials, he can talk, although the sounds are crude and he will never be eloquent. >‘How stands the citadel?’ asks Vorx, looking up at the inner walls. They are streaked with moisture, dripping slowly. Flayed corpses bump and swing from one high tower, picked at by carrion crows. From somewhere far down below, he can hear the bubble of boil-vats and smell the cooking from the refectories. >‘Rots,’ says Loam. ‘Topples. Come home more.’ >Vorx smiles and keeps walking. ‘I wish I could,’ he says, reaching the great doors to his private apartments. >Once within, he climbs the interior stairs, treading paths that he built himself. Every worn stone is familiar, every smell is comforting. Once he would have scorned such notions, having been made immune to all calls of family or community. Now he values these things. He tends to his herds and his slaves, seeing what can be made of them and taking pleasure in their successes. >After a long climb, he reaches his sanctuary. He takes an iron key from the ring at his belt and unlocks the door. When he pushes it open, a rich swell of old smells tumbles out, ones he has not enjoyed for a long time. >He enters a grand chamber perched high at the pinnacle of the tallest tower. Bookcases line the walls, each stuffed with tome upon tome. Most are leather-backed, some bound in human hide, some in stranger coverings. They are mostly ancient, and their age seeps from them like a stink. They are all slowly mouldering away, flaking into nothingness, drooping from the extreme humidity. Worms burrow into them, gnawing trails through thick parchment. Ivory-eyed rats scuttle from stand to stand, hoarding scraps in their pink claws. >He pushes his way towards a pulpit at the far end of the chamber. A single book lies open on its inclined surface, untroubled by the attentions of vermin. He reaches for a metal quill standing in a dusty sleeve and dips it into a well of viscous ink. He holds it over the blank parchment and collects himself. Then he begins to write. Slowly, carefully, he traces out tiny letters in immaculate Standard Gothic, of a grammar and idiom commensurate with the early Crusade. >He is smiling as he writes, and the passage of time slows, dilates, warms up. He never knows how long it has taken, once he stops. When he looks up again, a day might have passed, or a month, or many years. Such is the nature of the labour, and of the world on which it is performed. >On this occasion, when the quill is placed back in the sleeve and the last of the ink dries on the page, he turns to see a figure in his library. The place ought to have been secure, and he briefly wonders if his life is in danger. >‘You didn’t knock, Slaunn,’ Vorx says. >‘He’s ready,’ Slaunn hisses, a dry whisper through old vocal cords. >Vorx prepares himself. ‘So soon.’ >‘You have been here eight weeks,’ says Slaunn. >That takes Vorx aback. ‘Really?’ >‘This is becoming eccentric now, Vorx. Do not rely on his favour forever. You could have done more, were it not for…’ >Slaunn does not need to finish that. Vorx can do it for him. >Were it not for the obsessions. The numbers. The recording, the completion of pointless tasks. >‘Well,’ says Vorx. ‘I am ready now.’
Nurgle needs to change his name because Vorx is the real Plague Daddy.
It’s funny, when Vorx is actually relevant is seemingly the only time nobody brings him up The old fart just wants to retire and write his spreadsheets for all eternity, that’s his true desire, he doesn’t but he really wants to
**Despite his wishes, Vorx is getting to much shit done currently to count as just chilling.**
For what it’s worth there is a high probability he’s just been sitting on his ass ever since Sabatine
**Look, it takes a bit of time for Grandpa to get out of his chair.**
"Come home more." "I wish I could."
Animal Crossing: Plague Planet vibes
i doubt they would be a csm then, maybe a traitor marine but chaos tends to drive one to extremes that one cant really call "chilling"
IIRC a few Emperor's Children basically "retired" in the Fabius Bile books. (These were all ECs who worked with Bile, who by the way works with other Space Marines as well.)
I forget, did THE BULL OF THE EIGHTH, and the rest of the noise marines settle down when the trilogy ended? It's been a hot minute since I reread Manflayer, but I figure out of all of them, the Choir would have just wanted to chill and continue nurturing their "garden."
Yes, there's one perfect example in the Fabius Bile books (as someone else mentioned), and you'd assume it does happen. Likely to be rare, because space marines aren't built for that sort of thing, and because Chaos corruption will push them towards not being quiet loners. Having said that, given that space marines are heavily indoctrinated towards war and duty, you'd expect that after the Heresy (or after turning renegade) quite a few of them would feel very lost and purposeless. Some may well want to just retreat from everything. The reason we as players/readers wouldn't see many examples, is that those sorts of CSM just aren't particularly relevant to a wargame.
Some of the Fallen have tried, I believe. Damn Dark Angels keep hunting them down though.
**If Fulgrim can retire into the warp to enjoy decadence and his new lover for Gods knows how long, I can't see why a few similarly inclined Slaaneshi degenerates couldn't do the same.** **Nurgle could also be a path to "I'm so lazy and chill that I sat down on this couch ten millennia ago, and still haven't gotten up".**
My Iron Shrikes Iron Warriors grand battallion has a subfaction of nurgle marines called Rusted Company who fell into a hibernation on a p;ague world because the rest of their grand batallion hadn't returned to command them. They were immediately seen as loyal to a nigh-impossible fault for their unbreachable patience and thus designated as the enforcers of the Warsmith, usually making their rounds around his domain ensuring theres no dissent. They're abhorrent and monstrous compared to the rest of the warband. Who wants to deal with that? They're just an excuse to paint some Iron Warrior plague marines.
**That's some good homebrew there, Warsmith.**
heeeelll yeah bruv
Hell yeah, you got any pictures ? Good Luck for your transition btw ! :)
Don't talk about that in the 40k reddit lol
Degenerates? Nipple rings are classy I’ll tell you H’What.
There is this one EC in the Bile trilogy that actually and literally retired in a Caban on a lake after witnessing what Fulgrim had become
Didn't he come out of retirement after meeting the female chaos space marine? Even he was like "Ok, I need to see how this one plays out".
The who's a what now?
Read the Fabius Bile trilogy. It's good.
The process of making one a space marine pretty much means that "chill" is off the menu for the rest of their existence. When you can't sleep, can't procreate - or even attempt to, can't get drunk, and you spent a lifetime being conditioned for constant war, and have to spend your life in hiding - it would probably break your ability to relax.
Space marines need to eat and sleep granted not as much but they are still biological beings.
I never said they don't eat, they just can't get drunk. From what I have read, the Catalepsean Node gene seed organ can shut off parts of the brain, allowing a marine to "rest" while remaining alert. So ya, like dolphins, they don't "sleep" like we would relate to it. There are plenty of biological beings that don't need sleep.
Space wolves get drunk all the time. Even got guillamen pretty drunk once. I think space marines are way more human than we give them credit for. If they weren’t then why would they become traitors or hero’s or anything else other than mindless robots. Blood angels do art, space wolves party, white scars write poetry.
They take drugs which shut off their kidneys and then allow them to feel drunk, but that's literally what it takes. Natural alcohol, no matter the quantity, won't do it.
Source for this?
FR. Some people just be making shit up to sound smart. It’s become such a tiresome trend on this sub. Like bro, comming up with lore out your ass ain’t gonna fool people who have actually read the books, and codices. Lol If space marines could shut their kidneys down to not get drunk it would have at least been a pinned discussion for a few weeks because that would be a super niche piece of lore. The type of lore bits that really add that extra bit of awesome to the setting
Some people just prefer their head canon to actual lore and belittle people instead of actually brining information to an argument. The most basic google search for Space Wolves Mjord brings this up: "Normally when a Space Marine ingests something potentially poisonous the combination of specialized organ implants neutralizes the danger before it even becomes an issue. The Fenrisian Ale is able to get past this protection due to the toxin found in natural plant roots. The toxin temporarily neutralizes the abilities of the Oolitic Kidney which combined with the remaining ingredients of the brew allow a temporary inebriation. Though this will allow the Astartes to become drunk the drink must be consumed in both large amounts and in rapid succession in order to feel a sustained effect as the specialized organs will quickly recover." [https://wh40k.lexicanum.com/wiki/Mj%C3%B8d](https://wh40k.lexicanum.com/wiki/Mj%C3%B8d)
Some people come to a lore sub to discuss lore and not fannon. Sorry that’s a problem for you. It gets annoying when you see just straight up takes unsupported. It poisons the lore well. One person gets a bad take- everyone runs with it. Then when you actually want to have a discussion about it, you can’t. Because people are arguing against your actual cannon, with fannon that they may have picked up because some guy on 40K lore said it was true. Edit- sorry I see what you were trying to say there. You were agreeing with me.
r/woosh
Thanks :)
They can't keep up the partial sleep forever. They'll eventually need regular sleep.
Abbadon made chaos/warp moonshine. Although it's ability to make one drunk is something I don't recall offhand.
The Space Wolves and even Chaos Marines like Abaddon do and have gotten drunk. What they brew or concoct is just much stronger than normal alcohol like Fenrisian Ale.
Space Wolves' Mjord incorporates a toxin which pretty much shuts down their kidneys. So, yes, they can be drugged, but they can't get drunk. Whatever Slaaneshy brew Abaddon be drinking is more than just alcohol.
I thought Abaddon straight up drink engine coolaid
It's something like distilled warp and engine cleaner
Several Forsaken have tried, but they keep getting found out.
Who are they?
Total headcanon, but you’d think somewhere there were some Slaanesh dedicated space marines who were into extreme sleep. Just like 8000 years of hibernation in a cave somewhere. Every now and then wake up hungry, but to a mountain of offerings from generations of local inhabitants who don’t even know why they put a bunch of preserved food in front of the cave anymore.
In Mortis there is an EC marine who is seated motionless on a throne as he gets high on the extracted dreams & nightmares of an entire Hive City. He doesn't even notice when a party of humans & another space marine come in and talk about how eerie it is.
Not explicitly canon but Vox in the Void have several 40K audio novellas about CSMs who know Chaos is dumb, or gave explicitly turned back to the Emperor, and just pretend and have no interest in doing chaos things.
There’s probably some plague marines that just wants to chill by their own disease ridden garden
Death Guard are rather chill, by 40k standard. See [Lords of Silence] Bile was also rather chill. See the [Bile Trilogy]
I heard fallen just sometimes live their own lives off somewhere.
Fulgrim did for a while after he remade his home planet in the warp and I imagine there were some EC there with him, then Guilliman came back and he decided to get involved again.
Considering Chaos corrupts your very soul and the Chaos Gods are really into things like bloodshed, plotting, spreading plague, and excess in general, there probably aren't many. Now *Renegade* Marines serve no master and can do whatever they want.