Lords of Chaos

Mobility: (Variable: can move at a sloth's pace or as fast as a horse)
Training/Experience: 2-3
Max & Preffered Range: Melee
Preferred Range: Melee
"Then came the one called 'Gibberkin'
No fouler thing have I ever witnessed."
-Khargar, Beastman, of the Blood Axe tribe
The powers of Chaos are fickle, elemental creatures that might, on
a moments notice, raise up or doom their followers. Nowhere is
this trait demonstrated more than with the Chaos Spawn. These
are Chaos human warriors or Beastmen who have received one
too many mutations, and have consequently lost their
intelligence; becoming slavering wrecks that unfortunately still
have some memory of what they once were. They are so mutated
that they are nearly beyond description, but all of them seem to
have numerous flailing tentacles and appendages.
Neither the Warriors of Chaos nor Beastmen have any actual
control over these creatures. Many roam the country side
attacking whatever they see, and thus many Chaos Spawn end
their days against a larger and more desperate beast, impaled on
many swords, or even ripped asunder by all the mutations their
bodies have endured.
During times of war the Beastmen and Warriors of Chaos lure these creatures into their armies. Chaos
forces carefully keep the spawn corralled until battle whereupon they can be unleashed upon the
enemy to invoke great destruction. Like the powers that doomed them the spawn can be random in
applications; sometimes they move towards friendly forces for instance, but most of the time to the
enemy. Sometimes they move at a speed of a wheelchair bound old man, other times they get bursts of
speed that might even exceed a horse on full gallop. Upon crashing into enemy lines their flailing
appendages claim many as the warrior inside the spawn, that tiny coherent part, lusts for death. For this
reason Chaos Spawn will never retreat.
There were three of them, their bulk so great that they could not stand side-by-side in the narrow, bone
strewn corridor. Firelight shone on glistening, gelatinous flesh, shot through with thin, black veins and
throbbing with unnatural strength. They had lean, powerful bodies similar to those of lions, their broad
paws tipped with glossy, black claws, but their heads were like bloated octopi. The closest one to the fire
reared back on its paws, its soft, bulbous skull pulsing with rage as it lashed the air with eight long, whiplike tentacles. Hundreds of suckers lined each tentacle, each one fitted with a barbed hook for trapping
and shredding prey. At the center of the mass of tentacles a cruel, glossy beak snapped furiously at the
offending flame, unleashing a torrent of thin shrieks and gobbling cries.
The man beside Malus screamed like a child, and the Chaos beasts attacked.
The lead hunter bounded over the pool of flame and leapt for the screaming man, as if drawn by the
sound. Its tentacles made a whirring sound in the air as they lashed at the terrified Druichi. One slashed
across the mans face, shredding the skin and muscle beneath as if they were rotted cloth. The stench of
brine and rotted meat filled Malus nostrils, making him gag. More tentacles wrapped around the
hapless Druichi, in the blink of an eye, enfolding him and pulling him from his feet. Wet, tearing sounds
emanated from within the writhing web of fleshy ropes, and the druchiis frenzied screams of agony
made Malus blood run cold. -Warpsword
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Claws, teeth and an unknown
amount of tentacles that allows them to fight
several foes at once. That list is not exhaustive
and indeed far weirder mutations exist. Your
imagination is the limit.
Defensive: Thanks to all the unknown
mutations, generally very durable.
==Additional Factors==
Chaos Spawn possess their own modified
versions of Marks of Chaos. Spawns of Tzeentch
breathe fire, Nurgle's attacks are poisoned and
Slaanesh's can move faster then the others in
combat. In the case of the spawn of Khorne, the
ability to launch a devastating charges.
Some have earned the classification of Great
Chaos Spawn, which has all the traits of a
regular spawn but doubled, meaning more
tentacles, limbs, and general Chaos weirdness.
These great spawn are generally really rare.
Mobility: 5
Training/Experience: 5
Max Range: Battlefield
Effective Range: Sacrificial Range:
50m
Preferred Range: Out od Direct
Combat
The Men of Chaos are well aware
that their actions draw notice of the
Chaos gods, and seek to capitalize
on that. To that end they bring these
massive portable shrines, carried on
the back of large beasts, in order to
attract their attention. Often these
portable shrines are tailor-made to
each Chaos Gods specialty:
Khornes are full of skulls, brass,
spikes and blood; Slaanesh silk,
incense and the draped skins of
human flesh; Nurgles are giant piles
of waste and biohazards; and
Tzeentchs are butterflies, crystal
statues and the music of the stars.
The Shrines mount is enticed to the
front-lines by the Shrine master,
who then conducts vile rituals and
battlefield sacrifices on top its altar.
These are described as being like
sweet nectar to the Chaos Gods, and
the air ripples whenever their
attention is drawn. Such energy raises the morale of the Warriors of Chaos first and foremost, who
know that their gods are watching.
Chaos Warshines are pulled by giant half-daemon things, which are only somewhat controllable by the
Shrine master. Any that get close must deal with gigantic claws and jaws.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: The Shrine bearers are Chaos Warriors that can carry halberds or other long weapons. The
beast, as noted, is about 2x the size of an ogre and armed with vicious claws and jaws.
Defensive: The Shrine has some magical protection from the gods that must be taken care of for it to
be destroyed.
The real blessing a Chaos Shrine provides is to all those top the men of chaos in regards to godly gifts,
increasing the likelihood of positive blessings to those within its aura (50 meters) with decreased
chance of a negative spawndom or other punishment. This is just a passive effect. In addition at times
the shrine master might directly acquire the blessing of the gods and bestow it upon up to three
champions at once. Along with any buffs they normally get, this increases the chance a Chaos champion
might become a Daemon Prince, though it would still be an exceptionally rare event.
Mobility: 5
Max & Effective Range: Spells
Preferred Range: Ranged
The Bray-Shaman is a Beastman born directly of magic,
showing such talent from an early age. As these
abilities manifest the bray-shaman is taken and trained
to be a messenger of the gods by elder shaman.
Thanks to their ability to consult with the gods, it is
often the Bray-shaman that has the most power in
Beastmen society. Nor do they need to worry about
infighting from other Beastman jockeying for position,
for few would dare wound a representative of the
gods.
Shamans radiate un-holiness and corruption. The very
presence of a powerful shaman is enough to cause
tree roots to writhe unnaturally, parasites to surround them, and reality to begin to crack. Evil animals
are known to follow their lead, and the Shaman can use these creatures for spying purposes, or even
turn into them himself.
Unlike Beastlords, who embody the Beastlord desire to destroy man himself, Bray-Shamans have a
higher calling. Their objective is the annihilation of nothing less than the gods of man themselves, for
the very idea of any claiming to contest dominion alongside the "true" Chaos Gods is repugnant to them.
To that end it is the burning desire of every bray-shaman to tear down man's temples, defile their holy
sites, and sacrifice their holy men to the Dark Gods.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: For melee they wield a large, heavy bray-staff good for bludgeoning. At range they are spell
casters, capable of using spells from the Lore of the Wild, Of Death, of Shadow and of Beasts. Most are
level 1-2 shaman, meaning they know comparably few spells, though quite a few are extremely skilled
level 3-4. Sometimes they might come equipped with magical weapons.
Defensive: They do not normally wear armor, as they have little to fear from other Beastmen. However
sometimes a Shaman on his own might decide to acquire (loot or given by the Chaos Gods) magical
armor. Magical trinkets can be equipped, with examples giving them magical resistance or unleashing a
minor spell to temporarily blind enemy archers.
The Bray-Shaman is the spiritual leader of the Beastmen and thus commands a ton of respect. Their
orders are usually followed without question, even by powerful beastlords, and thus Bray-Shamans can
enact a great deal of influence over the Bray-herd. Sometimes they might even become direct leaders of
it, as the legendary Gorthor was Shaman and Beastlord both. Bray-Shaman might come mounted on a
chariot.
Bray-shamen are rare and usually there is only 1-2 per warherd.
Mobility: 5.5
Max & Effective Range: Melee
Beastlords are, as the name implies, are the lords
of the brayherds, with warherds being the lords
of warherds (A brayherd is made up of at least a
dozen of these).When the call to form a
Brayherd is sounded a competition among the
different Warherds is created, where the
different Wargors bash each other until one
becomes powerful enough to be a Beastlord.
These beastlords are confident in themselves
and exceedingly violent, every gesture meant to be perceived as threatening. These powerful warriors
concern themselves not with the day to day running of the tribe but solely with war and vengeance
upon the civilized. They wish to wreck everything that makes man what he is, and constantly plot to do
so.
A Beastlord's leadership is based on strength, and he must constantly be careful not to show any
weakness lest an opportunistic underling seek to challenge him. This happens quite often on and off the
field, and existing chieftains often have totem poles many feet high from which dozens of hides- sheared
off from defeated challengers- are hung. Invariably among those will one day be his own, when a
stronger challenger finally comes along. These challenges have occurred on fields of battle, sometimes
resulting in success when a weak leader was replaced by a strong one. Losses in battle are all but
guaranteed to spawn challenges. Other times their enemies, such as the Empire, have used the
infighting and confusion to score victories either during, or immediately after the fights are over,
defeating a weakened foe. At least one Empire general was clever enough to deliberately spawn
challenges among different pretenders to ensure victory.
On the battlefield they count as minor heroes, each one claiming potentially dozens of ordinary men
over the course of one long battle. However unlike
Minotaurs Beastlords are not indiscriminate killers but
rather hero-oriented ones .They deliberately seek out
enemy heroes, champions and other notable fighters
in order to smash and trample them into the ground,
taking personal satisfaction in proving their supremacy
over civilized foes. In doing so they might even attract
the attention of the gods themselves!
But then Raghram unveiled himself. The shroud of
nothingness slipped from his shoulders, dissolving
against the stone like smoke. He rose to his full height,
towering over even Schwarzhelms mighty frame. He
was vast and old, reeking of death and corruption. His
eyes blazed blood-red and his leathery fingers clasped
an axe the size of a man. Cruel horns, four of them, rose
like a crown over his heavy brow and tusks hung from
his ruined face. He wore twisted iron armor over his
shoulders and breast, crudely hammered into place and
daubed with the foul devices of the Dark Gods.
In that face there was malice, ancient malice, the long, slow bitterness of the deep wood. To gaze into
that expression was to see the tortured, endless hatred of the primal world for all the doings of man.
Nothing existed there but loathing. Nothing would quench its fury but death.-Sword of Justice
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Normally giant cleavers, axes or the like. Rarely might they have a magical weapon, ranging
from a axe that causes unstoppable bleeding upon making a cut to a mace powerful enough to be
effective against tanks or an axe specially tuned to killing men, ignoring their armor. If they choose to
they can take a magical war banner.
Defensive: Usually light leather or heavy plate armor, taken from stripped metals and bashed roughly
onto the Beastlord's body. Sometimes these can include magically enchanted plate, powerful helmets,
or other more exotic defenses. Talismans might convey some limited magical resistance or even a
onetime use spell. Types of Horns, carved from the first Beastman or the boar god, are rarely seen
items that can easily rally the Beastman force, making them fight all the harder against a foe.
Mobility: 5
Max & Effective
Range: Melee (likely)
'Garagrim Ironfist, Prince of
Karak Kadrin and WarMourner of the Slayer Keep,'
Garagrim growled, stalking
towards his opponent.
'And I am Yan the Foul, Yan of
the Khazags, Beast of the
Steppes, Wolf of the Plains,
Master of-' Yan began.
'I don't care,' Garagrim said,
lunging.
His axes skidded off Yan's
hastily interposed blades. Yan
grunted and shoved the
Slayer back. 'Master of the
Red Lodge and Servant of the
Eightfold
Path,'
Yan
continued, eyes flashing.
'There. Now we're properly
introduced. Time to die, little
monkey.'- Road of Skulls
An Exalted Hero is a true champion of Chaos, a paragon of deadly ability and lethal intent. From the time
of the Elder races ruled the world to the End Times these champions have sought their ascension to
daemonhood and shed their mortality. While some become Lords of Chaos, others sorcerers, the vast
majority roam the Chaos Wastes, seeking challengers from which to gain more glory. Often it is each
other that they encounter and eagerly seek, for the destruction of such a worthy foe adds greatly to
their resume.
They are the corrupted adventurers of Warhammer, traveling far and wide to kill, loot, plague, burn
and defile. Each and every warrior has a story behind them, becoming legendary figures of tribal and
even national legends. Off-hand battles, duels, treachery, corruption and more are frequently
referenced when an Exalted Hero needs to cite their resume. Many have traveled and fought for well
over a hundred years, pitting themselves against the endless threats in the Chaos Realms.
For the vast majority of exalted heroes the end result of such a quest is either death or spawndom, the
latter a result of countless mutations heaped on them by uncaring gods. However even that does not
deter these warriors, for they know tales of the most exceptional of warriors who did reach
daemonhood.
He had fought champions of the Changer, the Rot, the Lover and even the Breaker, wielding first a
sword, then magics. He had broken open the Black Vaults of the dawi zharr and fended off their stonefooted sorcerer-kings in order to steal the Crystal of Crooked Ways, which he had spent a year and a day
carving into the mask he now wore. He had made war on the Spellbreakers of the Shifting City and on
the War-Judges of the Tahmaks, he had corrupted the monks of the White Lotus, and he had crushed the
heart of Isadora Von Carstein on the steps of the Lost Cathedral in order to prevent the vampire from
unravelling the Weaver's works. All of that had been done in the service of one goal... The death of his
false friend, Garmr.-Road of Skulls
When mustered for battle exalted heroes take their place among the normal chattel, their very presence
filling allies with inspiration and dread. When battle is joined with the enemy they can cleave through
scores of lesser men before finally seeking out and challenging enemy champions. Each death brings
them one step closer to transcendence.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: All sorts of swords, axes, great axes, halberds act. Sometimes they might have magical
weapons or chaos mutations. Example mutations might include a Chaos familiar that memorizes a spell
on behalf of its owner, acidic ichor in the manner of the xenomorphs from Aliens, a flaming body that
burns all those around them (miraculously, it does not burn them), the ability to eat souls or just plain
disfigurement, invoke supernatural horror etc. .
As for weapons they might bring weapons that induce sudden change, ignore armor, or set their souls
on fire. Unfortunately the full complement of their weapons cannot be described, as many are wholly
unique in that there is only one of them available. They also are likely to have superhuman reaction
time, strength and toughness.
Defensive: Chaos Armor and sometimes shields. May take one of the above mutations or scaly, reptile
like skin. Some rare armor too, like (lore example) a helmet that foresees all actions committed by a foe
except the one destined to kill the
user.
With no more room to swing his
axe, Hors let go of it, leaving the
weapon buried in the back of the last
man to have felt its bite. He smashed
his large fists into the faces of those
around him, breaking jaws and
noses. He grabbed one soldier by the
throat and squeezed hard, crushing
his windpipe. As he let go of the
body, kept upright by the weight of
people around it, he drove his
forehead into the face of a man
trying to wrap his arm around the
Norseman's throat.
Hors felt someone grabbing
at his face from behind and he
snatched the arm in his strong grip
and twisted. There was a scream and
Hors pulled hard, the limb coming away in a spray of blood. Ignoring the punches raining onto his back
and shoulders, he turned to face the man who had attacked him. He was gibbering madly, staring at the
ragged stump of his shoulder.
'This is yours.' snarled Hors, smashing the severed limb into the man's face, breaking his neck
with the blow.
The Norseman rammed his elbow into the throat of another soldier, and then drove his fist into
his chest, buckling his thin breastplate. Choking, the man staggered back, giving Hors enough time to
pull a knife from his belt. He rammed it point first into the injured man's eyeball.
Gouging and slashing, Hors drove ever deeper into the spearmen, leaving a trail of dismembered
dead and injured in his wake.-Heart of Chaos on Chaos Champion strength
Among the followers of Chaos, Exalted Heroes have risen to such a position that, when gods give out
blessings, they are one of the most likely to get transformed into a daemon prince, though such a thing
is still rare. They can take any mount listed in the mount section with the exception of those listed as
exclusive for the Chaos Lord or those of the Chaos Dwarves.
They are rare but not extremely so, and Road of Skulls gives the statistic of 64 champions within an army
of 8,000 (almost all Warriors of Chaos, with a few Dawi Zharr assistants).
Mobility: 5
Training/Experienc:
8-9
Max & Effective
Range: Variable
Preferred
Range: Melee
And so, the Chaos
Wastes. There
mindless marauders,
who had ravaged,
robbed and
butchered their way
north, gathered.
They knew not why.
The road to
damnation was a
lonely one and
perhaps, Archaon
considered, it gave
the doomed
comfort. To know
that there were
those who shared
their madness. In
truth, they were
there to fight the foes of their dread patrons, each other and themselves since there was only so much
pain and bloodshed a single man, even a man devoted to Chaos, could achieve. Marauders found each
other on the path and gathered about the suggestions of greatness in their ranks. Warbands formed.
Warbands joined together to create hordes and hosts about emerging warriors and sorcerers, whose
worthiness was tested before the growing number of the damned.
Like hungry wolves they fought each other for the wretched right to lead others of their ill-breed. Some
became dark beacons in the cold havoc of the north, attracting hordes of their battle-kin to their banner
bringing the souls of hundreds under the yoke of their dark celebrity. Such men might even earn the
loyalty of Beastmen and greenskins or even the fallen of the elder races. Such dark light in the world
might then snare the service of monsters and daemons. From such a melting pot of savagery, the
champions of Chaos are crafted. Some received the kind of infernal gifts and sponsorship required to
exalt them to infamy. Dark heroes to those in their service. They became names known by others; known
by the names of other great warriors whose heads they had claimed and followers they had taken for
their own. Some became Chaos lords and generals, commanding armies that would threaten to conquer
the very Wastes themselves. Such was the dark path to damnation and greatness. The path that the man
who had never been Diederick Kastner found himself upon. The path of the Ruinous Powers.- Archaon:
Everchosen
A Chaos Lord is an Exalted Hero who has risen, through skill in both combat and strategic acumen, to
command a legion of Chaos followers. In skill, appearance and even physical stature he towers over
other Chaos champions as if they were children, for other than a Daemon Prince he is as high up on the
food chain as one can get. His sheer force of will is often enough to bind a legion together.
Chaos lords seek endless to prove themselves to their gods against both other lords and those noncorrupted champions of the South. They are exceptional fighters, as strong as a troll but as fast as a
striking snake. Any that meet their challenge are briefly saluted and then often hacked apart in a most
grizzly fashion.
They have carved bloody and terrible legends throughout the history of the Warhammer world. Entire
nations have fallen before these Chaos lords, and those known within the Empire are often spoken in
hushed tones ala Voldemort of the Harry Potter series, for such is the dread they inspire. With the
ascension of Archaon all of them have flooded down into the southlands, serving as vile lieutenants to
the man would bring the doom of the world. This they do for their own selfish reasons, for they know
that sheer concentration of devotees serves as a magnet for the gaze of the beings they worship and
thus their own deeds are far more likely to be noticed.
Offensive: Can use lances, flails,

swords, axes, great axes, halberds
etc. in any combination. However
such is their prestige they might also
have additional mutations and
weapons. Lore examples include the
ability to breathe fire, the ability to
power a strike with such dark energy
that they can shatter a stone wall, or
a daemonsword/ one that is
eternally on fire.
Lore wise every Tzeentchi Lord
doubles as a sorcerer, who are
discussed below. Chaos Lords are
likely to have reaction times even
superior to Elves and of course super
strength.
Defensive: Chaos Armor and
sometimes shields, along with
superhuman durability. In addition to
what the Exalted hero might have
they can choose to take more
advanced magical weapons with one
example being the collar of Khorne,
giving a massive degree of magic
resistance .Another is the Pendant of Slaanesh which instills the user with euphoric energy, making
them insanely brave and attack much faster, but also covetous, jealous, and inherently distrustful of
allies (well more so then usual)
Can ride any mount of Chaos, barring Chaos Dwarf stuff, but including manticores and chaos dragons.
They have blessings or marks of specific gods and are the most likely to be changed into a Daemon
Prince.
Consider that the Chaos Warriors are the uncommon members of the Marauders who ascend to
becoming a living embodiment of war dedicated to nothing but Chaos. The best of the Chaos Warriors
become Chosen, small squads of elite warriors capable of breaking up lines through skill. The very best
of those become Exalted Heroes, warriors that have legends associated with their name. And then a few
of those become Sorcerers and Chaos Lords. This should tell you how common the Greatest of the Men
of Chaos are, as well as Lords and Sorcerers (though Sorcerers do draw from other sources besides these
Exalted Heroes, the various magic users of individual tribes usually are lacking compared to the platearmored Heroes in skill and magical aptitude).
Mobility: 4
Max & Effective Range: Spell ranges
Chaos Sorcerers is a catch all phrase that

defines the magic users of the Warriors of
Chaos with roughly two separate groupings within. The first of which refers to those basic members of
tribes said to have been blessed by the gods. These might include oracles, shaman, medicine men or,
for their Empire equivalent, cult leaders and witches. Alternately they might be thrall sorcerers of a
main Chaos champion (see below) .They are pretty rare and less effective on the battlefield than the
second type, very likely knowing only a few battlefield applicable spells and weak ones at that.
By far the most common patron of sorcerer is of Tzeentch, who happily lets any join his ranks. However
his mark, favor and greater magical ability must be earned, and thus those that align him often compete
as a thrall-sorcerer for a while. These thralls plot and scheme against each other as much as the
enemy, for only one of each group will rise to become a true Chaos Sorcerer. Or such is the promise if
not the reality. More often than not the top-tier of sorcerers will not let any threaten their power easily
and scheme to foil an ascendant. In an extreme example in the End Times the Chaos sorcerer Villitch
created a chaos cabal so large that it is said to rival an Imperial College of Magic however through his
misuse of apprentices the number quickly whittled down to seven over one siege.
The second architype is that of the most skilled champions of the Warhammer world, those that had
traveled the world seeking magical items and boons. These might have been personally taught by
daemons, blessed an obscene amount by magical gifys from the gods or even might be rogue wizards
from the civilized lands, with the most infamous example being the renegade Light Wizard Van
Horstmann. This architype is even rarer than the first.
These wizards are exceptionally powerful, rivaling and sometimes even surpassing the Chaos Lords. With
but a gesture they can unleash devastating spells annihilating dozens of men, empowering allies, or
causing other more exotic effects. In comparison to the wizards of the Empire a Chaos Sorcerer is
generally considered to be more powerful.
However ultimately they are but pawns to magic, not in control of it. Many of them sold their souls long
ago in exchange for greater mastery of the Winds, continually doing so until they now have little left.
They are just one small step away from utter damnation, their souls playthings for daemons
forevermore. This is the price for greater power that they must pay.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Can wield swords, axes and the like, as well as any mutation/weapon found in the Exalted
Hero profile. They can choose to utilize some spells from the Lore of Fire, Death, Metal, or Shadow. In
addition those aligned to the respective god can use spells from the Lore of Tzeentch, Slaanesh, or
Nurgle. The majority are level 1 or 2 wizards but extremely powerful 3s and 4s exist.
Defensive: Chaos Armor and whatever the Chaos Lord/Exalted Hero can use mutation wise.
They can use any mount in the mount section except the manticore, Chaos Dwarf stuff and the Dragon
(though Van Horstmann provides us with an exception to that rule).
Power Chart: Tribal Shaman/oracle < Greater Shaman/Thrall Sorcerer <Chaos Sorcerer < Chaos Sorcerer
Lord
Mobility: 6-8
Max Range: Spells, unless Khorne Daemon Prince
Preferred Range: Whatever their preference, depending on god/patron
The Daemon Prince is the pinnacle of what a Chaos Warrior can achieve. Those that gain this esteemed
position gain true immortality and a place at their gods side. For the rest of eternity these daemons can
be expected to lead their patrons armies to corrupt, pollute and destroy all of existence.
Fortunately for enemies of Chaos for every Daemon Prince who succeeds, countless thousands fail. It
requires feats of which are nearly impossible for mortals such as with Valkia and Tamurkhan. Valkia
had to fight up to Khornes throne himself after years of slaughter, while Tamurkhan was assigned to
destroy a very powerful Empire city and failed in the task. Belakor, the first Daemon Prince, may have
unleashed Chaos onto the world in order to get this position! Its feats like these that assign someone the
esteemed title of daemon prince.
In combat these Daemon Princes are powerhouses in
melee and spell craft, easily requiring massive
firepower, powerful heroes, or many legions to
destroy. They have numerous mutations, magical
weaponry and can match the greatest sorcerers in
magic. Interestingly enough many Daemon Princes
continue to long for more, to continually gain in
power until they become gods themselves! So far
none have succeeded, for to rise in power in the
Realm of Chaos is simply to bind yourself more to it
and increasingly share in eternal damnation.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Can use any attribute or weapon from the
Exalted Hero, Chaos Lord, or Sorcerer profile. Some
of them regularly fight on the immaterium and can
use a weapon corresponding to that of a Greater
Daemon (so a Daemon Prince of Nurgle can use a
special weapon from a Great Unclean Ones list) or a
Daemonic Gift. Daemon Princes of Khorne have additional strength, while those of Slaanesh can
penetrate armor better. However all are going to have reflexes so fast that even Elves have difficulty
even reacting to them as well as super strength and skill.
Defensive: They are Daemons, meaning they already have some magical shielding to be overpowered
first. And on top of that some wear Chaos Armor. Daemon Princes of Nurgle are surrounded by plague
flies that make them difficult to target, while Daemon Princes of Tzeentch can somewhat reverse the
strands of fate to avoid attacks.
Daemon Princes are exceptionally rare and even in the End Times only a handful really appears in one
region at a given time. Some Daemon Princes can fly, having bat like, birdlike or the traditional fiery
wings one associates with a Daemon.
Heralds are minor Daemons who are either

created or have risen among the ranks to
possess a position of authority among a
given daemonic legion. This is relatively rare,
as Daemons are so cut-throat in their power
struggles that its hard for anyone to achieve
anything for long.
Mobility: 5
Training/Experience: Various
Heralds of Khorne are bloodletters so driven
insane by the bloodletting that they put
even other bloodletters to shame. They will
keep hacking and slashing a target until
nothing is left but a pile of gore. So wrathful
are they that they have begun creating small
auras of rage and bloodlust. This can range from everyone in the unit getting magic resistance to
everything but the most powerful spells, the collective fury of the unit magnifying prowess or personal
wrath making them more durable.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: see Bloodletters, may have a couple daemonic gifts though minor in potency.
Defensive: See Bloodletters, may have a couple daemonic gifts
Sometimes the Herald will come into battle riding a Juggernaut or a Blood Throne
Mobility: 4
Max & Effective Range: Spell
As the magically fashioned slaves of Tzeentch, Horrors are considered automatons to be expended as
part of a carefully wrought plan. Should a servant of greater power be required, Tzeentch will create a
Herald, a more stable type of Horror. Heralds are often the same lurid hue as Pink Horrors, but do not
morph into a pair of Blue Horrors when struck. Such Daemons have enough consciousness to direct
others of their kind without constant guidance from a Lord of Change, directing furious sorcery against
Tzeentchs enemies. The mere presence of a Herald of Tzeentch drastically increases the abilities of
nearby Daemons, mutating them into new and stronger forms and empowering their magic.- Daemon
Codex
A Tzeentch herald might come with

the Loci of Transmogrification,
which causes slain Pink Horrors to
spawn up to 4 blue horrors instead
of two for the unit the Herald is in,
Greater Locus of Change which has
the chance to make everyone in
the unit get drastically increased
strength (or sometimes weaker), or
the Exalted Locus off Conjuration
which makes it easier for nearby
sorcerors to cast their spells.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Might have minor
magical weapons. Also is a minor
wizard who might know a fullfledged spell or two from the Lore
of Metal or Tzeentch.
Defensive: See Horror, may have a
couple daemonic gifts
Sometimes the Herald will come into battle riding a Disc or Burning Chariot.
Mobility: 4
Though they share many loathsome features, Plaguebearers are by no means identical in appearance
and ability, for Nurgles Rot is somewhat variable in its virulence and incubation. The longer a victim can
endure against Nurgles Rot, the greater in the Plague lords sight the resulting Daemon shall be. From
the souls of such hardy individuals are shaped the repulsive Heralds of Nurgle who march in the
daemonic legions as proof positive that even the strongest and ablest cannot indefinitely defy disease.
Heralds of Nurgle possess a strength and hardiness that belies their rotten frames, as well as a jovial
nature somewhat at odds with the world-weary aspect of their droning minions.
Heralds of Nurgle can possess one of the following Loci, all of which apply only to their unit: Lesser Loci
of Virulence which increases the potency of their poisoned attack, Greater Focus of Fecundity that
gives this unit minor regeneration or Exalted Loci of Contagion that allows them to more rapidly and
powerfully infect others.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Plaguesword and a few daemonic gifts maybe. They may also be level 1 mages with access to
lores of Nurgle or Death.
Defensive: Really just innate durability, maybe some blinding rot flies and a daemon gift.
Sometimes the Herald will be mounted on a Palanquin of Nurgle.
Mobility: 5.5
Heralds of Slaanesh not only attend to Slaaneshs whimsical desires,
but muster his armies, plot his campaigns (Slaanesh is easily bored by
the minutiae of war) and carry his creed to the mortal realm, returning
to bring morsels of courtly intrigue to Slaaneshs ears. Such scraps can
lead to the corrupting of a mortal ruler and the Dark Prince is always
carefully attentive.
At other times, the Heralds carry their masters word to specific followers singled out for divine notice.
Not all such visitations are welcomed by those who receive them, for
Slaanesh is nothing if not effusive in his tempers, but the coming of Herald of Slaanesh has nevertheless
become an omen of great import.
While on the battlefield these heralds can have one of several loci that apply to their attached unit. The
Locus of Grace means they arent inhibited by dangerous terrain or stuff that tries to slow them down.
Greater Locus of Swiftness allows the Daemonettes and Herald to strike faster. Exalted Locus of
Beguilement attacks the willpower of those fighting this unit and reduces enemy response time of those
who cant fight it off.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Claws and a few daemonic gifts maybe. May also be level 1 mages with access to the Lores of
Slaanesh or Shadow.
Defensive: see Daemonettes, mostly just relies on swiftness and maybe a daemonic gift.
Sometimes a Herald of Slaanesh will come into battle on a Steed of Slaanesh, a Seeker Chariot, or even
an Exalted Seeker Chariot
A Greater Daemon is the highest pinnacle that a daemon can aspire to, the most self-aware of them all.
Their roles are many and can vary upon what their gods want them to be, such as, for example,
generals, assassins, lore keepers, playthings etc. Each and every greater daemon has assumed several
of these roles during their long existence. All Greater Daemons are terrifying to perceive , as their image
is altered by the worst fears of mortals.
It can be said that all greater daemons have a certain commonality of traits, yet within that commonality
are nuances. For example while all Bloodthirsters are defined by their rage and need to spill blood, an
individual Bloodthirster might have a code of honor, employ great martial skill, or be a complete
unthinking beast. All Lords of Change are secretive and manipulative, yet on the outside they can be
spiteful, jovial, an adept warrior or cunning tactician.
Occasionally, very occasionally, a Greater Daemon might try to have its own little rebellion from its
parents. However this act of rebellion is always done in a manner utilizing the great attributes of their
fathers. For example a Bloodthirster attacking another army of Khorne invariably spills much blood,
while a scheming Lord of Change inflicts great mutation through such schemes. In such a way Greater
Daemons always ends up furthering the cause of their parents, and thus these revolts are tolerated.
Durability: Greater Daemons are the best and rarest of what the Chaos Gods have to offer, with usually
only a handful per campaign. They almost always require potent magical weapons, spell craft or
sustained artillery fire to down, or else death by a thousand cuts. For example in Lord Mortkins
campaign his Bloodthirster was destroyed after an Empire halberdier whole regiment hacked into it,
though it killed most of said regiment in turn. In Marks of Chaos it took a hero with a hammer as well as
his men to bring a Great Unclean One down.
Only the great unclean one remained, its power too great for the death of the magister, Gruber, to
affect it. It was surrounded by the army of Ostermark, and hundreds of arrows and crossbow bolts
thudded into its thick flesh. It roared in anger and pain as countless handgun shots pierced its skin.
Dozens of men rushed forwards, driving their halberds into the creature's belly and back, but it fought
on, smashing away its enemies as if they were insects, killing a handful of men with every sweep of its
fell weapon.
It stumbled as the flagellants rushed forwards, screaming and yelling, and struck at the greater
daemon's flesh with their spiked flails. The nameless ex-knight was there, exhorting his followers to do
their duties, and he leapt upon the great unclean one, hacking at it with a pair of spiked maces. The
daemon's flesh was torn to bloody shreds under the onslaught, and it sank to the ground. Its mouthed
tongue lashed out, latching onto one of its tormentors, ripping his face from his skull. Bellowing in rage,
the daemon surged back upright for a moment, and swept its weapon before it once more, the poisoned
blade cutting three flagellants in half.
It slumped to the ground as Gunthar stepped before it, his huge hammer raised high over his head. With
a bellow, he smashed it into the daemon's head, the blow driving through the skull and into the rotting,
maggot-infested brain within.
A great cloud of flies suddenly rose, obscuring everything from view. They dispersed into the air, leaving
behind nothing but a bubbling pool of poison seeping into the ground.-Mark of Chaos
Mobility: 8 (can fly)

Max Range: Melee
'1 beheld a raging least, chained to that wall of bone by brazen and bloody chain. Its every bellow shock
the ground upon which 1 stood; its every utterance fulsome with the Jury of war. As the Daemons
gaze fell upon me, it demanded with looming voice that I set it free, that it might bring the glory of
bloodletting to this realm once more. Momentarily I considered the beast's demands, for an ally in that
dark realm would have been a welcome thing. But then I realized the folly of such a course; that Daemon
had no place in its black heart for loyalty to such a one as I; rage was its only master, and slaughter the
only companion it would ever acknowledge. I left that place with speed, and prayed that the chains
would Hold 'til I was long gone. -Pg. 28, Daemon codex 8e
The Bloodthirster is the pinnacle of Khornate blood and the single deadliest melee combatant among all
daemons. It is fury and bloodlust made manifest, the death bringers of Khorne. Everything about themfrom their gnarled visage, to the spikes that permeate from every part of it to the sentient bloodthirsty
armor- screams the desire to kill and main. Within the Bloodthirsters raging mind there is no thought,
no deliberation, no appreciation of intrigue or manipulation it thinks only of the hunt, of the blood to
be spilt in Khornes name and the skulls to be gathered for the Blood Gods mighty throne. These are
the embodiment of the bloodiest aspects of war, of war given absolute form.
Thus is the Bloodthirster the most relentless and single-minded of all Daemons. Others will sometimes
retire from battle if overmatched, to husband strength and bring more insidious talents into play, but not
so a Bloodthirster. Should a Greater Daemon of Khorne find itself outnumbered, surrounded, mortally
wounded or even beset by a hero empowered with divine might, it does not stop fighting. Such is the
nature of a Bloodthirster: it does not retreat, does not falter, but roars fresh defiance with every blow,
swinging its axe with ever more bloodlust and cleaving fresh skulls for
Khorne with each unstoppable strike.
--Daemon Codex 8e
Such is the power of the Bloodthirster that the idea of a mortal killing them is nearly inconceivable, and
perilously few have achieved such a feat by themselves. Those that do are usually extremely famous
fighters by themselves (like Gotrek) and sometimes so impressed is Khorne by the spectacle that he
automatically makes the mortal a daemon prince , whisking him away upon the moment of victory to do
so. If defeated by an army it is usually through massive application of ranged firepower or through
many blows gained throughout the battle. Bloodthirsters don't care at all for strategy or battle plans
and live for only the slaughter. Yet it would be a mistake to confuse them for idiots. Bloodthirsters have
an innate knowledge of what draws men to fight and kill, of how to achieve the kill and where to reap
the most of it. To them that are all they need to know.
Bloodthirsters are the mightiest and most wrathful of all of Khornes daemons, embodiments of hate
and rage made manifest. Standing several times the height of a man with every patch of skin caked in
blood the Bloodthirsters very gaze has been known to invoke fear in the hearts of mortals. Living
sentient armor is directly forged onto their flesh by Khornes own hand and given a terrible, malevolent
sentience of their own.
These daemons are, in all things, echoes of their mighty master. The desire to kill
in the name of Khorne is the Bloodthirsters sole imperative, and their
overwhelming, warlike fury is unquenchable. A Bloodthirster will fight any foe, no
matter the odds, the enemy, or the stakes. Should one of these beasts find itself
with no foes to butcher, it may well turn upon its own allies in order to continue
the bloodshed. All that truly matters to the Bloodthirsters is that Khorne continues
to receive his bloody due.
Some disdain the Bloodthirsters for being crude and unimaginative. They are
fools. Bloodthirsters do not need the fancy magics of Tzeentch, plagues of Nurgle
or seductive auras of Slaanesh. Such concepts are anathema to the champions of
Khorne and when encountered all are dealt with scornfully. Most magics simply
reverberate off their armor, rage overtakes plagues and seductive auras just
anger the Bloodthirster even more. With endless rage and predatory cunning the
daemon deals with any trick, trap or ambush sent its way. There are few
challenges or tricks the Bloodthirster cannot overcome.
To most mortals all Bloodthirsters look the same. This is false. There are actually
multiple ranks of Bloodthirsters, each rank given greater gifts, prestige and powers than the one below.
That is not to say that daemons of the lowest rank are weaker than those of higher- far from it.
Daemons of the lower ranks can and sometimes do aspire to rise to a higher rank, which they can do by
challenging a member of the above rank in a spectacularly bloody contest watched over by Khorne
himself.
There are four known variants of Bloodthirster capable of being deployed in action. Three will be
discussed below and one at the end of the Greater Daemon presentation. All Bloodthirrsters have
reaction time that has been described as blurry and strength at least on par with a giant.
Supremely skilled warriors all, the Bloodthirster of

Unfettered Fury is armed with the ritualistic heavy
bladed-axe and a lash. Both are extremely powerful,
with the ax said to be capable of breaking a shield wall
while the lash can be struck against something with
enough force to break a dragons wing. Every daemon of
Unfettered Fury is armed thusly, for these are the
ritualistic weapons of the eighth host within the Blood
Gods legions.
The Unfettered Fury are the most numerous of the
Bloodthirsters; at any time there will be eight hundred
and eighty eight of these monstrous beings in their
masters service. They are often generals of the armies,
brutes who hurl their followers into a savage meat
grinder without hesitation. Though others might call this
unimaginative Bloodthirsters know that Khorne cares
not from where the blood flows, so long as it flows. By
creating a situation in which both sides are likely to
suffer massive causalities the Bloodthirster can elicit the
most amount of favor from its master. It also serves as a
way to test the strength of those who serve Khorne, for
the Bloodthirster knows that only the most psychotic, savage, brutal and determined can survive such
conditions.
This Bloodthirster has various other duties. They are used to patrol the edges of Khornes domain in the
Realm of Souls, and are often the first line of defense against any attacks. Sometimes they will be
dispatched, either alone or in the terrifying Warbands known as Skullwrath Slaughterbands(in ET
Archaon one Warband composed of fourteen such monsters), to hunt down the greatest champions of
the foe. More often than not the Bloodthirster cuts the enemy champion in to bloody chunks and takes
their head back to Khornes throne as a trophy.
Offensive: The Bloodthirster is incredibly strong, easily able to tear people into pieces and rip limbs off
giants, and this strength is translated into the power that it hits with. It also wields a magical axe in one
hand, which is magically enchanted for extra power (the one form of magic Khorne apparently doesnt
disagree with) and in the other a flaying whip. They may also carry some form of magical gift, like bonus
strength or speed.
Defense: Brass Armor and moderate level magic resistance. Sometimes they might have some form of
defense that boosts their armor or makes them even more resistant to attack.
Even by the standards of

Khornes daemons, the
Bloodthirsters of Insensate
rage are unnaturally given to
wrath. Like with Hulk this
wrath gives them strength,
and thus in battle they can
wield axes that other
Bloodthirsters would
struggle to even lift, axes
several times taller than a
man.
There is no finesse in the

fighting style of the Insensate
Rage. The fires of Khornes
great forge blaze within their
chests, filling their veins with
a roiling firestorm of whitehot anger. Thus, their every
word is a howled imprecation
or bellowed war cry, and their
every axe-swing is a wild
sweep that strikes with the
force of a meteor. A Bloodthirster of Insensate Rage can stave in a castle door with a single blow, or lop
the head from the mightiest beast. Whole ranks of lesser warriors are scythed down with every swing,
or flung through the air in broken, bloody ruin.
A Bloodthirster of this rank gives no thought to its own defense- indeed the blows of lesser warriors
barely register to it! The sheer fury of these Bloodthirsters carries them through the worst that the foe
can hurl their way. Rains of shot clang from their armor, or thud ignored into their smouldering hides.
Eldritch spell craft billows about them with no more effect than a gentle breeze, not halting their charge
in the slightest. Once a Bloodthirster of the sixth host has built up momentum, lesser foes simply vanish
beneath its pounding hooves, ground to bloody paste without ever being noticed at all.
That is a key purpose behind the creature after all- to grind a path through enemy forces that others
might follow. However they are also sent after the greatest enemy champions and monsters, the latter
of which is by the command of Khorne their main objective. It was a Bloodthirster of Insensate Rage
that finally felled the six-headed ur-giant Behemogoth, claiming every last one of that mountainous
horrors skulls for Khorne. When the mighty dragon Syllokai was finally laid low, it was beneath the axeblows of a Bloodthirster of the sixth host.
Offensive: A massive great weapon, usually an axe several times the size of a man. Sometimes might
have a magical weapon of similar type.
Defensive: See previous Bloodthirster. However this rank is slightly more durable than the last
Khorne dreams of whole realms drowned in slaughter, and cares little for the fates of individual
combatants, be they worshipper or foe. However, just as mortal champions may win Khornes approval,
so there are those whose defiance draws the personal ire of the Blood God down upon them.
Punishing such individuals falls to the Wrath of Khorne. Whether they are a hero who has defied
Khornes will, some brave priest who has banished Khornes daemons, or simply one who has offended
the Blood God, the victims of these Bloodthirsters will all meet the same doom.
Dogged and relentless, the Wrath of Khorne Bloodthirster lives for the hunt. They are perfectly content
to hunt their quarry across all of reality if need be or even beyond! Though a few opt to go at it alone
most are more cautious, for they know Khornes wrath is great indeed for those that fail to hunt his
personal targets. Thus they are often accompanied by massive Blood Hunts- roving war parties of
various Khornate daemons.
As with the other hosts, the Wrath of Khorne Bloodthirsters bear distinctive armaments that mark them
out. In one hand they carry axes of prodigious size, their hafts comprised of the skulls of champions. In
the other, they wield long hammer-flails, each link forged from the armor of a slain hero. These brutal
weapons can be used to strike crushing blows against foes beyond arms reach, or entangle and choke
larger enemies such as other greater daemons or monsters.
Khorne knows that his
headsmens quarry often
resort to the use of magic in
their own defense, or else
surround themselves with
masses of expendable
underlings behind whom
they hope to hide. Thus, the
Wrath of Khorne
Bloodthirsters wear
scorched crowns upon their
brows. These baleful, runeetched artefacts are
powerfully warded against
sorcery, allowing their
wearer to shrug off all but
the most potent spell craft. Furthermore, these Bloodthirsters are able to channel their rage and hate
into roaring gouts of hellfire, which they belch forth from between their gaping jaws to incinerate
hordes of luckless victims.
It is the skillful and fortunate few that can evade, even defeat a Blood Hunt. In WHF lore the only
confirmed instances of failure occurred with the Emperor Magnus (with Teclis help) and Sigmar in the
End Times, though the Wrath of Khorne Bloodthirster (KaBandha) still managed to fight multiple
incarnates and even kill at least one.
OFFENSIVE: Massive Axe, Hammerflail. In addition they can breathe extremely hot hellfire.
A low-pitched rumble began somewhere deep in KaBandhas chest. It grew rapidly, and then burst
from his fanged maw as a torrent of deep and ruddy flame that washed hungrily over his opponents
torso and limbs. No ordinary fires were these. They were birthed from the dark and wrathful heat of
Khornes forge, and the guardians flesh instantly set alight wherever they touched. The vines binding
KaBandhas arms withered and shrank beneath that fury; the thick bark of the guardians skin blackened
and caught light. With a flame-etched howl of triumph, the Bloodthirster at last wrenched his arms free,
the treemans limbs exploding into charred cinder as he did so.- Fire breathing, ET Archaon
DEFENSIVE: The most potent anti-sorcery defense in Khornes arsenal, bar that of the Exalted
Bloodthirsters. They are usually covered in brass armor.
Bloodthirsters can fly and thus bring the carnage to the air.
The Bloodthirster ploughed on through the warriors of King Thangrims elite guard. Its weapons
flickered almost too fast for the eye to follow and every time one struck, a dwarf warrior fell. It seemed
like no armor could resist those hell-forged weapons. In mere moments, brave warriors were reduced to
mewling, dying piles of ragged flesh. Proud armor was rent asunder. Even as Felix watched, the
Bloodthirster smashed through a row of dwarfs with its axe, leaving only mangled corpses in its wake.
Yet the great daemon was not having things all its own way. The rune weapons of the dwarfs had bitten
its flesh in a few places. Smoking ichor dribbled onto the floor as it advanced.
Rage blazed in King Thangrims eyes. His beard bristled. He raised his hammer once more as if in answer
to the daemons challenge and cast it to smash on the daemons breast. Once more the ancient weapon
bit home. Once more daemonic blood spurted forth. Once more the hideous thing staggered then
grinned and came on with redoubled fury.
Nothing could stand in its way. It ploughed through the dwarf kings guards like a battering ram through
a rotting doorway. Felix saw that one warrior managed to ram a runic blade into its back before it was
aware of him. The blade stuck fast, protruding out from the Bloodthirsters shoulder blades before it
turned and lashed out with its whip. Felix had no idea what that infernal lash was made from but it cut
through dwarf-forged armor with ease and flayed its targets to the bone. Felix saw skin and muscle part
as if slashed with a cleaver, white bone and yellow cartilage suddenly exposed in the dim, guttering light.
The whip lashed forward again, spinning its shrieking victim like a top and tugging more flesh from his
carcass. Another dwarf strode forward and smote the daemon with a rune-etched hammer. The impact
caused the daemon some discomfort, but the swing of its axe decapitated its attacker. All the while it
kept lashing its victim. In heartbeats, a bloody, skinned carcass that was not recognizable as a dwarf lay
at its feet.
How much longer will you hide behind your warriors, little king? asked the daemon, and such was the
dreadful magic of its voice that the words were audible where Felix stood even above the clamor of
battle. The king threw his hammer once more but this time the
daemon threw down his whip and caught it with one
outstretched claw. The runes blazed along the hammers head
and where it held the weapon the daemons hand blackened but
it reversed the weapon and sent it hurtling back towards the
king.
There was a crack like thunder and the hammer flew too fast for
the eye to follow. It crashed into the dwarf king and sent him
sprawling to the ground. A groan came from the dwarf army as
they saw their leader tumble and fall. The daemon bellowed in
triumph. Insane laughter rumbled above the fray and echoed
through the hall. The host of Chaos fought on with redoubled
fury and everywhere seemed to gain the upper hand over the
dwarfs.
The Bloodthirster strode through the dismayed throng, slaying
right and left as it went. The priest of Grimnir went forth to
meet it and was disemboweled with a slash of its claw even as
his Warhammer buried itself in the daemons flesh. The old
priestess of Valaya stood before it. She raised her book as if it
were a shield. A glow leapt from the pages and for a moment
the daemon paused. Then it laughed once more and brought its
axe arcing down, cleaving through the book and the priestess
both. Her bisected form fell in two pieces to the floor and the daemon strode forward in triumph to stand
above the dying king.-Daemonslayer
Mobility: 8 (can fly)

Max & Effective Range: Ranged Spell craft
A Lord of Change is hideously unpredictable and manipulative. Behind its gaze lies a curious and
wreckful mind, deeply intelligent, yet as uncaring of consequence as it is fascinated by it. The Lord of
Change is like a child playing upon some gigantic anthill, poking with a stick at its inhabitants and
laughing at the hopeless antics of their defense. Nothing pleases him more than to see the world broken
and made anew, to redirect the course of a life or even history itself, spilling hope upon the ground while
raising the ambition of others up to an unexpected pinnacle of power.
Rarely are Lord of Changes consistent and they can change their form at will; however they are usually
depicted as birdlike creatures in combat and art. They are weavers of fate, able to look at a mortal and
perceive the strands behind his fate, ambitions and hopes. Yet they are also natural liars, able to
conceal truths as easily as they can reveal it to the point where even other Lords of Change have trouble
finding anything out about them. Thus a meeting of multiple Lords of Change is an incredibly confusing
affair with every question met by another and a hundred lies behind every half-truth. This deviousness is
why they are the least bothered when a mortal tries to summon and control them, for there is no
cage a Lord of Change cannot emerge from in time. Meanwhile the Lord just sits and plots, grateful to
have a new morsel to weave into them.
The Daemon lied with every heath. It could rut help itself hut to deceive and dismay, to riddle and ruin.
The more we conversed, the closer I drew to one singular ineluctable fact: I would gain no wisdom here.
The Daemon's mind was a labyrinth of deceptions. Truth was trammeled at the heart of that maze and
far beyond my meagre reach.'
In battle Lords of Change rarely march out front, but rather command and direct spells from the rear.
They are potent wizards indeed, able to use spells from the Lore of Tzeentch or Metal with expert
clarity. However sometimes a Lord of Change might not appear on the battlefield at all and instead
with manipulate fate from afar, using mystical means to better direct his forces and control the ebb of
fighting. Though fate is fickle even for those who try and command dominion of it, they are as already
stated master manipulators.
Note the size shown here

is probably correct
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: The Lord of
Change is a master
(usually level 4) spell
caster able to use both
the Lore of Metal and
Tzeentch. At close range it
usually wields a staff but
is also surprisingly strong,
able to rip through armor
with its claws. May carry
gifts from the daemonic gifts section.
Defensive: Its skin is apparently rather hard and it can manipulate/see fate to try and avoid it. However
the Lord of Change is probably the easiest of the Greater Daemons to hurt (if it can be caught!).
The Lord of Change can fly. It is also, by its nature, a brilliant tactician and sub-commander, scheming
with soldiers as it would normally. These schemes admittedly are often to the detriment of its so-called
allies.
The elf reacted as quick as thought but his thrown spear evaporated into mercury before it could impale
the daemon. Its outstretched claw and swiftly spoken incantation was enough to destroy the weapon.
Htarken returned its talon to the folds of its robes, yet made no motion to attack.
All the while, Alkhor was escaping. Thinking quickly, Malekith turned to the lord of the eagle riders who
had just arrived from on high.
Prince Aestar, he said, thrusting his sword in the plague daemons direction, slay that thing!
Nodding grimly, Prince Aestar soared through the clouds after the daemon, his brothers close behind.
Malekith was left to face Htarken.
He would not be alone. A conclave of three Sapherian mage lords rose up beside the prince on pillared
coruscations of gold.
You are finished, daemon. He gestured to the valley below where the hell-hosts were slowly dissipating,
their mortal followers fleeing with the dissolution of their immortal allies. Chaos has been defeated.
Has it? Htarken spoke with a hundred different voices at once. Some were not even voices at all. They
were the crackle of fire, the howling of the wind or the breaking of wood. They were cries of slaughter,
pleas for mercy and the gibbering laughter of the insane. Birds, beasts, dwarfs and elves all collided in an
unsettling union that put the princes teeth on edge.
Malekith grimaced as the sound of Htarkens voice echoed in his mind. Like a cancer, it sought to take
root and destroy him from within.
Change, said the daemon, with the prince reeling, is inevitable. Even with all your many gifts, the
heritage of your bloodline, you cannot fight entropy.
Malekith wondered why the mages had not yet banished this thing, and then he realized they were
transfixed. Seized by a sudden palsy, they trembled as all the horrors of change were visited upon them.
As the minds of the mages died, so too did the pillars of fire holding them up.
Htarken had them now, bound to puppet strings. And they danced, they jerked and spasmed until they
exploded into transmuted globs of flesh and flailing limbs. They were loremasters of the White Tower of
Hoeth and the feathered sorcerer had vanquished them as if they were nothing more than apprentices.
Fate is mine to manipulate, said the daemon. I have seen yours, elf. Would you like to know it?
Malekith was about to answer when a terrible pain seized his body. He convulsed, clutched at his skin.
His dragon mewled in fear and confusion.
I am Malekith tore off his helm, ripped at his gorget and cuirass, on fire! Isha preserve me!
All endings are known to me. Every skein of destiny is mine to behold. I see past, present and future.
Nothing is occluded. Your doom has c
Agony lessened, the fires in the elfs mind faded to embers.
As he opened his eyes, Malekith saw a rune hammer lodged in Htarkens chest. The daemon clutched at
it feebly, arrested in its sermonizing.
A gruff voice called from below.
Youll find it hard to speak with dwarf iron in your gut.
Relief washing over him like a balm with the dissipation of Htarkens sorcery, Malekith nodded to his
friend.
Snorri was not done. He outstretched his hand and the hammers haft began to quiver. As if snared by an
invisible anchor the daemon came with it, drawn down by the rune craft of the weapon, unable to
remove it from where it had impaled its ribs and chest.
I am master of fate Htarken was weakening, his many voices becoming less multitudinous with every
foot he descended. I see all ends I see
Bet you didnt see this, hell-spawn, Snorri snarled through gritted teeth. The daemon was almost in
front of him. He readied his axe in one hand, drew in the hammer with the other.
Htarken was weeping no, laughing. Its spluttering mirth paused for agonized breaths and to spit ichor
from its mouth. The hood fell back in its pain-wrecked convulsions, a savage parody of what it had done
to the mages, revealing a grotesque bird-headed fiend. Narrow eyes filled with pit-black sclera glared
over a hooked beak.
I am oracle, architect and thread keeper it gasped, every second bringing it closer to the bite of the
dwarfs axe. Htarken coughed, its laughter grew deeper and its struggles ceased. Your doom is certain,
you and your pathetic races. Chaos has come and already
a change is upon you. Feel it warp your bones, the very
course of your bloodlines. It will shape the future and I will
be there to witness it. Htarken the Everchanging shall
stand upon the ashen corpses of you all and exult.
Doomed it cawed, eyes widening in a sudden fervor.
Doomed, doomed, doomed, doom
Elfling! Snorri cleaved the raving daemon with his axe as
Malekith plunged Avanuir into its heart.
Htarken screamed a thousand times all at once as it was
cast back into the abyss. An inner fire consumed it,
possessed of chilling heat that made the elf and dwarf
recoil.
In a flare of light, the last gasp of a candle flame before
its air has run out, Htarken was gone and left only colorful
ash motes in its wake. Great Betrayal
Mobility: 5 (surprisingly)
Max& Effective Range: Ranged Spell craft
Preferred Range: Wherever he can best spread his gifts!
'Until I haled close, I thought his shin was roiling and writhing. Then I saw dozens of tiny Daemons
burrowing through his flesh, gnawing on his hones and sulking upon his vile secretions. All this horror
was belied by the beasts cultured voice, which welcomed me as a long-lost son even as I fell retching to
my knees.
A Great Unclean One is invariably a gigantic figure bloated with decay, disease and all imaginable kinds
of physical corruption. The Daemons skin is a necrose and leathery surface covered with pockmarks,
sores and other signs of loathsome infestation. His inner organs, rank with decay, spill through the
ruptured skin and hang like rotting drapes about an immense girth. From these organs burst tiny
pustulant creatures called Nurglings, which chew and suck upon the nauseous juices within. Such
foulness echoes the fundamental truth of the universe: whilst there is life, there will be ruin and decay,
even unto the end of all things. Daemon codex 8e
Despite its appearance the Great Unclean One is not morbid or grim- far from it! There is probably not a
single daemon as happy and joyful as he!. They are so sentimental and seemingly kind towards the
daemons they command that they refer to them as my children. It appears that a Unclean One has
genuine pride when those nurglites he commands wreak havoc and spread disease, and is moved to
wrath if they are attacked. They attack their enemies with ebullient and cynical commentary, trying to
break their confidence and resolve while simultaneously praising their followers. Should adjective-laden
oratory fail this mighty creature will instead be moved to fight.
Indeed it is said that Great Unclean Ones are the embodiment of every self-destructive physical or
emotional defense mortals use to justify their misery. Like all things with Nurgle their jovial outward
appearance belies a snister inward nature.
When roused to battle, a Great Unclean One is a truly horrifying entity. He bellows ribald joy across the
battlefield in stentorian tones, brimming with the jollity of one fulfilling divine commandment, and
pauses only to unleash his formidable sorceries against targets ripe for Nurgles blessings. Made
ponderous by his colossal bulk, a Great Unclean One is slow to advance upon the enemy, but is all but
unstoppable once he has reached his target. Any foe foolish enough to stray into his path swiftly
discovers the immense strength concealed by the Greater Daemons corpulent form. Whether a Plague
Lord batters his enemy with an iron sword dripping with virulent fluid or a plague-ridden flail matters
little, for the result is the same an indescribable mess of blood and bone, already teeming with Nurgles
choicest festering pestilences
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: The Great Unclean One is usually a level 3 or 4 sorcerer who can use spells from the Lore of
Nurgle or of Death. It can use more mundane swords or magical weapons for melee however no matter
what he chooses the weapon is always poisoned. Also is so massive and fat that it can easily crush most
of what it fights. May carry gifts from the daemonic gifts section.
Ropes of mucus drooled from the bloated lords mouth. Its teeth were blackened nubs, rotting in the
gum. Its breath was beyond foul, and rose from its maw in a noisome gas the dwarfs fought hard to
ignore. Worst of all was the daemons laughter. A hideous chuckle burbled from its lips, echoed
mockingly by the crows perched upon its shoulders and fluttering around its corpse-like body. Alkhor was
laughing when its jaw distended to impossibly wide proportions and it unleashed a stream of filth.
Snorri brandished his hammer and a shield of lightning sprang up to protect the king and his charges.
The deluge seemed unending, a veritable torrent of puke and acidic bile from the very pit of the
daemons stomach. It spat and crackled like cooking fat against the runic shield, burning to smoke and
sulphurous vapor that clung to armor, skin and hair. Merciful Valaya was by Snorris side, as the foul slop
ceased at last and the High King was left alive and miraculously unharmed.
The hearth guards fighting either side of the throne were not so fortunate. Dwarfs died in their droves,
their armor melted, skin and bone rendered down to nothing, sloughed away by the disgusting miasma.
Above the fading screams the stentorian tones of Haglarr Grudgekeeper, he who had served the High
King for centuries, could be heard recording each and every name and the reckoning that would follow.Great Betrayal
Defensive: The Great Unclean One, thanks to its bloated nature, is probably the most massive Greater
Daemon there is, bigger than the others by at least 2-3 times. May carry gifts from the daemonic gifts
section .Needless to say it can absorb a lot of damage.
The Reiksguard were everywhere by then, riding their steeds under the very shadow of the daemons
claws and hacking with their longswords. The creature throttled out another echoing roar of pain, and
flailed around more violently. Its cleaver caught two Reiksguard in a single swipe, dragging them from
the saddle. Its balled fist punched out, crushing the helm of another as he angled his lance for the cut.
The clouds of flies buzzed angrily, swarming around the beleaguered daemon and rearing up like snakes
heads. They flew into visors and gorgets, clotting and clogging, forcing knights to pull away from the
attack. Maggots as long as a mans forearm wriggled out of the liquidized earth, and clamped needleteeth to the horses fetlocks. Swarms of tiny daemon-kin with jaws as big as their pulpy bodies spun out
from the greater creatures armpits as it thrashed around, clamping their incisors onto anything they
landed on and gnawing deep.
The Reiksguard fought on through the hail of horrors, casting aside the lesser creatures in order to strike
at the greater abomination beyond, but the creature before them was no mere tallyman or plaguebearer
it was the greatest of its dread breed, and the swords of mortal men held little terror for it. Its vast
cleaver whirled around metronomically, slicing through plate armor like age-rotten parchment. Helborg
saw three more of his men carved apart in a single swipe, their priceless battle-plate smashed apart in
seconds.- The Fall of Altdorf
The Great Unclean One can spawn Nurglings from its body as it moves. Also whereas other daemons
are embodiments of specific aspects of the gods it is said the Great Unclean One is almost a carbon copy
of Nurgle in terms of personality, drives and thoughts. As the embodiment of corruption, the very land
in the Great Unclean Ones immediate vicinity will rapidly decay and die.
Mobility: 8 (as agile and fast as a daemon can get on the ground)
It granted me all I desired; but took from me all that I valued.
I would give anything to look upon its beauty once again .'
A Keeper of Secrets longs to spoil purity, instill damnation, destroy faith and solicit excess, often driving
those it corrupts to new heights just to invoke sensation. It is the embodiment of every fetish and
perversion; of selfish lust and violent jealousy; of dark dirty pleasure and the abuse of trust; of extreme
domination and sadism. Fear and lust are what it prizes the most; however any extreme mortal
sensation will do. They can raise a mortal up to the highest heights of pride, as done with Sigvald, or
drown him in the greatest depths of despair.
No two Keepers of Secrets are exactly the same, as they are formed by whatever whim Slaanesh had at
the time. Some may look bovine, others like crab-people and maybe a few are actually beautiful in our
standards without using supernatural magic. However all are powerful combatants mortals would
dread to fear.
A Keeper of Secrets is a terrifying foe to face, delighting in exquisite pain, the caress of claw through
skin and muscle, bone and organ. Its enormous razor-edged claws can tear apart a heavily-armored
knight with one graceful slash while its hands can crush bone with horrifying ease. No other Daemon can
match a Keepers fluid grace in battle. Its actions are a ballet of exquisitely performed blows. Every strike
by claw or blade is bestowed with almost delicate precision; a sensuous caress becomes a rib-crushing
embrace, and a casual swipe becomes a drawn-out gouge which spills organs and blood upon the ground
in all manner of pleasing patterns.
The Keeper of Secrets is extremely dangerous outside of melee as well, capable of casting spells that
directly plays to the passion of their enemies. Through this it can manipulate their desires and dreams,
making it difficult for all but the strongest willed to fight them. A Keeper of Secrets is utterly fearless
as to it death is just a sensation to be tasted and enjoyed.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Its claws. The Keeper of Secrets is a master melee

combatant, and undeniably the most skilled daemon after the
Bloodthirster. Generally armor is no obstacle, and they can
shred a knight with a single swipe. Furthermore Keepers of
Secrets are master sorcerers capable of using spells from the
Lore of Slaanesh or Shadow. Their blows are made with
immense speed, being hard to track even by Elven eyes . May
carry gifts from the daemonic gifts section.
Defensive: Though innately tough, the Keeper of Secrets
main defense is the sheer grace that it moves, and the skill
that it parries/dodges attacks. Also it stands several times a
persons height. May carry gifts from the daemonic gift
section.
What a world you mortals inhabit! Rich in sensation, suffused
with suffering and reeking of all manner of unfulfilled desire.
Come, embrace me, and learn the exquisite gifts my Prince
can bestow. Keeper of Secrets to victim
The highest ranks of the greater daemons are the

terrifying and fearsome exalted daemons, the ultimate
instruments of the will of the gods. Those of Khorne or
Slaanesh have damned or slaughtered so many to
impress even their patrons, while the schemes and
plagues of those of Nurgle and Tzeentch must be
incredible indeed for those gods to welcome beings in
their inner circle. These horrific creatures stand as the
bodyguards, confidants, advisors and deadliest
servants of the Chaos gods. Standing larger than their
unannointed (and envious) brethren these creatures
radiate some of the unholy power of their dark masters
themselves. They are legends, they are horrors, and
they are the whispered fiends that are said to murder
whole armies, civilizations, even worlds.
While all daemons have auras, the associated emotions and magic around these Exalted are so strong as
to be completely disruptive to anyone within certain distance of it(between 100 to 25m). The Exalted
Lord of Change croaks utter divine nonsense, all-seeing intuitions juxtaposed with intriguing halftruths that make even the strong-willed second guess their every intention (in practical terms,
weakening combat effectiveness) . So stuffed and boiling to the brim with diseases is an Exalted Great
Unclean One that most mortals will quickly collapse from the mere immediate presence of one. A
Exalted Keeper of Secrets sends out waves of pleasure and pain that numbs those not of pure of heart
or body, while Khornes wrath can cause those around the Bloodthirster to turn into something out of
28 Days Later.
Naturally, all Exalted Greater Daemons bar the Bloodthirster are wizards in their respective lores of the
highest caliber. The Exalted Unclean One can vomit up an extremely potent barrage of acidic bile,
blood and maggots while the Lord of Change can shoot the living flames of Tzeentch out his claws. The
Exalted Bloodthirster of Khorne has some of Khornes own armor built into his brass that essentially
negates all magical weapons in his immediate presence with the possible exception of the most
legendary such as Sigmar. This ability does not apply to spells though the Exalted Greater daemon is as
magically resistant as they come. All variants carry massively powerful and deadly weapons that can
destroy even monstrous creatures through magical effect alone- in but a few moves.
Fortunately for mortals, there are two factors that govern their appearance. The first is that they are
incredibly rare, with Exalted Bloodthirsters confirmed to only number eight in existence- which is
Khornes sacred number. If we assume the number of exalted greater daemons of the other gods
similarly corresponds with their sacred numbers than the number of exalted daemons for Tzeentch,
Nurgle & Slaanesh is 9,7 & 6 respectively. The second reason why they cannot easily manifest is that
so powerful are these creatures that the Winds of Magic have to be roaring at a truly apocalyptic
tempo- beyond even the normal End Times magic- for reality to be weak enough for one to manifest.
Presumably, the god who is ascendant(see Lores of Magic) would find it somewhat easier to bring one
to existence than the others.
It is fortunate that Exalted Daemons are so rare, for when just one does appear only the most legendary
of heroes or massive amounts of firepower have any real guarantee to take one down.
==
Mobility: 2-3
Preferred Range: Spells
"Even the slavers fell silent, however, as a rider emerged from the depths of the ziggurat. He was an
especially loathsome example of dwarf, his black beard dyed with streaks of crimson, his hands encased
in a dazzling array of rings. His squat body was swathed in purple robes upon which flickering flames had
been woven. The dwarfs eyes were hidden behind a veil of silver thread which depended from the brim
of a tall helm of gold adorned with bloodstones. The face beneath the veil was burned, grey scar-tissue
covering most of the bulbous nose and making one cheek resemble lumpy porridge.
More imposing than the hideous dwarf was the beast he rode out from the gates. It was a creature the
likes of which Wulfrik had never seen in all his travels. In shape it was not unlike some great black bull,
but from its back immense leathery wings were spread, fanned out like the pinions of a dragon. The tail
was long and thick, more like that of some giant reptile than a beast of the field, and at its tip was a
mallet-like knob of bone. The monsters hind legs ended in steel-shod hooves, but its forelegs were tipped
by hand-like paws, each finger ending in a long claw sheathed in steel. The head of the beast was an
even more ghastly mixture of dwarf and bovine than the centaur Wulfrik had killed, immense horns
curling away from a black, leathery face with a curly red beard. With every breath, the creature exhaled
a cloud of greasy smoke that sparkled weirdly as it swirled about the beast and its rider." -Wulfrik
Daemonsmith are the brilliant and terrible engineers of the Chaos Dwarves who, combining sorcery and
mad science, create and maintain the terrible siege engines the Chaos Dwarves use. It was they who,
millennia ago, lead their people from near extinction to a prosperous if tyrannical empire. Their works
of sorcery and engineering are legendary, from the great obsidian and basalt towers and ziggurats
drawn forth from the earth, and the dark iron towers raised up throughout the Dark Lands, to the
steam-hissing engines that crush rock in slave mines and the baroque armor which adorns the Chaos
warriors of the north. All are their dark knowledge made manifest.
Though the Daemonsmiths have no clear-cut hierarchy, age and wisdom is respected among them just
as it is among the Dwarves. The oldest and presumably wisest are known as the Sorcerer-Prophets
and they seem to take up the closest position as leaders of their race. These positions are only
maintained through strength, and should they show weakness they will be usurped and thrown into the
sacrificial fires of their god.
In battle the Daemonsmiths of Hashut are terrifying and unpredictable opponents, their dark magics
able to work terrible danger upon the environment. They are each also master artisans of war and may
lend their skills to war machine crews or themselves bear savage and potent examples of their craft such
as black powder weapons, mighty armor, and flasks of burning alchemical oil, daemon-bound blades
and ensorcelled weapons. Each however must display great caution when they wield their occult
power, for each spell they wield could also be their last. Chaos Dwarf sorcerers suffer from the fact that
their race was not created with sorcery in mind. As a result there is a chance with each spell they cast
that a part of them turns to stone, eventually reducing them to immobile, stone statues.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Darkforged
Weaponry: Paranoid
and malign, the
Daemonsmiths of the
Chaos Dwarfs often
retain their most
potent work for their
own use. These
Darkforged weapons
can vary in style and
shape according, to
the whims of their
creator, as can the
abilities granted to
than by the twisted
runes and nightmarish
infusions bound within
them. For example
these abilities can help
them cast or dispel
spells easier, make
them even more
hateful or make the
weapon life-leeching,
allow them to fire a
long-ranged
technological fireball
from their weapon or even be possessed by a daemon, making the weapon much stronger at the cost of
having a weapon that wants (and sometimes succeeds) in turning itself against the Daemonsmith.
Napatha Bombs: Containing sorcerous concoctions of sulphurous chemicals and the filtered essence of
fire-daemons sundered as a by-product of their dark arts, Napatha bombs are unstable explosive flasks
which break apart into masses of seething flame. These can be thrown up to 25 meters . Though most
of these bombas are relatively stable, a very few have been known to go off in their owners hands.
Blood of Hashut: The so-called Blood of Hashut is a powerful alchemical substance saturated with
daemonic magic that ignites metal on contact, busting it into molten flame. Although precious beyond
mere gold, the favored of the Dark God Hashtut sometimes carry a vial of this liquid into combat to the
devastation of the most heavily armored foe. Essentially can be used to give an incredible advantage in
a single armored duel.
Both Daemonsmiths and Sorcerer Prophets may know spells from the Lore of Hashut, Fire or Metal, with
the latter knowing more than the former. Daemonsmiths usually range from level 1-3 sorcerers while
Sorcerer-Prophets, being rarer, are almost always going to be level 3-4.
Potential Magical Weapons: Though magical weapons are rare by virtue of their status Daemonsmiths
can acquire magical weapons. These might include a hammer that can crush ogre bones and lights
everything it hits on fire, a dagger of pure malice, and even an instant-kill mace that devours the warmth
of whatever it touches. By far the most powerful if singular, the Daemon Flask of Ashak, once unleashed,
invokes terror in everyone within 100 meters and viciously attacks all technology. Unfortunately it can
only be used once, as the daemon inside uses the escape to flee to the Aether.
Finally some Chaos Dwarfs have a class of priestly bodyguards of women too old to reproduce as
shown by the novel Wulfrik. As the masters of the Chaos Dwarves see them as useless these women
are sometimes trained in warrior arts and used as expendable and fanatic bodyguards.
Defensive: Blackshard Armor. Rarely they might have a talisman that boosts toughness or flame
protection. The very best magical piece is a near unbreakable armor with magic resistance.
Daemonsmiths can function as specialized engineers with a slightly better fire rate and an uncanny
ability to survive if something goes wrong. They are so stubborn that they show no fear in battle, and
are well experienced with many decades or centuries behind them. However they are extremely rare,
with only several hundred total throughout their entire empire, much less then can easily be afforded
on one battlefield. Sorcerer-Prophets are rarer still. Daemonsmiths may ride a Lamassu or Great Taurus
into battle while the Sorcerer Prophet might ride either of those or the Bale Taurus into combat.
Mobility: 4
Preferred Range: Spell
Since ages past the Truthsayers of Albion have been the

guardians of the sacred orham stones which were
constructed by the Old Ones. They have passed down the
teachings of the Old Ones from master to apprentice and
ensured that the forces of Chaos have been contained. Now
however Kheciss, the foremost of the Truthsayers, has
entered the ancient metal structure known as the Citadel of
Lead. He did not return for some time, and other Truthsayers
also entered the Citadel to discover his fate. When this group
emerged, with Kheciss at their head, they came as emissaries
of a new and terrible master. Once tall and noble warriormages, these Dark Emissaries had been changed into hunched, twisted figures covered by robes and
cowls. When Kheciss proposed to the council of Truthsayers that they should obey the Dark Master and
unleash the power locked in the Ogham stones the Truthsayers were outraged and banished the
renegade Dark Emissaries from Albion. The Dark Emissaries have not been idle in their exile.
Historically Dark Emissaries helped instigate and fought for the War of Albion. In this conflict the Old
Ones artifacts were the prize; devices that could, upon removal, make it far easier for daemons to
manifest, give its wielders extreme power or some other malevolent combination. For that reason, even
as Truthsayers were appealing to the good factions of the world to save their island, the Dark Emissaries
were appealing to the evil, thus turning the simple island squabble into a continental conflict. This was
just as planned by the shadowy master, Be'lakor, who in the midst of the conflict gradually siphoned
more and more power to allow himself to escape the curse of the Chaos Gods and walk freely.
Ultimately, though his full objectives were unachieved, Be'lakor did manage to escape the curse and
gained the ability to roam freely. He fled Albion, recognizing that he could achieve no further gains
there. Hiss servants the Dark Emissaries, those few that survived the campaign, have been frequently
seen wandering the Old World and hiring themselves out to various bidders . Then they cozy up to these
rulers, becoming more and more important in the grand schemes of their erstwhile masters. Their
employers thus grow to depend on their sorceries and arcane advice. Then, when their ruler needs
them most, they vanish, leaving the ruler to his fate. It is unknown why the Dark Emissaries operate in
this way, but it is similar to how their old master Be'lakor operated in the past....
===LOADOUT===
Offensive: Dark Emissaries can carry swords or axes, in addition to the wielding the Staff of Darkness.
This malign staff connects directly to the Aether, allowing them to wield the powers of death and
destruction with greater precision. They can use the Lore of Shadows, Death or, as of the Albion
campaign, the Lore of the Dark Master:
--1 Bolt of Dark Light : The Dark Emissary conjures the powers of the Dark Master and unleashes a
deadly ray of pure dark energy. Has a range of 100 meters and can hit up to 6 at once.
--2. Betrayal in Death : Under the effect of this curse, enemy warriors who are mortally wounded are
transformed into ghastly animated bodies and turn to attack their comrades. This spell is cast on a single
unit at 100 meters and those reborn warriors attack enemies in a zombie-like fashion, generally forgoing
weapons.
--3. Nightmare : The perverse arts of the Dark Emissary creates the illusion of the enemy's worst fears in
front of their very eyes. Has a range of 300 meters, and if successful causes the enemy unit to flee.
--4. Curse of The Dark Master : The heart of the enemy is grasped by icy tentacles of fear and doubt that
saps their strength and their will to fight. Thus reducing their effectiveness in combat. This curse can be
cast on any single unit in the whole battlefield, and will not end until dispelled, the unit dies, or the
caster (the Dark Emissary) dies.
--5. Fog of Death: A mysterious fog rises from the ground, shrouding the entire battlefield. All fighting
stops for a short time, while friend and foe alike are lost in the haze and sinister screams fill the air. This
spell can affect all enemy units on the battlefield, with the weakest enemies perishing from it. However
the Dark Emissary has limited control and usually at least half of the friendly force suffers from the same
ill effects.
--6.Coils Of The Serpent: A writhing form snakes its way from the outstretched hands of the Dark
Emissary and wraps its coils around a single enemy warrior, crushing the life out of his body if he isn't
tough enough to fight the snake off. Has a range of 50 meters.
Additional Factors:
-The Dark Emissary is someone who can counted upon to sow discord, and if given the chance will
infiltrate the leadership of the enemy or neutral factions, spreading false information, lies and other
attempts to sow discord and evil. They are however rare, and only a handful have been spotted since
the wars of Albion.
Mobility: 4
Max & Effective Range:
Spell
(mostly)
The Fimir are a race of

Chaos-corrupted lizardlike cyclopean creatures.
Long before the race of man had emerged from the tribal stage, the Fimir held a vast civilization in
which worship was centered around the Chaos gods. For a time this lizard race enjoyed their favor,
however as man advanced the eyes of Chaos were increasingly drawn to them, abandoning the Fimir .
The Fimir civilization entered a rapid decline, and those scattered remnants now live secluded in their
swamp domains.
When a Storm of Magic reigns the
Fimir deign to make an appearance
once more, for they all secretly long
for the fickle favor of Chaos. When
the armies of Chaos mass so too do
the Fimir join them, either through
bound scrolls as the result of
daemons or as part of a desperate
wish to somehow aid in the ultimate
victory of Chaos. And now, in the
End Times, they have a real chance
to gain the Dark Gods gaze once
more.
There are two types of Fimir that commonly might appear .The first are the mighty warriors. Bound in
dark grey armor and led by scheming nobles, this group forms the shock attack of any raids the Fimir
continue to launch. They can wield great halberds, giant cleavers or axes and attack with a giant spiked
tail. A warlord might lead these armed with magic weaponry. These warriors might be accompanied by
small hordes of lightly armed Fimm warriors clothed in little more than a loincloth (though a rare one
might be gifted leather armor) and given clubs, maybe shields too.
Rarely a balefiend might show up, a wizard of fire
and shadow that continually seeks to actively court
chaos. Though their magic is noted for being cruder
then those of humans or elves, they have long since
stolen certain powers of daemons and have innate
ability to see the winds of magic. If the Fimir are
truly committed a Meargh might appear, who are
the Fimir queen matriarchs that rule the tribes and
have countless years of experience. Both the
Warriors and Balefiends are noted for arriving via
magical mists, which makes it harder for enemies to
target them. In fact older army books has them
causing mists just by existing.
The Fimirs weakness is that they dislike bright
sunlight, and will suffer if their mists are removed
from them. Indeed this is shown in Lords of the
Marsh, where victims of the race manage to escape
as soon as the night ended.
===LOADOUT===
Offensive: Halberds, clubs, two-handed mauls, swords etc. Depends on variants. In addition to hand
weapons, many also have knives or spikes attached to their tails.
Defensive: The Fimir warrior seems to have a sort of bronze armor while the rest must rely on their
reptile scaly skin or a light shield at best as defense.
===ADDITIONAL FACTORS===
A grey mist hovered above the floor, almost concealing the furry bodies strewn about the slimy stones.
There were hundreds of dead skaven littering the cavern. Visscher thought at first the mist might be
some of their poison gas, that some accident had struck and annihilated the scheming rodents. Then,
through a gap in the mist, he was able to get a good look at the dead ratmen. The bodies were viciously
mutilated, hacked and torn in an abominable manner. What had happened here had been no accident,
but a massacre.
Theyre all dead, Visscher whispered. How?
Seeckt shook his head, unable to conceive an answer. He turned his gaze across the cavern, then
froze. He grabbed Visschers shoulder, turning him so he faced the far end of the chamber.
On the ground, mutilated as badly as any of the ratkin, was the body of Gustav Mertens. But it
wasnt the lunatics corpse that arrested the attention of the men. It was the thing walking off into the
darkness, vanishing into a mist-choked passageway. Taller than skaven or man, its body covered in slimy
green skin, its beaked head twisted into a fanged snout and great baleful eye. A single eye, shining with
malefic intelligence, exuding the immortal hate of an eldritch race.
When Gnawlitch Shun chose a legend to hide his raiders, Seeckt whispered, he should have
made sure the legend wasnt real. - Marshlight
The Fimir are an exceptionally rare race that has been confined mostly to the greatest depths of
swamps. Even in Sigmars time they were almost a legend, and though driven to aid Chaos in a vain
attempt to gain glory once more, they can only provide a highly limited contribution.
Mobility: 4
Preferred Range: Melee( mostly)
Role: Attached to most units
In Warhammer Fantasy standards are
symbols often displayed proudly by the
armies and individual units that carry
them. Often they openly illustrate the companies history and achievement, allowing its present
company to take pride in their past. Their very presence can raise moral somewhat and even inspire
men to match the deeds of their forbearers.
Chaos too has banners to employ. Sometimes it might be the symbol of a past Daemon Prince who
ascended to a new level, and its descendants wish to curry his favor by proudly displaying his mark. This
train of logic might apply to specific Daemons or Gods as well, for the Bloodletters of Khorne too might
carry the banner of a particularly inspiring champion. Other times it might be a captured enemy
standard held high, torn up, and taken for their own(common among the Beasts). In this way the unit
can show off one of their greatest triumphs to their allies, intimidate/piss off the enemy and generally
take pride in their own feats.
Standards are a minor morale raiser on the battlefield, but far from the only one. Warhammer armies,
even Chaos, usually bring some sort of music to the battlefield. These can be primitive drums,
melodious shouting or chanting. This applies to even Daemons, with Bloodletters chanting the names of
those who they have slain into battle (which may include friends/relatives of the enemy) and Slaanesh
Daemonettes providing an eerie, melodious singing. This serves to get the blood pumping before battle
and even demoralize the enemy.
Rarest of all (with even Greater Daemons appearing at greater frequency) are those standards endowed
with actual magical ability. Ranging in effect from enticing fear among the enemy to even holding a
spell inside, these magical standards can shape the battlefield itself. Most magical banners effect only
the unit they are attached to unless otherwise noted. Examples include
==BEASTMEN==
-Manbane Banner: Essentially a scarecrow banner, but with a man on top! This banner is designed to
invoke fear in men.
-Totem of Rust: Causes metal to rapidly decay in this banners immediate presence.
-Beast Banner: Made from the skins of past successful bestigor champions, this supernatural banner
boosts the strength of the unit it is attached to, giving them a buff equivalent to making a scrawny
teenage fighter into a weightlifter. Only in this case the Beastman was already stronger than a man
DAEMONS OF CHAOS
-Banner of Unholy Victory: This magical banner bends reality and forcibly scours images of past Chaos
victories on the enemy, hurting morale and mutilating the enemy.
-Banner of Decay: infested with all sorts of diseases that infect, debilitate and even quickly kill enemies
nearby.
-Icon of Unending War: Makes already bloodthirstily Khornates yet more bloodthirsty and powerful in
combat.
-Siren Banner: Like the Sirens of Greek myth this banners alluring song stuns the senses of most of
those in earshot, giving the Slaaneshi force it is attached to an advantage.
-Hellfire banner: Infused with supernatural hellfire that can be used as a spell on any foe within 300
meters.
WARRIORS OF CHAOS
-Blasted Banner: A Tzeentchi banner that protects an attached unit against ranged fire. A hail of
muskets might turn into a bundle of feathers or bright colored smoke. However like everything Tzeentch
has his whims are unpredictable and a volley of arrows might, for instance, turn into a number of giant
meteors and do more damage than they would otherwise.
-Banner of Rage; Turns Khornate followers into creatures in a state of permanent bloodlust.
-Rapturous Standard: Torn from the skin of a dozen hysterical maniacs, this banner gives the entire unit
immunity to fear.
-Banner of the Dark Gods: Evokes a field of supernatural terror and makes those carrying it virtually
immune to enemy morale attacks.
CHAOS DWARF
-Banner of Slavery: Actually manages to supernaturally force Hobgoblins nearby to stop being cowardly
and fight amongst themselves.
Erich reached the crest of the hill and raised the banner high over his head. It flapped thickly in the
wind. Though there was no change in the weather, a pall seemed to fall across the whole valley, as if the
banner sucked up light. Reiner felt a chill shiver through him. Franka moaned. The effect on the troops in
the valley was even stronger. Manfred's men faltered and fell back all along his line, stunned into
inaction by the banner's dread influence.
()
'As you wish, lady,' said Erich, shrugging off her hand. 'There is no need to move. Back to your cannon!'
he called to the gun crews. 'I'll handle this rabble.'
The artillerymen obeyed like sheep.
'Shoot him!' shouted Reiner, drawing his pistols, as Erich started to turn the banner. 'Kill him!'
Franka and Giano raised their bows as Oskar aimed his handgun by laying the long barrel across the
splint of his broken wrist.
'Hold your fire!' Erich commanded, and to Reiner's chagrin, he found it impossible to disobey the order.
He could not force his fingers to squeeze the triggers. The others were similarly affected, shaking with
the effort to shoot.
Hands shaking, Giano finally fired his crossbow, but the bolt flew off at an angle. 'Curse it!' said the
Tilean, frustrated. 'My hands no listen!'
'It's the banner,' said Franka, her arms trembling as she held her bow at full draw.
Erich laughed and raised the banner, pointing at them with his free hand as his six swordsmen advanced.
'Kneel, soldiers! Listen to your leader. I am your rightful captain, you must follow my orders. Kneel and
bow your heads.'
To Reiner's left and right Pavel, Hals and Oskar fell to their knees. Their chins dropped to their chests,
though he could see them struggling to raise them. Reiner felt an almost unconquerable urge to follow
suit. Erich was their rightful leader. He was the most senior officer now that Veirt was dead, and he was
so strong and brave and had so much more experience than Reiner. It would be such a relief to let the
mantle of command slip from his shoulders and let someone else lead again. Reiner's knees bent, but as
he looked up to his beloved leader, he paused halfway to the ground.
Erich's face was twisted in a smug sneer, a jarring discontinuity with the noble image of him Reiner held
in his head. He froze as his mind fought to reconcile the two pictures. To his left he saw that Giano and
Franka were similarly halted in mid-genuflection.
Erich's swordsmen were closing, moving not like soldiers of the Empire, but like apes, hunched and
menacing, eyes blank, and mouths slack. Reiner tried to move, but his limbs couldn't answer the
conflicting commands his mind was sending them.
The first swordsman reached Franka and raised his sword like an executioner. Franka shook with the
effort to leap away, but could not. The sword was coming down.
'No!' barked Reiner, and fired his first pistol without thinking, blasting a ball up through the swordsman's
jaw and out of the top of his head. The man dropped, gouting blood and spilling brains, and Reiner found
that this small disobedience had broken the banner's hold on him. He could move.
The pistol's report had freed Franka and Giano as well. They stumbled back from the attacking
swordsmen, gasping and cursing, but Oskar, Pavel and Hals were still frozen, sagging bonelessly to the
ground. The swordsmen closed to cut them down.-Valnirs Bane, describing the effects and limitations
of an obedience banner. Of the books in the Bibliography section, this is the only one describing a
magical banner.
Standing slightly taller than a man, Elves are considered superior in many respects. They have better
hearing, vision (including seeing
at night), dexterity, agility and
accuracy. Lithe and graceful, no
human acrobat can match even
most of the least of the Elven
versions. Thanks to their long
years many carry decades or
even centuries of combat
resistance with them.
Elves are often portrayed as
creatures as antithetical to Chaos
as they are in their Sci-Fi
counterpart, or the Elves of
Tolkien against the shadow of
Mordor. Yet this is far from the
truth. Though it is true that the
Elven race has a major resistance
on account of indomitable pride,
long lifespans and a mindset that
is, by and large, alien to most aspects of Chaos. The subset known as the Druichi- a cruel, treacherous
breed- suffers from a malformity of the soul however they are not corrupted.
Previously the main Chaos god who had any pull on the Elven race was Slaanesh, who like in 40k is said
to consume Elven souls upon death. As Elves pursue extremes of emotions it is common throughout
their history for pleasure cults to emerge through groups of like-minded thrill seekers grouping
together to pursue ever more exotic and extreme acts of indulgence. Historically whenever these
pleasure cults have been discovered by Elven authorities, whether Druichi or Asur or Asrai, the
response has been to put them down violently.
However in rejecting Slaanesh these early Elves saw fit to choose another god as a patron; the God of
Blood and Murder, Khaine. Elves of all sorts have had a historical relationship with this god, for in the
ancient times it was Khaine that helped empower Aenarion to his legendary demi-god like status. In
return for this exchange the murder god has left an imprint on every Elven soul. The Asrai and Asur do
their best to suppress this urge, or else embrace the more native side of themselves to a greater extent.
It is only in Druichi lands however that Khaine worship had become endemic and eventually dominated
their society.
Many observers have commented on the similarity between Khaine and Khorne. The difference,
according to Druichi, is one of control. A Khainite is supposed to hold their bloodlust in until either ritual
or battle; a Khornate has no stipulations and is likened to a mad dog. Lapses of discipline are relatively
easy mistakes to make, and the Tomb of Corruption notes that Druichi have fallen to the path of the
Blood God before. These were suppressed like the pleasure cults. It wasnt until the End Times and
extreme manifold of Khornes power, along with the final death of Khaine, that the entire cult of Khaine
was subverted entirely to Khornes will.
Led by Hellebron the Cult of Khaine is primarily Druichi composed, but also retains elements of Asur and
Asrai as well. At the point taken they were a fairly common in the remaining elves, the only real religious
institution to survive the fall of Ulthuan. Numbering in the thousands at least the newly christened Cult
of the Blood Queen had lost its previous finesse, used as a blunt instrument in much the same manner
as the Skaramor (Though if Hellebron is there, shell try to use others as fodder for her force before
committing her elves).
The vast majority of the force suffers from the Madness of Khaine (or now Khorne), an affliction that
sometimes in the heat of battle causes them to turn on their allies. These wounds are made more
deadly by the tendency of the entire force to carry highly poisonous weaponry. In the event Hellebron is
killed or is forced to leave early, there is a chance the bloodlust could leave the less consumed elves of
the force, restoring sanity.
Sub-units found in this force include:
Mobility: 5
The Witch Elves of Khaine are known for their
great cruelty and lust for blood. In both rituals
and the heat of battle they have a reputation for
pulling the still-beating hearts out of foes, or
else disembowel someone and drape
themselves in their entrails. This desire carries
over to pre-battle, where they drink blood laced
with poisonous herbs to drive themselves in a
spectacular frenzy. Like the berserkers of Khorne
they always claimed to have disdained this
drives them into a state where they completely
ignore their own defense, diving into enemy lines in a whirlwind of blades, blood and gore. Any
enemies still alive at the end of battle are physically torn apart in the post-battle celebration.
Witch Elves are led by Death Hags, the priestesses of the order. These are the ones who mix the brews
pre-battle that drives their unit to fight with such fury. Sometimes they create Witchbrew, a concoction
that drives the elves into a supernatural frenzy that causes them to attack with speed normally
unheard of even for an elf, but what makes them next to impossible for commanders to control.
Others might carry supernatural runes that magnify the potency of their weapons or else invoke fear in
her foes.
Offensive: Two long knives or other sort of blades. The Death Hag might have a magical weapon.
Defensive: Other than sometimes having the sense to dodge they wear no body armor. These warriors
come to battle with very little clothes worn.
The Death Hag might come mounted on a Cauldron of Blood.
Mobility: 5
A Har Ganeath executioner is an artist at work,
a specialist who has dedicated his entire life to
the mastery of one aspect of combat; the art of
the killing blow, the execution. Practicing on
countless captives before moving their way up to
the battlefield the executioner quickly comes to
earn his or her title. Unlike much of the rest of
the Druichi contingent here they are not
butchers but rather cold-blooded murderers.
The Executioners are not interested in torture
only in perfecting the most efficient execution.
It takes decades for an Executioner to perfect his
chosen moves, to discover the little minute
details like the precise angle of the chosen strike or whether splinters of bone might spoil the move. But
in the end the training makes them legends across Naggarond and beyond. It is said that a fully trained
Executioner knows how to kill any creature in the world in but a single blow, whether its decapitation,
a heart stab or disembowelment.
Offensive:Executioners wield Draiches, finely forged blades that become an extension of their own
bodies. Sometimes this weapon is carved in the form of a spear, a sword or an axe or even more exotic
weapons. All are deadly, efficient weapons with the power to bypass armor quite effectively.
Defensive: Steel Armor
Mobility: 5
The Sisters of Slaughter are the Wyches of
Warhammer Fantasy, for any those are familiar
with the 40k equivalent. Lithe, fast and with a
need to prove themselves, the Sisters of
Slaughter travel the world to throw themselves
against the most worthy of enemies. Daemons,
Elves, Dwarfs etc. it does not matter. Only that
the enemy fights and gives them a challenge; a
Sister will not run down cowardly fleeing foes if
there is any other foe around they can fight.
Nothing else; no treasure or loot, slaves or
power matters to them. Only the thrill of the
slaughter and the challenge of worthy battle.
Once, every Druichi city had an amphitheater
dedicated to only showcasing the skills of these
Blood Queens. Now, with Naggarond in ruins
and the End Times in full force, the Sisters of
Slaughter have taken the opportunity to enjoy
fighting some of the most diverse and powerful
enemies the world has to offer. Many have
been slain but still many contingents continued to exist at the point the profile is used. While not all of
them joined Hellebrons defection, quite a few did as the Sisters really care nothing else except
slaughter. However they were a rare elite unit in better times, something made only worse now.
Offensive: All manner of blades, which is fitting since the Sisters of Slaughter worship a god of blades.
They are also extremely lithe and agile, able to vault over shield walls and attack with immense
reflexes.
Defense: By virtue of their extreme agility, the Sisters are extremely hard to hit in melee combat. In
addition some carry shields.
Mobility: 5
Max & Effective Range: 50 meters
Cruel beyond measure, the Dreadspears

and Bleakswords usually form the core of
the Dark Elf armies. These are career
soldiers whose nominal task is to guard
the cities, maintain order and serve as
frontline troops for most Druichi armies.
Only in the Cult of Blood is their role as
the main troop supplanted by the Brides
of Khaine.
All Druichi are arrogant beyond tolerance, but Bleakswords surpass even most of the rest of their
kindred. Each of them believes him or herself to be the true champion of the age, a warrior without
peer. They forsake aid from their fellows or any form of ranged weaponry, instead opting to charge in
and engage in melee combat.
Dreadspears meanwhile are far more disciplined warriors who look down upon the Bleakswords as
brash adventurers. They operate in battle by forming disciplined spear walls glittering with points that
can stop a raging marauder horde straight in its tracks. In battle they usually serve as strong bastions
to hold the line.
Black Arc Corsairs are the state sanctioned pirates of the Druichi realm, warriors who would travel on
their black arcs to raid much of the world. Its a hard life, for they must often fight against navies from
all across the world, but often one very financially rewarding. In combat Corsairs favor weapons that suit
their close combat lifestyle including punch daggers, short blades, as well as nets, barbed chains and
other forms of grapples.
Offensive: Spears or swords depending on the variant. Corsair uses short blades and daggers as well as
grappling hooks, nets and other means to entangle a foe. A few might have repeater hand bows.
Defensive: Light Leather armor and shield(for Dreadspears and Bleakswords). Corsairs have tough, scaly
sea dragon coats.
Mobility: 5
Though the vast majority of the Asur race wanted nothing to
do with their longtime Druichi enemies, many were incredibly
disillusioned by the events on Ulthuan and upset from its fall.
Many killed themselves, others gave up their disciplined
lifestyle to embrace a path they once hated; the path of
Khaine. Though fewer Asur joined then Asrai or Druichi there
were still enough to form whole companies of High Elven spearmen, who are so renowned for their
order in battle that commands can be said and carried out without a word. It is probable however that
this discipline suffered when under the effect of the madness of Khaine however.
The Asrai had always embraced both the more noble aspects of themselves and the darker side familiar
to the Druichi. Historically this was kept in balance, for the Asrai believed that neither light nor dark
must reign over one another but kept in harmony. In the End Times some have disregarded this previous
belief and, already teetering on the edge, joined in far greater numbers than the Asur.
The primary unit that could be found was the Glade Rider. This unit is known for carrying out such
daring maneuvers as turning backwards while riding full speed to fire a precise shot or darting through
surprised enemy outriders. By a combination of luck, skill and bond with their steeds (for Asrai do not
view their horses as servants, but as the closest of kin. Outside observers have seen the horse obey the
Asurs demands almost as if it was telepathic.
Offensive: High Elf brings a spear. The Glade Rider brings a spear, a hand weapon and a longbow. Some
might have magical arrows
Defense: Light armor for Asur.
Mobility: 6
Preferred Range: Neutral
Khainite assassins are trained since birth to specialize in
stealth and murder. Combined with their own innate traits
the assassin becomes so skillful that even other Druichi
cannot compete. An assassin can run across the raised
spear points of a phalanx, move undetected by elven
hearing or exploit every weak point of armor or flesh
with each precise strike.
In the notoriously paranoid society of the Druichi, an
assassin can infiltrate and remain undetected in any
Druichi unit. They can do so for years, earning a small
degree of comradery with their comrades (as much as it
possible for a Druichi) before suddenly and bloodily
revealing themselves, either on the battlefield or in the barracks. Assassins are sadistic and take great
joys in using every means at their disposal to kill a foe over days if they are able.
To aid in this they are master and creative poisoners. With but a glancing blow by one of their blades
hearts might be induced to explode, brains to rupture and bones shatter. To illustrate further the
creativity of Druichi poisons in Archaon: Everchosen he had an underling that sought to poison him. The
manner from which he did so was to poison Archaons blade, seemingly to make it more deadly.
However in the last moments the enemy would breathe out fumes onto the chaos warlord that, while
not deadly the first couple times, would accumulate after several hundred such slayings making
Archaon stupider, more wrathful and bloodthirsty. By several thousand he was cationic and the Druichi
was temporarily able to kill Archaon (before his soul rebelled and he came back, albeit with the help of
Tzeentch).
Specific poisons include the Black Lotus poison which makes enemies delusional and insane (probably a
variant was used with Archaon). Dark Venom makes it so the enemy suffers an extremely gruesome,
drawn out death while manbane enables the slightest scratch
to be fatal.
Offensive: Throwing knives and all sorts of blades. Some might
carry a Repeater handbow or a magical weapon. All weapons
are poisoned.
Defensive: Exceptional dodging ability and sometimes a
magical defense.
Rarity: Even when the Druichi had their own full kingdom this
was an exceptionally rare unit. Now, with Ulthuan and
Naggarond in shatters and Hellebron inflicting massive
causalities on her own troops, they might be a handful left.
Presumably even rarer than Skaven assassins.
Mobility: 6
Training/Experienc
e: 7
Max & Effective
Range: 50 meters
Preferred Range:
Melee
Rumored to be
gifts of Khaine, the
Cauldron of Blood
is the centerpiece
of a Khainite ritual.
The pot is filled to
the brim with the
blood of sacrificial
victims yet,
curiously, it never
overflows no
matter how much
is added. Ridden
by Death Hags, the
Cauldron of Blood
provides numerous
magical buffs to
the surrounding
force. Only a
handful remain
from the fall of
Naggarond
however.
The blood found in the cauldron, when activated, has rejuvenative qualities and will restore the youth
of the user. In its original state the witch elf would only have to commit such an act once. However the
inventor of the cauldron of blood, Morathi, never saw fit to share the secret with the rest of her cult. As
a result they must do so constantly, a factor that leads to the shedding of ever more blood. Though in
the short run this kept the Cult of Khaine too distracted from mustering its energy to pose too much a
threat, in the long run it sapped their discipline and likely played a major role in leading to the Khainite
Cults corruption.
Offensive: All units around the cauldron fight with supernatural fury and prowess, making them fall
upon the enemy with far greater deadliness than they would otherwise. When the Blood in the
Cauldron boils over the leading Death Hag can use its energy to empower one allied unit within 50
meters, stroking their hearts with violent fire and giving them the strength to tear through enemy
lines.
Defensive: Magical shielding + magic resistance.
The following are rare Chaos monsters who either occasionally march alongside Chaos armies or who
can be summoned by extremely rare magical items known as the scrolls of binding. Each is far rarer
than even the monsters in the shock and awe section.
Found in the most treacherous regions of

the Warhammer world, from the
Bloodspine Mountains of the unknown
Southlands to the Grey Peaks that
shoulder the Empire, Basilisks are a
reclusive menace. They are a living blight
so inimical to life that they poison the
very ground they walk upon, the venom that suffuses their body and spirit capable of swiftly reducing
verdant land to ruined waste.
Their huge bodies are covered with brightly colored scales from the membranous fins upon their head
to the tip of their muscled tail; a warning of their noxious nature.
They prowl stealthily on eight legs, and are capable of moving swiftly enough to run down even the
quickest prey. The most potent weapon in the Basilisks arsenal, however, is its gaze. Renowned in
folklore across the Old World for its lethal potency, the sickly pale eyes of the Basilisk can focus the
essence of their poisonous soul, withering their prey until its skin and flesh slough away.
A monstrous creature was gripping the underside of the causeway. It was larger than a bull; its body
covered in shiny brown and black scales where its skin was not pale and peeling. The upside down
monster maintained its hold on the causeway with eight powerful legsthe sharp black claws of each
foot sunk deep into the stone. A bloated, fat tail drooped from the monsters body.
As the horrified goblin watched, the creatures horned, reptilian head turned towards it. A membrane
snapped into place over the monsters eerie yellow eyes as it focused on its prey. As the goblin tried to
run, a bright flash of searing energy passed from the eyes of the basilisk to those of the goblin. In an
instant the transforming Chaos energies spread from the goblins eyes to the rest of its body. The goblins
terrified paralysis became permanent as its skin was turned to stone. The basilisks scaly jaws opened in
a hungry yawn.
()
The basilisk rounded on its attackers, hissing as it drew a deep breath. The goblin that had thrown the
spear squeaked in fright, turning and fleeing as fast as its legs could carry it. Two other goblins hesitated,
uncertain whether to press the assault or flee as well. Their hesitation made the decision for them.
Angered by the wound in its left rear leg, the reptile scuttled forward at great speed. Powerful jaws
snapped closed on the foremost goblin while a swipe from one of the reptiles legs tore open the other.
The basilisk crushed the maimed goblin under its foot, breaking those parts of the goblin its claws had
not ripped apart. The giant lizard lifted its head, swallowing the still struggling form of its enemy whole.
Then the monster was among the rest of its foes.
The basilisks movements were swift and brutal. The powerful tail lashed from side to side in battering
blows that broke bones whenever it struck. As the enraged lizard lumbered amidst the greenskins, its
claws slashed and ripped, its fanged jaws closing on green flesh as often as empty air. Mangled goblins
were hurled about like rag dolls, their screaming bodies landing in tattered heaps to moan and whine in
agony, and to painfully crawl from the rage of their monstrous foe.
The reptiles rampage carried it through the goblins and their orc allies. Brunner readied himself as the
maddened beast came near. He fired the repeating crossbow, and the bolt crunched into the thick bone
just above the creatures eye. The lizard reared back from the painful injury, its tree-like tail lashing the
ground. Brunner fired again, this time putting a bolt into the monsters cheek. The basilisks frenzied
motion became even more agitated and it worked its injured jaw to try and remove the hurtful bolt
embedded in its flesh.
The basilisk began to bob its body up and down in an angry, threatening display, its breath hissing loudly,
wrathfully. Brunner fired again, the shot once more narrowly missing the monsters eye. This time it sank
into the flesh of the reptiles neck. The bounty killer swore as he saw the membranes snap close over the
lizards yellow eyes. The terrible Chaos energies were building up within the reptile. Brunner hastily
averted his eyes, knowing as he did so that he left himself open to the rending claws and snapping jaws
of the beast.
A thick, powerful axe-blow severed one of the basilisks rear legs. It spun about, its small brain too angry
now to take any great notice of this new wound. The basilisks attacker lifted his axe for another cleaving
stroke, but his piggish red eyes found themselves transfixed by the petrifying gaze of the monster. The
orc did not emit any sound as the transforming energies flowed into his body, hardening his scarred hide
into a shell of stone, as the Chaos power cooked his innards.
The necklace-wearing orc was charging the monster even as his comrade was turned to stone. The
goblins were dead or running, the other orc lying somewhere, broken by the basilisks tail. Now the
brutes last ally had been slain. The orc roared a throaty challenge through his tusked mouth and ran at
the giant reptile. The orcs great weight slammed into the stone carcass of his comrade, toppling its body
onto the head of the lizard. The statue broke apart as it smashed into the basilisks skull, dashing its head
against the hard floor.
The orc did not hesitate, but leaped onto the back of the stunned reptile. The greenskins sword rose and
fell, gouging great cuts into the basilisks body. The lizard shook its body from side to side, trying to
dislodge the clinging orc straddling its back. As the lizards neck craned about to try and fix its foe with
the petrifying gaze, a steel bolt shot out of the darkness, exploding the basilisks left eye. The lizard rolled
onto its back, crushing the orc beneath it as it writhed in agony.- Brunner the Bounty Hunter
The Cockatrice is an unsettling and repulsive flying creature that reeks of Chaos. While they are not as
physically fearsome as many other monsters, they have the curious ability to petrify their foes with a
magical gaze, literally turning them to stone with a glance unless they can evade its sorcerous stare.
This ability makes the Cockatrice a deadly opponent, for a warrior must try to vanquish the beast
without ever setting eyes upon it. Even then it can fight with poisonous claws and acidic spit.
The Great Spined Chaos beast can be likened to a massive Chaos Warhound, albeit one that he been
mutated and enlarged hideously. Its skin seems stretched too far and constantly rips asunder, only to
constantly heal again when the creature regenerates. Its teeth, each one longer than a man is tall,
continually grow and then push themselves out of its massive maw, before regrowing anew. The Spined
Beasts very existence is exceptionally painful, which is while it seeks to vent its torment on any enemy it
can find. Only through inflicting pain on others can it relieve its own.
On the battlefield the Spined Chaos Beasts attack is as simple as it is effective. It charges into combat,
knocking any on the way aside or impaling them with its trademark spines that erupt painfully from its
back (in its bloodlust this would include friendly Chaos forces) . Once in combat it uses its maw and
jaws to swallow people whole or maul them apart with its teeth. Regeneration, and the difficulty that
comes from trying to hit this creature in close combat thanks to its spikes, helps ensure its longevity.
In addition some of these creatures have been blessed by one of the gods and get a corresponding buff;
from Khorne increased strength, Tzeentch offers light magical shielding, Nurgle makes it so enemies
have a harder time hitting the creature, and Slaanesh improves its attack speed.
The incarnate elemental of beasts, a rare summon that only a select few Bray-Shamans know, is the
embodiment of natures ferocity, cruelty and hunger. It is a taut, gigantic man-shaped creature capable
of running down prey with the speed of a horse on full gallop.
In combat the creatures unholy howl has been known to make men flee just from the sound of it.
Those that flee are gleefully hunted down. If forced into direct combat the Beasts immense strength,
claws, antlers and jaws are more than capable of dealing with assailants and just one of these have
completely cleared a town before.
The Cursd Ettin is a monster feared and reviled even in the Northern Wastes, a land of monsters.
Descended from a single clan these former humans paid the price when they ignored a call to war by the
Chaos Gods to travel to the Southlands, instead opting to pillage their fellow neighbors in Norsca. The
Chaos Gods cursed them, allowing them to keep their strength but warping them beyond all
recognition.
Now the Cursd Ettin roam the wastes, hated by all and hating all. It can truly be a terrifying foe, for the
Ettin enjoys torturing enemies to take its spite out on anything it can. Thanks to magical runes carved on
its skin it can use the most basic of spells from the Lore of Shadow, Death or Beasts. Its hands have
been either molded into something resembling crude hammers or long scythes. Some of them have
scaly skin as strong as plate mail. However if there is a weakness, its that the beasts have two
personalities, and sometimes switches between them in battle.
Foolhardy knights of Bretonnia sometimes mistake the savage and hateful Preyton for the noble Great
Stags of their land, and will follow this twisted beast, possessed of a dark cunning, into the very deepest
parts of the forest. Only there, where there is little chance of escape, will it finally reveal its deadly form,
its savage fangs, leonine paws, tough scales and monstrous wings, and attack the unsuspecting
warrior.
While their appearance is truly vile, it is the legendary malice of the Preyton that makes them
particularly dangerous. Corpses mauled beyond recognition and tracts of forest befouled and trampled
betray their presence, the savage creature often discarding the torn ruin of their victims to rot, killing
out of pure hatred rather than hunger. Little is known of their origins, but dark legend has it that in ages
past they were Great Stags who were enslaved and corrupted before sacrifice-strewn herdstones. Now,
bereft of their nobility, the Preytons know only an all-encompassing hatred for that which they have
lost.
Many are the dark and nightmarish horrors that the Ruinous Powers have visited upon the world, yet
few are as strange as the Skin Wolves of legend. The witch-cursd and Chaos-tainted men and women
afflicted with this gift from their unholy gods bear a mutation that does not show as a stigma of the
flesh, but instead lurks in the blood, a slumbering beast to be roused by dark sacrifice and unspeakable
ritual.
When this horror is unleashed, there is no mere transformation from man into beast; instead a great
humanoid wolf-thing bursts fully-formed from the body of the human. Lean and half-insane with Chaostainted hunger, the Skin Wolf is so-named for the scraps and tatters of flesh and chunks of gristle that
cling to its hulking frame; all that remains of the human form it once bore. Only once battle is spent and
their voracious hunger sated will the transformation be reversed, the flesh of the Skin Wolf collapsing
into a pallid and terrible mass from which the human must tear it free.
The Skin Wolves appear to behave as a twisted mutation that may be inflicted by Chaos followers, and
thus there might be quite a few of these wolfmen depending on how many go through with the ritual.
They can regenerate slightly and of course are armed with a terrible maw and sharp claws. Some may
be blessed by specific gods, gaining better strength, better regeneration, and poisoned attacks or
striking quicker.
-Forgeworld.com for description
Orgrim was on his feet, axe raised above his head and roaring his animal hate at the men below. A
thick, brute smell seemed to exude from Orgrims body and before Einarrs stunned eyes, he saw the hair
on the mans face and hands begin to thicken and spread. With another howl, Orgrim hurled his axe at
the Hung and leapt down into the court, his hands curled into savage claws.
Einarr cursed again, then rushed after the frenzied Aesling. Near the stake, the bug-headed shaman
struggled to tear Orgrims axe free from his breast. He never had the chance. Like a predatory beast,
Orgrim pounced on the stricken shaman, ripping and tearing at him with his claws. Ropes of brown
entrails and shreds of green flesh littered the air as Orgrim tore the shaman apart. Einarr watched in
horrified fascination as Orgrim lowered his head and savaged the shamans throat. When he lifted his
head again, it was no longer that of the Aesling, but the lean, stretched muzzle of a wolf, its fur caked in
the unclean filth from the shamans veins.
Ulfwerenar, Einarr gasped, recalling the stories of the were-kin, the men who bore the flesh of the beast
within them. The Norscan fought to control his shock; there would be time enough to worry about
Orgrims condition once the Hung were dead.
--Palace of the Plague Lord
*note: Archaons profile is located elsewhere
The four individuals below are those who arguably have the most power among the forces of the four
gods and the most influence. This doesnt however mean their influence is total as they all have
difficulty not only with each other but sub-commanders of their own sect. In addition though all fight for
the Everchosen each has unique problems with him whether it is characterized by liberal interpretation
of his orders (Glottkin), outright ignoring said orders (Valkia), contempt between the two (Sigvald) and
complete murderous hatred (Villitch) .
Mobility: 5 (slow flyer)

Max Range: Melee
Role: Tactical Commander
Kruath knew that the appearance of Valkia the Bloody would sit in his thoughts until the moment he
died. She had flung her beautiful, cruel face to the sky, screaming a guttural battle cry in a language
beyond his comprehension. Her daemonic wings bore her aloft, every eye on the battlefield raised to look
upon her terrifying, otherworldly presence. Kruath could not tear his eyes from her. The sheer majesty of
her was overwhelming and it was all that the dark elf could do not to fall to his knees. He knew one thing
for certain.
I am in the presence of the divine.
Despite the horror of her blasphemous appearance, there was no denying the sense of power radiating
from Valkia. Her spear struck heads from shoulders and punched through armor with ease, delivering
perfect killing blows to any of those who were unfortunate to be in its path. Kruath felt the adulation
directed towards this horrendous daemon woman, felt it emanating from those who even now
slaughtered his people. It was she who led this unstoppable wave. It was she who drove them further,
bringing the tide south into the Witch Kings realm. Kruath and three other warriors were dispatched
with due haste to bring warning to Naggarond. If they failed in their task, Valkias unnatural and unholy
army would smash over the citys threshold. They would consume the great stronghold and leave
nothing but blood and ashes in their wake.
Of the four messengers who had set out from the tower, only Kruath remained.
Naggarond will not fall.- The Siege of Naggarond
Born to a Northern tribe long ago, ever since she was a child Valkia was known for her ferocity in battle.
Indeed she killed her beloved father when she felt he was making her tribe weak and assumed control
of a tribe where no female had ever ruled for more than three hours. She would last a couple decades.
In this period of time her tribe rose to dominate much of the Northern Wastes. Hundreds of tribes were
absorbed into her own, and for a while her rule was unquestioned. Yet so was her beauty and it was
such that she drew a servant of Slaanesh, a Daemon Prince known as Locephax. When he came into
Valkia's hall and, smitten by her feral beauty, commanded that she abandon the life of a monarch to
service his depraved needs as a harem-girl, the proud warrior-queen truly flew into the berserker rage
and struck off the Daemon Prince's very head with her barbed spear -- Slaupnir -- in a mighty battle
that lasted for hours. Valkia affixed the severed but still whispering head of the daemon to her shield,
and swore before her tribe that she would carry it to the Chaos Wastes and place it at the very foot of
Khorne's throne.
With a thousand warriors she marched north, fighting off Beastmen and Trolls all the while. Her troops
began to die off before her but Valkias ambition was undettered. Eventually, seeing her mad, they
abandoned her but she continued ever on. Finally she marched the very steps to the Realm of Chaos
itself but alas was found and cut down by Slaaneshi daemons, literally just feet away. However her tale
was not at an end, for her tenacity and rage had moved Khorne himself to intervene.
Khorne then took Valkia in his burning grasp and twisted her into a more pleasing form -- forging her
anew in the fires of his wrath. He bent back great horns from her skull, gave her the long, bestial legs of
a Bloodletter and pulled back great, bloody wings from the flesh and muscle of her shapely back. Reborn
as a mighty Daemon Queen, Khorne set upon her a new task: She would now descend every dawn onto
the battlefields of the mortal realms, and fight alongside those worthy warriors of Norsca and beyond
who served Khorne and from the ranks of their dead she would bear warriors who died in glorious
battle to the Halls of Khorne where they would fight on the Blood God's legions for all eternity. Thus,
the Gorequeen, the Shield-Maiden of Khorne, was born.
She returned and avenged herself on the tribe that betrayed her, massacring them all including her own
family. Ever rafter she had returned, again and again, to the realms of Mortal man to inflict great
bloodletting. She has despoiled Dwarf holds, sacked Empire towns, devastated a Dark Elf force and
pillaged all across the world. Now she appears in the bloodiest of battles, eager to claim more for
Khorne.
Valkia was active even in the earliest parts of the End Times. Her campaigns began in Norsca, where she
along with Haargoth the Bloodied One waged a bitter campaign against those Norse that did not
support Chaos along with the Norse Dwarfs of those lands. Eventually after several duels and numerous
tribes destroyed she succeeded in bullying the vast majority of the rest into submission. The Norse
Dwarfs- already reeling even before the End Times- fell next, with the their last great port falling even
as a handful of Dwarf ironclads escaped port, heading for parts unknown. Next she turned her
attentions to the Druichi of Naggarond
Smashing southwards with a horde larger than any Naggarond had seen before, she laid waste to
numerous northern settlements before putting to siege the capital itself. Too concerned with their
own petty interests, few other Druichi lords mustered up the will to aid even the star of their realm and
as a result Valkia launched her assault uncontested.
For three solid months Druichi and Chaos fought over the walls of the city, neither able to fully beat the
other due to the stalwart defense and ranged firepower on one side, overwhelming numbers and zeal
on the other. In the end it was only broken by the Witch Kings personal intervention, who fought a
brutal aerial duel with Valkia. The Consort of Khorne was cast down by the future Eternity King but not,
wholly, destroyed.
Preserved by some greater power, Valkia would appear one more time in the End Times in the siege of
Averheim, competing with several Khorne champions and daemons for her masters favor. It was in the
fires of this last great city of man that she slew the Empire champion Scwarzthelm even as the Empire
man pulled her into Slaupnir, which he had disarmed earlier. Together they fell.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: The Spear Slaupnir: This mighty magical barbed spear can pierce almost any armor and she
wields it with deft ease. Her claws are also used in battle to rip out throats. She is a master duelist with
superstrength and blurry reaction speed.
Defensive:
Daemon Shield: The Daemon shield, which Locephax is forever a part of, gazes out with hypnotic eyes
that weakens all but the strongest enemy reactions. It can also give a piercing cry to induce fear,
hypnotic suggestion, absorb magic to send it right back act. Even without magic it can clamp its teeth
down on an attackers weapon.
The head of Locephax came to terrible animated life. The eyes flared open, the unnatural green
daemon-light seeping from it like a poisonous mist. The face drew into an expression that mimicked
Valkias own and the silent scream that the warrior woman emitted erupted from the daemons maw. It
was amplified and distorted and Hepsus clamped his hands over his ears. The sense of absolute terror
that ran through him was something unlike anything he had ever known before.
Every instinct in his body told him to turn and run. And he was standing behind the shield, which was the
only protection from this dark magic. He hardly dared imagine how he would have reacted had he been
on the receiving end.
The trolls stumbled to a halt, crashing together in a tangle of festering limbs, their shabby forms
seemingly frozen to the spot and their eyes fixed on the daemons hypnotic gaze. They were simple
creatures, barely more than a bundle of nerves and thoughts that worked together to create the basic
need for survival. Kill, eat, and sleep when needed. Such was the cycle of a trolls life. They had little
requirement for sophisticated thought and as such, they fell prey to Locephaxs hypnotic suggestion
instantly.
The scream stopped abruptly and a voice emerged from the daemons mouth.
Die, was all it said, but the voice curdled the air with its menace. It said the word with such implicit
urgency and underlying cruelty that three of the trolls immediately flung themselves from the narrow
mountain path. A fourth paused briefly. It had been behind the three who had just flung themselves to
their doom and had not received the full brunt of the daemons will. A repeat of the one-word command,
however, and the troll joined its brethren, crashing down the mountainside and slicing itself open on the
snow-covered rocks on the way.
The majority of those that remained had already turned on their brethren in a furious rage and begun
battling, tearing one another limb from limb. For long moments the mountain pass resounded with the
noise of trolls grunting and screaming. Valkia and her army moved back as far as the daemonic shield
allowed before it snapped she would go out of range. She could feel Locephax drawing power from her
own body as she used his ability but she held firm. Valkia the Bloody
Come closer, boy, came a whispering, sibilant hiss in the confines of his head. Kruath shook his head,
blinking hard to shake the sensation. He had been mind-touched before by one of the city sorceresses
and he had despised the feeling then. This was magnified exponentially and brought bile rushing to his
throat. The daemons eyes closed once, before flaring wide open. The previously black irises were
replaced by steadily glowing orbs of arterial scarlet. It was a piercing, hypnotic stare and Kruath felt
inexplicably drawn to it.
Come closer. Is she not magnificent? Is she not glorious? Come, boy. Embrace the bride of Khorne. Bask
in her glory. And then, when you can bear her majesty no more, take your sword and run it through her.
Slaughter Valkia the Bloody where she stands. Do this thing and my gods reward to you will be infinite.
The daemon shields words were utterly compelling and Kruath knew that it was possible. A brief thought
fluttered through his consciousness, wondering why it was that this daemonic thing was whispering
promises to him and not to Darkhand. Surely the captain was the greater threat? And then Kruath knew.
The daemon clearly understood that he, Kruath, was the greater warrior. He could kill Valkia.
And he could also do so much more- Siege of Naggarond
A huge manticore bearing a sorceress soared above the wall and headed for the rear of the Chaos lines.
Valkia raced in her wake but other sorceresses struggling with the harpies broke from their combat
temporarily to hurl arcs of power at the daemon princess. The diversion was successful, if costly, as flocks
of harpies descended on the walls to hurl screaming figures over the parapets. Valkia ducked and
weaved between the magical assaults and shielded her body from another. Black lightning crashed
against Locephax and the former daemon prince of Slaanesh absorbed it into his twisted being. His eyes
and mouth opened wide and fingers of purple fire returned to the caster, immolating her with a flash of
vile energies.-Siege of Naggarond
Scarlet Armor: This suit of armor bleeds blood when struck, shifting plates around to protect the queen
and saps the strength of the enemies striking her. Generally requires magical weaponry or many blows
to wound.
Kormak the Destroyer: The one soldier that remained loyal to Valkia all those years ago, Kormak is
Valkia's chosen chaos champion. A legendary warrior riding on juggernaut, this warrior has led the sack
of countless villages and is an incredibly formidable warrior.
Everyone within her presence gets inspired to fanatical devotion, however such is her hatred of cowards
that if an ally flees around her she will turn back and strike him dead. Probably not the best person to
pair with Skaven.
Archaon looked from his bloody fist back up to the heavens, where the clouds had been rent asunder.
From the swirling maelstrom above dropped a fireball that left a blood-murky trail of smoke. The witch
lifted her staff. The drakes slender maw opened wide. Archaon instinctively lifted his arms in front of his
face. Instead of corrosive breath or a bladestorm of dark magic, the fiery heat of daemon hate washed
over him. The fireball struck the dragon and its rider, slamming them into the mountainside with
explosive fury. An inferno roared about witch and her monster. Peering through the gaps between the
digits of his gauntlet, Archaon watched as some furious infernal entity fought through the flames. A
daemon princess, of a terrible martial beauty, had descended. In crimson armor forged in Khornes own
hate and bearing two great horns from her head, Archaon recognized the horrific creature as Valkia the
Bloody the Gorequeen sponsor of Goraths atrocities. The daemon had descended in celebration of the
slaughter wrought in the valley below and in honor of her champions blood. Swinging a monstrous spear
about her armored form, she took the dragon witchs head off, allowing the shock of its pale face and its
lustrous length of hair to bounce down the wooded slope past Archaon.
As the Gorequeen batted the drakes jaws aside with a daemonshield bearing the teeth of its own horrific
maw, Archaon took Oberons reins. Skidding down the slope, Archaon recovered Terminus and his shield.
He left the doomed drake to the Gorequeens wrath, knowing that the daemon princess would need no
assistance in dispatching even such a beast. Shouldering the shield and sliding his greatsword into its
scabbard, Archaon mounted his steed. As he rode back down towards the rising shoreline, he cast a
glance back at Khornes dread consort. It was agony with the knife wounds in his shoulders but worth it
to watch the monstrous daemon slice through the drakes throat and bury her spear in the beast.
Watching her, Archaon wondered if he too might one day earn the infernal patronage of a daemon
sponsor. Some dark thing from the beyond to further his interests in the apocalyptic times to come.
Riding for the waters, Archaon found himself snarling. Unlike Gorath the Ravager, he did not need such
Ruinous favor. He would fulfil his destiny and become the Everchosen of Chaos with or without the help
of the gods and their wretched servants.-Archaon: Everchosen
Adaptive Creativity: 52/100:

Tactics: 44/100: In her days prior to being a daemon Valkia was a skilled tactician who conquered many
tribes. However as a Daemon Queen her basic tactics usually just involve endless slaughter upon
slaughter rather than finesse.
Strategy: 34/100: Strategy? Khornes followers have no endgame goal other than to inflict mass and
continual slaughter in his name. They will go to great lengths to ensure that however.
Audacity: 97/100: With the exception of Khorne there is
probably no one who Valkia would hesitate fighting. She
does not care one wit about expending her warriors to die
en masse, and will kill them herself quite often.
Psychological Warfare: 51/100: Other than sheer terror
through massed slaughter, her means of psychological
warfare are a bit limited.
Experience: 90/100: Though undated, she has fought for
Khorne at least hundreds of years and an unknown amount
of time in the mortal realm.
Discipline: 40/100:Valkia has more discipline then the vast

majority of her force, many of whom are howling lunatics
that barely reach a 25. She is patient to a point however and will lose herself often to rage in battle.
Inspiration: 85/100: (Applies only to Khornates). Valkia, as the consort of the blood god, inspires
fanatical devotion among fellow Khornates, who know that wherever her gaze is, so is that of her god.
Thus they will rush blindly and fanatically to their deaths with utmost zealotry to gain her favor.
Furthermore despite her bloodthirsty nature Valkia is not above using her feminine charms on either her
enemies or allies.
Corruption: 93/100: Khorne cares not from whom the
blood flows, so long as it flows. She pretty much kills
anything she finds. . Her respect can be earned at least by
enemy combatants who fight bravely or skillfully.
Mobility: 4
Max Range: Melee

Role : Tactical Commander
Though he looks only 16 years of age, Sigvald has blighted the world for 300 years. Originally he was a
renowned warrior of a Norsican tribe, son of the chieftain and his own sister, who was allowed to grow
ever more decadent as the years went by. Eventually he grew too decadent for even his sister-loving
father, and was banished after partaking in the consumption of human flesh. Immediately Sigvald and
his reluctant best friend sought out a local Slaaneshi champion who led them to a Slaaneshi daemon.
Thus the deal was struck, and by the night next day his father was slain.
For the next couple years Sigvald built an army and laid waste to many forces within the Chaos Wastes,
luxuriating in combat. Yet eventually he grew bored and retired to a grand Golden flying palace that he
captured architects to create. Originally it was a view of perfection; however Sigvald quickly grew bored
with the upkeep and left it in disrepair.
In the events of Sigvald an Empire nobleman came to him looking for help in one of the many civil wars
down South, a request Sigvald felt boring. Eventually this baron desired Sigvalds beautiful wife and told
Sigvald that the nearby warlord of Khorne had a beautiful skull that delivered rage ecstasy to those
who wore it. Sigvald believed him and attacked. Though he managed to surprise the men of Khorne
and deliver initial losses, predictably most of his force was destroyed. In desperation he sought out the
Slaaneshi daemon he originally made a pact with to get a Daemon army. Said Slaaneshi daemon
accepted, but ordered Sigvald to acquire him the ancient Tzeentch dragon Galgruich , kill an immortal
being, and meet personally with Slaanesh. By luck Sigvald succeeded in the first and second task, but
disintegrated on the third.
However his story was not yet done. So impressed was Slaanesh brought him back to life and give a
power boost. Sigvald was sent directly to the battlefield with Khorne, who was assaulting his fortress,
and promptly began tearing through the blood gods army, using his new-found daemon-god ship,
Slaaneshs direct blessing (He was shining on him) and the extra warping power of the Chaos Wastes to
induce defections. Sigvald and his Decadent Host won the battle.
With his ennui destroyed Sigvald now went off

to see the world, fulfilling whatever capricious
and fickle whim came to mind. Whole towns are
destroyed because he saw their inhabitants
ugly, crude or irritating, or he just wanted to
have some fun. In one case he destroyed a
major Brettonian town because the wine they
created wasnt to his taste. In another example he invaded the High Elves of Ulthuan because he
was jealous they had better hair then him.
In the End Times Sigvald emerged as the main champion of Slaanesh, though his role was limited to
background until the very end. In the wake of the sack of Kislev it was he who traveled around the
ruined country torturing the scarred inhabitants that remained. Bored with this he decided to go to his
old haunt in Brettonia to conquer the city of Parravon and set up massive pleasure pavilions there, this
time aided by his new daemonic army.
Finally he was directly summoned by his god to Middenheim, to take part of the defense of the city
against the incarnates. Archaon treated him contemptuously and deliberately paired him with the troll
Throgg as an insult, directing them both to go and stop Nagashs forces for entertainment purposes
rather than them actually having a chance. As soon as Sigvald was out of sight he dealt the troll what he
thought was a mortal blow before reluctantly heading out to confront the Necromancer, sensing that
Archaons fury would pale in comparison to Slaaneshs if he did not.
Together with his Daemonic Horde Sigvald slammed into the ranks of Krells wright army, drawing the
Mortarchs personal ire. They dueled in one of the most intense fight scenes of the entire End Times. For
a while both were evenly matched until the Wright managed to do the unthinkable. He slammed into
Sigvalds face.
As Sigvald looked at the ruined reflection on his shield, a fury came over him that was more akin to the
Khornate berserker Krell once was rather than a Slaaneshi prince. He brutally tackled the wright and,
heedless of his own wounds, beat him to (re)death. His fingers crushed beyond all repair, his face ruined
and his chance for beautiful immortality all for naught, Sigvald had enough time to give one last pure cry
of despair and hate before the furious and recovered Throgg destroyed what was left of the princes
visage with his club.
Sigvald, his earlier ill mood dispelled, fought on amongst the whirling Daemonettes, laughing with the
joy of the fight. The princes only disappointment was that his foes did not scream as he cut them down.
To him, slaughter without voiced agony was like a meal without wine palatable enough, but lacking a
feeling of true fulfilment. Yet he knew that Slaanesh would shower him with rewards for the deeds he
performed that day, and lost himself for a moment in dreams of depravities beyond the ken of lesser
mortals.
In that moment, the killing edge of Krells gleaming axe nearly took Sigvalds head. The prince broke out
of his reverie a heartbeat before the ragged blade struck home, and only a desperate upward swing of
his shield prevented his head tumbling from his shoulders. There was a shrieking sound as the axe-blade
scraped across the shields front, and Sigvald saw that the Wights strike had torn a jagged scar across
the silver skin. At that sight, the Geld-Prince forgot his dreams of indulgence and threw himself at the
Mortarch of Despair.
Thus began a contest of champions, well-matched in ability even though their fighting styles could not
have been more different. Sigvald was lighter on his feet, his blade fast and precise. Krell was a brute,
ponderous in motion but his axe unstoppable in its swing. Sigvald quickly learned that Krells great
haymaking blows could not be parried his first attempt to do so nearly resulted in Sliverslash being
ripped from his hands and threw his efforts into evading the Black Axes brutal arcs. This was more
easily said than done. Each of Krells whirling blows led seamlessly into the next, a sight that would have
been strangely graceful were it not for the murderous intent that lay beneath.
For the first time that night, Sigvald fell back before a foe. Krell moved with him, the great blade
whistling closer with every step. A daemonette, not realizing her danger until it was too late, darted
away from the Doomed Legions swords and into the Black Axes path. The heavy blade scythed through
her without slowing, the ichor-stained halves of her corpse thudding onto the ashen ground a moment
later.
Again and again Sigvald lunged at Krell, always timing his strikes to match the openings in the Wights
whirling guard. As often as not, Sliverslashs tip skittered across Krells ancient armor. Even when it did
penetrate the barrow-iron, Krell did not so much as slow. Indeed, the only sign that the Wight had felt
the blow at all was a momentary flare of the witchfires in his eyes.
Sigvald ducked. Krells axe whistled over the princes head and smashed through a scorched tree. Cinders
rained down upon them both, leaving ashen streaks across Sigvalds golden armor. Krell reversed his
strike, looping the blade up and over his head, and swept it down towards the stooped prince. Sigvald
twisted aside. The axe slammed down cleaving a few strands of the princes blonde hair as it fell and
thudded deep into the thick soil.
For a split second, the blade was lodged fast, and in that moment Sigvald struck. The prince rose up
triumphantly, Sliverslash thrusting forward. With a screech of metal and a puff of grave dust, the blades
tip punched through Krells breastplate and into his chest. For a moment, the two champions stood silent
and still as the battle raged about them. Then to Sigvalds horror Krells witchfires blazed anew, and a
dry, deathless laugh echoed from his hollow helm. The Wight twisted heavily to one side, wrenching both
his axe blade from the ground and Sliverslashs hilt from Sigvalds hand. Suddenly weaponless, the GeldPrince backed away in dismay as Krell advanced once more, the silvered blade still lodged deep in the
Wights torso.
()
Twisting aside as the Black Axe hacked down, Sigvald leaned forward, grasping Sliverslashs grips. He
gave a shout of triumph as his fingers closed around the handle of flayed skin, then let go his shield and
fell backwards with an altogether sharper cry. Sigvald had one hand upon his reclaimed sword, the other
clapped across his bleeding face. Krell had predicted the princes actions, had lured him in and then
reversed his stroke to catch his foe off guard.
As the Wight king came forward once again, the Geld-Prince caught his reflection in his abandoned
shield. His hand barely concealed the wounds extent, for it ran from his chin to above his brow. Tearing
his fingers away, Sigvald saw the bloody ruin of his left eye, and puckered, discolored flesh that he knew
at once would never heal.
Heal.
In that moment, Sigvald went berserk, overcome by a rage more befitting of a Khornate champion.
Scooping up his shield, he threw himself at Krell, thrusting, punching and kicking.
Fury gave the Geld-Prince the advantage that finesse had so far denied him, and this time it was Krell
who fell back in retreat, his laughter at last silenced. Again and again the Black Axe smashed down, its
baleful blade hacking deep into Sigvalds silvered shield. By the fourth stroke, the shield was but a
tattered mass of metal and boarding, which the Geld-Prince hurled into Krells face. The Wight,
temporarily blinded, didnt see the Sigvalds next blow, which sliced cleanly through his left arm just
below the shoulder.
Krell gave an angry hiss at the sight of his severed limb, and swung the Black Axe down against the blade
that had dared to wound him. There was a dull chink as the heavy axe-head struck the slender steel, and
Sliverslashs blade snapped in two. Yet before the Wight could capitalize on his sudden advantage,
Sigvald sprang forward and bore him to the ground. As Krells helm struck the ashen ground, Sigvald
slammed Sliverslashs broken spike into the Wights glowering left eye socket. Then, with his armored
knee braced against Krells remaining arm, pinning the Black Axe to the ground, the prince laid about the
Wights head with his bare fists.
Sigvald pounded the Wight again and again, shouting incoherent hate at his expressionless foe. He was
heedless of the blood running down his face, and streaming from his swollen hands. He felt the cheek-
piece of Krells helm give under the onslaught, and flung the twisted scrap of metal clear, not noticing
that the blow that had warped the metal had also sheared off one of his fingers. The prince relished the
sound of fracturing bone that accompanied each frenzied punch, not realizing that it came as often from
his own breaking fingers as it did the Wights skull.
Only when the witchfires finally faded from Krells eyes did Sigvald slump back, his breathing ragged. At
last, the Geld-Prince glanced down at his crushed and bloody fingers, at hands that would never again
wield a weapon. Throwing back his head, Sigvald screamed at the sky, the sound fueled as much by his
anger as by despair.
He did not scream long. As the shout turned into a broken, rasping sob, the head of a stone maul crashed
into the side of Sigvalds head, splitting his skull open and splattering brain-matter across Krells corpse.
As the Geld-Prince fell lifeless across the Wights body, brutish Throgg scowled down at the pair, and
then emptied his bladder across Sigvalds golden armor. Insult and treachery repaid, the Troll King
descended deeper into the charred trees and went to claim victory for the Chaos Gods.-ET Archaon
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Silverslash: A sword that was forged from a sliver of his own blade, such was the favor
provided to him. It moves faster than many can track, often expertly finding gaps in armor. Sigvald
himself is a master duelist able to take down scores of lesser men, courtesy of a blade that strikes out so
fast as to be extremely blurry. In fact in his novel the only times he was nearly beaten was when a
Khornate champion nearly overpowered him or when a horde of Khorne warriors nearly overwhelmed
him.
Defensive: Auric Armor: The Auric Armor is a sculpted suit of plate mail forged from enscrolled gold.
Tendrils of Dark Energy constantly caress any wound, rejuvenating his flesh and closing wounds with a
tender touch. This, when combined with his mirror shield, make Sigvald incredibly difficult to damage,
for such is his skill that he is quite difficult to hit in the first place!
Sigvald appears to have a supernatural charm that gives him the aura of perfection. His feet hover an
inch from the ground so that they are never drenched in gore, the ground reshapes himself as he passes
over it, and indeed he appears in the eye of the beholder to be supernaturally beautiful. In the Chaos
Wastes where the veil between the realm of Chaos and the mortal realm was sliver thin, he could
actually use this supernatural essence to cause defections among the weak-willed of the enemy.
Sigvald is going to be the main army commander for Slaaneshs forces, both mortal and immortal. His
ability to inspire them to great feats of bloodlust and passion is legendary, as is his battle skill. However
he is far from the best sub-commander, as the stories show.
====X-Factors====
(Representative of Slaaneshi x-factors)
Adaptive Creativity: 40/100: He can create sometimes a creative, usually terrible solution. However
generally this man is duped by others cunning rather than coming up with his own.
Tactics: 34/100 : He might have a very rare moment of brilliance but usually most of the men Sigvald
commands ends up killed. And Sigvald is fine with that. To him the greater priority is having his honor
guard stop in the middle of the field, pull out mirrors, and make sure that his face was still beautiful.
Either that or calling random troops to him to pay him constant compliments! Once he got challenged to
an honor duel, splitting up the Chaos force to watch, and refused to end it when the High Elves
attacked, causing mass confusion and chaos among his ranks. Indeed despite the strength of their foes
the High Elf codex itself concedes Sigvald would have won this battle had he actually commanded his
forces (or done so effectively). Instead the entire army was crushed, with Sigvald being one of the only
survivors because he lost focus and left the battlefield.
Strategy: 27/100: Doesn't seem to have any long term strategy. He invades nations on whims with
examples including the time he butchered a whole city because he found their princess beautiful,
invading the High Elves out of jealousy that they had better hair then he, and sacking a Brettonian town
because the win there wasn't to his taste. In the assault on the High Elves he actually killed more of
his sub-commanders than the High Elves through "disagreements " over certain leadership decisions
he made, insults (intentional or unintentional) and because sometimes he just didn't like the look of
them. This is an amazing feat as the High Elves were deliberately aiming to kill his sub-commanders
while Sigvald was unintentional (and the High Elves were employing some of the best assassins in the
world, the Shadow Warriors, to do so).
Intuition: 30/100: Seems to have great difficulty predicting the schemes and plots of others, and indeed
spends much of the novel getting strung around. Often Sigvald only got the point when one of his
lieutenants pointed out of the fact.several times in a row.
Audacity: 87/100: Neither Sigvald nor his troops have fear of death for indeed it is a sensation to be
enjoyedbut anything that mars his face in even the slightest fashion is horrifying!
Experience: 63/100: Has led for several hundred years his horde, however much of it was spent messing
around in a pleasure palace.
Psychological Warfare: 72/100:Though not necessarily applying to Sigvald himself, Slaanesh servants
are very good at corrupting and manipulating the inner desires of those who they face.
Discipline: 30/100 :On the battlefield Sigvald most personifies these battlefield passions and
exaggerated emotions. He will luxuriate in his emotions, even those dark ones like despair, even if it is
harmful to his health or those around them. In one instance he even killed a noted friend of many years
simply because he wanted to push his emotional turmoil of the time to a further point. Though he later
regretted his friends death, he then used the opportunity to bask in his grief. Other examples include
taking out a mirror to look at in the middle of battle, getting manipulated into battle with only a few
choice words by a scheming lieutenant, and generally being a slave to his whims at the time. On at
least one occasion he got distracted and left the battlefield because of it.
However oddly enough Sigvald is able to instill discipline in his men well enough, for they know that if he
wins he will let them indulge in every perverted desire they could ever want. It is thanks to Sigvalds
ability to wave a treat in front of their faces that he can instill a semblance of order.when he cares to.
Inspiration: 86/100: Perhaps his single, greatest, most important trait, Sigvald can inspire fanatical
devotion among his troops. Without a second thought they will lay down their lives to protect their
aloof commander, and can be motivated into extreme fanaticism on the battle by just a few words
spoken by their prince. This is in part due to his inspiring presence and vision of beauty, partially thanks
to the clear favor Slaanesh has in him, but also because these troops know that after battle is done
Sigvald will allow them to fulfill their most depraved desires free of intervention. However these only
really applies to his followers, and allied Warbands of other gods can and do question his army decisions
at every opportunity, and not without cause....
Corruption: 91/100: Randomly butchers whole populations at whims, allows his men to engage in
incredibly heinous acts.
Mobility: 6
Training: 5
Preferred Range: Spell (Ethrac), Melee (Otto & Ghurk)
In the distant past, the Glottkin brothers were the triplet sons of two unofficial emissaries of the
Empire . Their parents had come to the Norselands to make peace, to slowly teach the Norse the
benefits of civilization and make them if not friendly, than passable neighbors to the Empire. They did
not want to prolong the cycle of violence but break it. However the mother was infected at birth with a
deadly disease and, in desperation she begged the gods to save her children. Unbeknownst to her
Nurgle heard and accepted the plea.
For years the Glotts Otto, Ethrac and Ghuerek- lived peaceful lives in the Norse tribes, working
with their mother (a minor wizard in the Lore of Life) and their father ( a farmer) to teach the Norscans
to farm. For a time, all seemed well, and the Glotts brought the arts of the civilized realms to their
adopted people. Otto helped his father harvest his crops with a great scythe of his own making; Ethrac
aided his mother in rituals of fecundity that coaxed verdant life from the Norscan ice fields. Only Ghurek
proved wayward, more interested in brawling and chasing women than helping his family in more
wholesome pursuits.
Though the Glottkins parents worked hard to promote peace, they could not dissuade the Norscans
from the seaborne raids that were so deeply ingrained within their culture. In the autumn of 2506, the
forces of the Imperial province of Nordland came in search of retribution .Over a thousand state troops
made landfall to bring war to the fjord tribes that had taken the Glotts into their culture. The triplets
fought bitterly against the Empire, each scoring a massive tally of kills, yet alas in the fighting their
parents were killed. In hatred, desperation and a zeal for vengeance the Triplets called upon their latent
Nurglite gifts.
The seeds of mayhem that had been planted within their souls, watered by the blood of battle, finally
began to bear fruit. Otto cut men down like autumn corn as his scythe swung left and right. Handgunner
bullets thudded into his chest and even his face, but they did not break the skin. Ethracs magics
became ever more destructive, reducing men to pools of black slime and causing maggots of dark
energy to eat his foes from the inside out. Ghurek was filled with a daemonic strength, the warrior
punching clean through torsos and guts before picking up great cannon by its muzzle and swinging it
like a giant club to sweep his foes over the cliff. The Empire army broke under the fury of the Glottkin,
as they came to be known.
Since then with every passing year Nurgle has seen to gift his favorites with ever more gifts. Ghurek
grew larger and larger as his ravenous appetite for life turned into desperate gluttony. Eventually man
became monster as Ghurek gained terrible strength, but lost the ability to reason. Known for growling
a corrupted version of his own name, Ghurk was refashioned by his adoptive grandfather into an obese
spawn-thing so large his brothers took to riding him to war. Great horns sprouted from his shoulders,
popping boils covered his back, and his arms mutated hideously, one into a lamprey maw, the other into
a muscular tentacle, the better to scoop up victims to sate his terrible hunger. Ghurk could slay giants
and ice drakes alike, devouring their corpses and later defecating heaving mounds from which strange
new forms of life emerged into the light.
Embittered by the loss of his mother and father, Ethrac became dark of heart. His spells turned ever
fouler, and the types of life they propagated were vile and unwholesome. The sorcerer burnt his
parents bodies on a brazier that he has borne ever since, the stinking scent of burnt offal drawing
clouds of flies wherever he roams. The remains of his parents still smolder there to this day, a cremated
reminder of the vengeance their sorcerous son has yet to take.
Of all the triplets, Otto embraced his new destiny with the most fervor. He became a true devotee of
Nurgle, intending to sow unbridled life across the world in every manner and form, no matter how
stomach-churning. His scabrous body bloated and became as tough as bark. Though the wounds he
suffered on his steady rise to glory often did not heal completely, the contagions that drizzled from his
opened guts grew so virulent they were soon weapons in their own right. Otto took to coating the
blade of his scythe with his own poisonous juices whenever he went into battle, cementing his
reputation as a harbinger of plague. Amongst all the brothers it is Otto who is the most driven. His taste
for carnage has seen the roaming Glottkin triumph against Warbands that worshipped Slaanesh,
Tzeentch, and even mighty Khorne.
More tribesmen followed close behind. Their muscular torsos were laid open to the spine as Otto swung
his scythe in a powerful arc.
You believe your simpleton blood god is stronger than Father Nurgle himself? shouted Otto. Today we
Glottkin will teach you that it is Khorne who is truly weak!
Otto set his feet and prepared to meet the tribesmen he had goaded forward. Beside him, his brother
Ethrac raised a gnarlwood staff.
Blood must pulse, in death convulse, the sorcerer whispered from the thin slit of his mouth. Moldered
bone and nothing else!
Moments later a knot of tribesmen charging towards Otto stumbled to a halt and shivered hard before
exploding in a shower of gore. Splinters of rotting bone flew out in all directions, sinking into the flesh of
the northmen crammed in close.
Ghurk, show them your gifts, said Otto.
A moment later the giant, muscular hulk that was Ghurk Glott slammed down into the massed survivors,
his misshapen arms flying left and right as he crushed warriors into the dirt. Ottos brother might have
been a boulder of rotting flesh with the temper of a wounded bull, but witnessing him putting his dread
strength to use always put a hideous smile on his brothers face.
Otto shoved a pair of charging tribesmen down the boulder-strewn cliff as Ghurk snatched a wheeling
horseman from the saddle and smashed him head first into the ground. The enemy fell back in confusion,
and Otto smiled wryly to see the hand of another would-be champion of Khorne sticking out from
beneath his brothers buttocks.
Let us ascend, my brothers! he said, motioning to his brother Ethrac to join him. Otto stepped onto
Ghurks broad shoulders and swung his scythe blade low, cutting open the chests of a handful of Reavers
that were trying to bar their path.
Another wave of tribesmen surged up the boulder-strewn hill towards the three figures silhouetted
against the sky. From the flagstones of the shrine cresting the peak, Otto Glott grinned down at the
blood-covered masks growling up at him.
A carpet of tattooed corpses lay sprawled between the shrines pillars, each one a gratifyingly messy kill.
He scratched lazily at the warts on his wattled neck.
Come forwards, my battle-hungry friends, he boomed. It is a fine day, and my brothers and I will gladly
help you to your graves!
Otto chuckled fondly. These so-called Red Reavers clearly thought the Glottkin would tire; that eventually
Nurgles favored grandchildren would let themselves be overwhelmed. The marauders were sorely
mistaken.
Otto rested his rust-pocked scythe against his shoulder, took off his helmet and spat a bloody clot of
infected phlegm toward the largest of the tribesmen below. It hit home in the champions eye with a fat
slap. Enraged, the bloodstained brute bounded up from the ranks of his fellows with a roar of anger.
Predictable, chuckled Otto, replacing his helm and sweeping his scythe low. The Reavers head popped
off like a cork from a bottle of bad wine. Spurting blood, it bounced off a spiked pillar and disappeared
into the throng.
ENOUGH!
The booming voice rang out, its thunder loud enough to shake the scree from the shrines sides.
Otto blinked in shock, his knees buckling as the Red Reavers stopped and lowered their axes. Somehow
the irresistible authority of the newcomers command had blown away the clouds of their battle lust.
As one, the tribesmen shuffled and parted, their eyes cast down. A heartbeat later, the causeway to the
shrines top was clear. At its far end, Otto could see a figure of such undeniable majesty that all three of
the Glottkin knelt in deference.
Archaon, Lord of the End Times, had come- End Times: Glottkin
Such was their clear favor with Nurgle, which in the End Times Archaon sought them out and put them
in charge of a Nurglite invasion of the Empire. The brothers were to lead the largest of a three-pronged
invasion force south, a horde of millions, to surround and destroy the Imperial capital city of Altdorf.
The brothers commenced their invasion of the coastal city of Marianburg, flooding it with ghastly
artifacts given by their fel patron Nurgle and all manner of plagues. Specifically, a pot made by Nurgle
himself was used that saw the weapons and armor of many defenders simply rotting off their bodies.
Though the natives put up a fight, eventually the sheer breadth of the massive seaborne invasion,
combined with the plagues broke their will to fight. In hours, the Glottkin had entered the city,
resistance nearly non-existent. Well, from the living at least
The armies of the vampire Mundvard the Cruel had long been lurking in the derelict buildings of
Marienburg, ready for their masters signal to seize the city. The Glottkins invasion forced Mundvards
hand, however, and with a vengeance the ancient vampire lord did rise to battle! Tens of thousands of
undead rose from the murky causeways of the city and among the native dead, arresting the advance
the Nurglite forces had made .So great were the numbers sent against the brothers that they were
temporarily thrown back, and might have been totally defeated had not Mundvard, in his rage at seeing
his long planned dreams destroyed, sought them out personally. After a brief battle he was defeated
and his undead army collapsed without the direction of their master. After defeating an Imperial relief
force the Glottkin managed to secure the city.
The Triplets swept onwards towards Altdorf, extinguishing defenders within the city of Carroburg after
some fierce fighting. As they marched the land itself was corrupted and tainted by their presence and
that of the unique magic deployed in Marienburg, combining with the urns deployed by Gutrot and the
Maggoth Lords to spread throughout the Empire.
Finally, after some delay, the Glottkin made it to the city just as the Maggoth Lords and Gutrot
simultaneously arrived. Though each had hoped to arrive first and steal all the glory (such isolated
attacks would have failed against the heavily fortified city) by divine fortune they assaulted together,
right as a hidden Nurgle conspiracy inside the city caused a gateway to Nurgles realm to spill forth.
Besieged from within and without the defenders of Altdorf put up a valiant fight, but one they were
destined to lose.or would certainly have but for two sets of reinforcements.
The first was a massive army of Brettonian Knights, a good portion of Bretonnias total remaining armed
forces, which hit the Glottkins rear flank. Forced to divide his forces to continue, the Glottkins main
thrust through the gates was immensely weakened by this action- to say nothing of the not
inconsiderate amount of artillery rounds lobbed at them! Eventually however the Glottkin managed to
contain the Brettonians, and beat through the defenders. Unfortunately for the Glott, just as with
Marienburg, the dead rose to oppose them.
Progress for the Glottkin slowed to a crawl as they were forced to trudge through corpse-infested
streets, losing more and more to both the undead and the remnants of their defenders as they trudged
along. Remembering the lessons of Marienburg, the triplets sought out and systematically killed the
leadership of the Undead Legion, including a vengeful Mundvard. They then swarmed towards the
palace.
It was there that Otto fought the head vampire Vlad Von Carstein. Carstein, with over 4000 years of
swordplay tradition under his belt, had the upper hand until his sword, Blood-Drinker, absorbed the
blood of Otto into the vampires own bloodstream. As Otto was infected with Nurgles Rot this infected
the vampire too, and he was forced to flee. Before the Imperial Palace could be claimed the Emperor
Karl Franz, Reichsmarshal Kurt Hellborg, and Supreme Patriarch Gregor Martak all arrived in quick
unison. Alas, though the battle was fierce the Reichsmarshal was cut down and the Patriarch fled to the
Imperial Bestiary in an attempt to free the Imperial Dragon to aid (he did so, but the Dragon chose to
stay). In the final moment the Emperor himself was cut down and the Empire seemingly finished.
Or would have been, had not at that very moment the Winds of Magic been unbound in distant Ulthuan.
From inside a realm inside the Warp, Sigmar latched on to the Celestial Wind and, combined with the
power of sacrifice of his realm, used its power to resurrect himself and manifest himself on the physical
plane, taking possession of the body of the vanquished Karl Franz.
The battle that followed swift and merciless. Using the latent magic behind his resurrection, Sigmar
swiftly purged the nearby city of Chaos and nearly totally annihilated the brothers. Only quick thinking
by Ethrac, who teleported the triplets away, saved them. However Nurgle was displeased and as
punishment for the less-than total victory he locked them all in three magical jars, to be imprisoned for
the rest of the End Times.
However, if Nurgle was

displeased, Archaon
wasnt. Between the
Beastman uprisings, the
invaders from the North,
and the super-plagues
unleashed by the Glott,
almost a half of the
Empires population died
during this period.
Offensive: Otto wields a
mighty Scythe that he can
hurl up to forty feet out.
Ethrac is a level 4 wizard
of Nurgle. Gurk is a
mighty, house sized
monster capable of ripping
horses apart and even
overpowering other
monstrous creatures.
They also have acidic
blood and breath.
Defensive: Nurgle
durability and
regeneration. In game the
Glottkin are one of the
most durable units.
The Bretonnian attack had been an unexpected complication for the Glottkin, and one they could ill
afford after the costly battle they had fought against the Carroburgers as they had made their way along
the Reik. Only with the principal cities of the Empire broken and left in ruin could the realm of Karl Franz
be broken apart, and with it, the mortar that bound the barrier of men, elves and dwarfs together. It was
imperative that the defending armies be slaughtered for the great work to achieve its goal, regardless of
what nation had thrown their soldiers into their path.
Otto Glott knew this fact well and fought with a cold, determined fury to ensure it. His brother Ghurk
merely knew that the scent of horseflesh was strong here, and that meant a feast to come. The giant
mutant bawled in glee as his enormous tentacle smashed brightly-caparisoned stallions and their
armored riders into the mud. Ghurks other arm, a lamprey-like maw with a long whipping tongue,
started the feast early. He smacked the gaping appendage into the flank of a warhorse, gnawing its
torso to the bone even as Otto took the riders head from his neck with a flick of his scythe. On the
Glottkin went, breaking the Bretonnian wedge kill by kill, an unstoppable force that had met worthy prey
at last. Here and there a knight would fight back hard, plunging a glowing blade or lance into Ghurks
blubbery mass. They might as well have been stabbing a glacier for all the good it did.
Ethrac delighted in such resistance, picking the choicest spells in his extensive repertoire and granting the
Bretonnian heroes one grisly death after another. Here a knight swelled out of his armor, pink and
bristling, to crush his own horse under his morbid weight. There a proud paladin simply sank into the
ground, crying out to his goddess as the earth below his steed turned to a quagmire of boiling pus.
Anything that Gurk eats alive is turned into a Chaos Spawn, which can then be vomited out and hurled
as artillery.
===X-FACTORS===
Adaptive Creativity: 59/100:
Tactics: 54/100: Though a large part of their tactical acumen simply relies on bull-rushing their vast
hordes at the enemy they are shown capable of adapting with leadership decapitation tactics (to defeat
the vampires) or unleashing of plagues to bombard and weaken powerful points.
Strategy: 60/100: The Glottkin eventually lost and admittedly were mostly just following the plan set out
by Archaon. However the fact is that they inflicted extreme causalities on the enemy while doing so,
wiping out several cities and key figures, and contributing to the death of the Empires population in
perhaps 1-2 years. This greatly weakened the Empire before Archaons follow-up invasion.
Intuition: 68/100: Through his magic, Ethrac does have some seer capabilities though it is shown to be
limited (he repeatedly did not predict the undeads intervention).
Audacity: 85/100: The Glottkin themselves might occasionally hang back but they clearly have little to
no fear of death under most circumstances. Nor do they have qualms sending mass troops to die.
Psychological Warfare: 62/100: The Glottkin know how to demoralize foes with diseases, however
admittedly this is just what Nurglites do by default anyway.
Experience: 62/100: The triplets have been fighting for close to 15 years, however they only recently
became leaders of a major Chaos force as a result of Nurgles blessing.
Discipline: 42/100 : Difficulty in putting desires for personal glory on par with overall Chaos desires.
Inspiration: 72/100: The Glottkin are respected among their fellow Nurglites for the clear favor their god
has bestowed upon them and the honor Archaon has given them. However there is still some disunity
among followers of the other gods, and other Nurglite commanders on their big campaign all tried to
upstage them.
Corruption: 93/100:
Mobility: 4
Preferred Range: spell
Vilitch once lived terribly at the hands of his tribesmen. One of

the twin sons of the tribal chieftain, Villitch grew scrawny and
weak in a culture that prizes strength while his brother became
the pride of the clan. While Vilitch was scraping by as a shamans apprentice his brother was leading
raids a world away. Worse when he returned his brothers favorite past time was to beat Vilitch for the
slightest infraction.
Desperately Vilitch prayed every night to Tzeentch for him to change their fortunes. Eventually the
Changer of Ways, who delights in anarchy, agreed. Vilitch awoke that night fused to the form of his
mighty brother, whose mind had rotted to little more than an automaton. Cackling with glee, Vilitch set
out to enslave or exterminate his entire tribe. However he spared the warrior elite, using his sorcerous
powers to enslave their minds.
Vilitch would seek out Archaon just prior to the End Times, offering the future Everchosen a deal :
Welcome to Bretonnia, Archaon.
To hell with your welcome, Curseling, Archaon told him. He gestured to the raging storm above. This is
your doing?
Change is mine to wield like a sculptor his clay or artist his brush, the Curseling said. A ship-enslaving
storm is childs play. You should see what I can do with light and the very darkness that crafts it. Or flesh
and the thoughts that drive it.
You Tzeentchians are all the same, Archaon scorned. So in love with your sorcerous powers and
fiendish intrigue. Dropping clues of doom to come into the poisonous tedium, you force me to listen to
before coming to an actual point. I have scores of such sorcerers at my command. You dont impress me,
creature of unnatural arts and neither will what you have planned for me. Besides, Ive never met a
sorcerer I couldnt kill. Despite your talents, you all share the same weakness. My steel in your twisted
flesh.
The Curseling chuckled but Vilitchs mirth sounded stilted, proceeding as it did from the warrior-twin.
You dont disappoint, Archaon.
You do, the Chaos warlord told the sorcerer. You wear both the iconography of the Great Changer and
Belakor, the Dark Master. Is it not inappropriate to wear the sigils of sworn enemies? Neither daemonic
power will thank you for that, Curseling.
Like you, Archaon, Vilitch said, I serve the interests of all Dark Powers, through reverence of the
pantheon.
You serve only your own ambitions, Archaon accused. Like all who bear the Dark Masters mark, you
are driven to madness with your desire for what I already have. The treasures of Chaos.
All but one of the treasures, Archaon
And there it is, the Chaos warlord said. The bait in the trap you already close about me. Archaon
sniffed at the glowing mist that rolled and twisted about them. A sorcerous trap.
You are indeed a treat, Vilitch told him. I didnt expect the dark, driven, indomitable warrior of folk
songs and stories to be so entertaining.
A twisted mind, desirous of such treasures without earning them, Archaon continued, might seek to
acquire them through the promise of the last.
Very good, Archaon. Very good, the Curseling said, the toothed worm-mouth of the sorcerer managing
a horrid grin. And how might Vilitch achieve such a thing?
You would engage me in some fools errand, Archaon said. Some cause of common darkness which
necessitates me and the might of my army. Something to put all under your sorcerous spell. Something
to stack the odds firmly in your favor, since neither you nor any of your tested minions could hope to
stand before me blade to blade.
Excellent! the Curseling cackled, each sound seeming forced and affected through the lips of another.
Truly, the Great Changer smiles upon you, Archaon. Now, the details.
Do they even matter? Archaon said.

Always, the Curseling said. I see that I still have a little to teach you, mighty Archaon. A great lie the
kind that takes the lives of men, their futures, their very souls is predicated upon the foundation of
seeming truths. These truths rely on details that are an antidote to incredulity as a life-saving potion
might be to a poison incredulity that would destroy the lie.
Being in your mere presence is an education, Curseling, Archaon told the Tzeentchian. A repulsive one,
but an education all the same.
Why thank you, Archaon, the sorcerer returned, and I hope that when I have done with you, the
pantheon will descend upon the self-importance of your soul and tear it to infinite shreds for eternity. So,
the details.
Archaon looked about the mist-swathed coastline and the darkness of the storm above.
These are Lucus lands, Archaon said, his half-remembered truths fielding the lie Vilitch needed him to
believe. The coastal Marches. If my charts are correct, Brilloinne Castle is not far inland. Baron Lucus
was a famous knight of legend, even when I was a child. As part of his questing he recovered many
cursed items, trinkets and dark artefacts of sorcerous power, securing them in the chapel about which he
built his mighty castle. I assume you want access to this chapel.
I couldnt have put it better myself, the Curseling said. Baron Lucus is long dead but the lands belong to
his grandson. While he is not half the man his grandfather was, he is wealthy and his fortifications are
well maintained. He also commands the allegiance of those still loyal to his grandfathers memory,
including an army of pilgrims devoted to protecting the sealed chapels secrets.
You have attacked Brilloinne Castle already then? Archaon asked.
I led a horde of spawn all honoring the Great Changer with their gifts, the Curseling told him, but they
lacked the discipline of your monstrous army as I lack your warmongering leadership, Archaon. I lost my
unfortunates before the castle walls to Baron Lucus and his attendant knights.
So the baron is already alerted to your intentions, Archaon stated, and no doubt has sent riders with
word to neighboring lords, knights oath-honored to protect his grandfathers legacy and pilgrims sworn
to secure his chapel and its dark secrets.
Yes
And why would I do this?
You tell me, Archaon: why would you do this? the Curseling asked.
For one thing, Archaon said, and one thing only. The location of the final treasure of Chaos. The Crown
of Domination. But you know this already, sorcerer.
Let me trade you truth for truth, Vilitch said. I know not where the crown you seek is, but I know one
that does. Take Brilloinne Castle and its secrets for me and I will tell you where he can be found.
And then I shall have to gut you, I expect, Archaon told the sorcerer, as you try to spring whatever
feeble trap you have intended for me.
The worm-like sorcerers mouth formed a horrid smile.
We are going to make such a good team, the Twisted Twin said, you and I.- Archaon : Lord of Chaos
Together the two fought through the Brettonian castle, with Villitch serving as magical support for
Archaons front-line thrusts. In typical Tzeentchi fashion however, betrayal was struck. It turned out
Villitch had lied, and had already spread a seed of mutation through the Brettonians castle covered by
illusions that he could have activated at any time. He did so when Archaons force was inside, trapping
the Chaos lord and what warriors were with him with hundreds of Chaos spawn. Simultaneously he
assassinated the Beastmaster for Archaons force, causing the Everchosen to lose control of his
monsters. At the same time he locked Archaon in a chapel of the Lady, whose divine anti-chaos aura
seared Archaons very soul.
However Villitch had underestimated both the cunning and tenacity of the Chaos warlord. He fought
his way through and cornered the twisted twin.
Shut the hell up, Archaon warned, laying the furnace glow of his daemonblade across the throats of
both warrior-twin and his sorcerous brother. Vilitch grew silent, instead revoltingly caressing and
calming his injured twin. Archaon watched as, horribly, the skeletal fingers of a new hand eased their
way out of the ruined wrist Archaons sword had left behind. Threading with veins and then blossoming
with tendons and muscle, the hand bled new skin through the rawness of fresh flesh. Id like to see you
do that without your heads, Archaon told the Curseling, edging the blood-hungry blade of the Slayer of
Kings towards their throats. The sorcerer smiled hideously.
Ill trade you truth for truth, Archaon told the Curseling. I fulfilled my part of our agreement, including
the part where I walk into your feeble trap. Archaon grunted and turned his helm, allowing the
destruction of the castle in through his eye slits. Even he had to admit that the trap had been anything
but feeble but he wasnt going to tell Vilitch that. Now the Crown of Domination. You promised me the
one who knows where it is. You promised me the whereabouts of such a Ruinous individual. Archaon
leant in close, pressing his burning blade ever closer. If I hear anything else pass your lips either set
that isnt what I just asked for, I swear to the dread Powers, I will slash your throats open.
the Dreadpeak, the Curseling managed, where the Worlds Edge Mountains meet the Northern
Wastes.
Very good, Archaon said, his blade seething against the sorcerers flesh. See what a good team we
make. Now, I dont like surprises. Who waits for me at the Dreadpeak with the knowledge I seek?
The worm-thing began to laugh.
Dont test me, sorcerer

Belakor
Belakor?
Belakor is the Harbinger, He Who Heralds Conquerors
The Bearer of the Crown, the Curseling told him, enjoying
the warlords confusion. The Crown of Domination is
Belakors burden. Only he knows where it can be found.
Archaons lip wrinkled into a snarl.
You know something, Curseling, he said to the sorcerer. I
think Im going to kill you anyway, you monstrous son of
a
In the radiance of the daemonsword, Archaon didnt
notice the sorcerers own glow. The mist pouring from the
shattered staff and gathering at their feet had slithered up
about the Curseling. As the Twisted Twin let out a horrid laugh that echoed away to nothing, Archaon
lurched forward. The Slayer of Kings slipped through the glowing mist that the Curseling had become.
With the sorcerers mocking laughter still bouncing around the inside of his skull and dark magic on the
air, Archaon sheathed his mighty blade.- Archaon: Lord of Chaos
In the End Times Villitch would lead an initial invasion of the Empire in the earliest months, only to be
driven back when a sniper nearly took his head. Villitch next appears later on when Archaon summons
him and orders him to take the city of Aveheim. This was an incredible task, for Averheim was one of the
most fortified cities in the entire world, but Vilitch had no choice but to take the assignment. Doubtless
he knew that Archaon wanted to weaken his force and forever end a potential rival & irritant.
In Averheim Vilitch was quite understandably unwilling to risk the lives of his own warriors, and so he
used the Skaven as massive waves of cannon fodder to soak up enemy fire and test defenses.
Meanwhile his Chaos Dwarf hellcannons fired constantly on the walls, sometimes not even waiting for
the Skaven to retreat to do so. The only time he moved his own forces out into the open was one of
those rare times his army made a breach and then he always retreated rather than face either of the
incarnates in those walls.
As Villitch bided his time he conducted in secret a desperate gamble to summon a massive horde of
Tzeentchi daemons, enough to not only take Middenheim but defeat Archaon as well. Given that his
base army already had the size that Glottkin used to sack Altdorf, the Cursing reckoned he had a real
chance. However he underestimated Sigmar, who used his newfound powers to teleport a portion of his
force and destroy almost all of his hellcannons. Vilitch ran through the portal to escape but was found
and punished by Tzeentch.
Vilitch had no idea how long he had wandered in the darkness. Failure rankled at him, and the darkness
brought unease. He would have given much for the ability to summon flame, but he had not felt the
winds of magic since the portal had closed. Now he goaded his brothers meaty form through the inky
black, ever-searching for a means of escape.
It had been Thomins fault that he had become trapped, of that the sorcerer was sure. His conjoined
brother had been too slow, and the enemy had escaped as a direct result.
Stupid oaf, Vilitch hissed, as he had many times since Bolgen. What use is brawn if it cannot function
when required? You were turgid, clumsy. I curse the fate that shackled me to you.
Thomin remained silent, as he had in the face of every whispered insult since the twins had first been
fused. Instead, he trudged tirelessly into the darkness. His heavy footfalls thudded across unseen footing,
their rhythmic pounding unbroken by Vilitchs constant stream of invective.
By and by, Thomin could walk no more. Not for lack of strength, for his enthralled body was as
unwearied as ever. Rather, Vilitchs path was blocked by a smooth expanse of rock that would not
shatter, no matter how hard Thomins fists pummeled it. Worse, when Vilitch turned about, he
discovered a similar obstacle behind, though how it had come there, he could not say.
Panic rose in the sorcerers gullet, but faded as he made a new discovery. There was magic in that place,
magic he could use.
Flame burst from Vilitchs staff. In its light, the sorcerer saw through Thomins eyes that what he had
taken for stone was in fact shining crystal. Their images reflected on and on, doubling and redoubling in
the chambers fractal splendor.
Where am I? the sorcerer hissed aloud.
In the domain of the Great Sorcerer, came the response, whispered by a thousand mirthful voices. He
has heard your prayer, loyal champion, and is pleased to fulfil it.
What prayer? Vilitch demanded of the voices. I made no supplication.
But I did, said Thomin, his voice dry and parched from decades of silence. It is my turn now.
No! Thought Vilitch. He struggled to speak, but found he could no longer recall any words. Cantrips and
spells, the studies and schemes of a lifetime, faded from his mind like spent candleflame. Vilitch did not
miss them. Indeed, in moments, he had forgotten that they had ever existed; he had even forgotten his
own name.
By the time the crystal labyrinth shifted again, and Thomin strode out beneath the Realm of Chaos
violent skies, the thing that had been Vilitch the Curseling hung mute from his shoulder, eagerly awaiting
his brothers wise instruction.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: His enslaved twin carries a flail and a sword, while Villitch has a staff for close quarters
combat. Furthermore Villitch is a master level 4 sorcerer of Tzeentch, able to use those spells.
Defensive: Little defense, and indeed even his twin is depicted as unarmored. Tzeentchs favor does
give him a slight ability to manipulate fate in this regard.
Even when the Winds of Magic are not blowing Vilitch has a dark crucible that serves as an emergency
backup of magical energy. Villitch would normally be a commander of Tzeentch, leading his servants
against the forces of order (or whoever Chaos fights). However Vilitch has made a huge enemy in
Archaon, who has sworn revenge.
ADAPTIVE CREATIVITY: 74/100: Villitch is clever and his schemes hidden behind more schemes and
plans. Even Archaon, who by the time he first met Villitch had over a century of experience with
Tzeentchi treachery, was surprised by the creativity of his plans.
TACTICS: 65/100: Fights cleverly, though every battle he has taken part of thus far he has lost whether it
is to Archaon, Sigmar or even just an elector count.
STRATEGY: 57/100: Villitch is good at innovative tactics and long range strategies. Whether they are
wise is another question, as like other Tzeentchi strategists Vilitch suffers at overreach, at comical
treachery and not fully considering unintended consequences of his decisions. For example starting a
feud with an ascendant Everchosen (who already had 5/6 artifacts when they met) was hardly an
intelligent decision nor was his decision to train well over a hundred plus sorcerers- as much as any
Imperial battle college- then squander them completely.
INTUITION: 64/100:
INSPIRATION: 59/100 (90/100): Among those who keep their will Villitch can instill fear, but not respect,
loyalty or any real zeal. In fact many plot against him and he must constantly stay ahead with his own
schemes. However many warriors under his command have their independent wills destroyed by magic
and fight as unflinching automatons.
DISCIPLINE: 45/100: Has some limited self-control however is not very disciplined when it comes to
acting on the whims of his schemes.
PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE: 68/100
EXPERIENCE: 68/100:
AUDACITY: 87/100: Cautious with his own life however has no qualms with expending hordes of his
minions, even valued ones. Vilitch spent even the lives of his valued sorcerers carelessly. Had he not
chosen to do so, the number of them would have equaled the size of any Imperial mage school. Vilitch
also enthralls parts of his army to ensure absolute obedience, making troops so mindlessly loyal that
they cannot think for themselves even when Vilitch wants them too.
CORRUPTION: 95/100
The minions of Khorne fight to inflict as much blood and slaughter as possible. To that end their
commanders are often shown to not care if they expend the lives of their own as much as the enemy,
for Khorne cares not from where the blood flows so long as it flows. Most Khorne commanders use
straightforward assault tactics of rushing in to do as much damage as possible however a few, like Sty
born and KaBandha, have evolved more tactics that while still incredibly bloody cary a degree of
finesse.
Mobility: 5
Role : Anti-combatant
The Warrior known as Scyla Anfingrim was once a legendary Norse
champion of Khorne who was infamous for raiding everything
from the Ind to the Empire. In each case he would slaughter the
inhabitants in the name of Khorne until his very name became a
byword for massacre. As his fame and fortune grew so too did his
standing among Khornes favor.
Khorne was not subtle in showing his favor. First he rewarded Scyla with hulking ape arms so that he
could pulverize his enemy. Then a serpent tail which attacked with a mind on its own. In return for
massacring a Chaos Dwarf delegation he received bony spikes all along his body. Finally, after the
subjugation of a powerful rival tribe, Scyla received the mind of a ravenous beast and mutated into a
Chaos Spawn.
Now his former tribe keeps Scyla penned up when not on campaign. However though he is a chaos
spawn, he is perhaps the only individual Chaos spawn who has not been abandoned by Khorne and
still maintains his favor. In battle he is the equivalent of a hurricane, smashing through enemy lines and
tearing apart even skilled Chaos Warriors as if they unarmored peasants.
Scyla roared. His serpent-tail whipped around, striking the first warrior like a viper, tearing the
mans throat out in a mess of bloody cartilage. Just as quickly, he snatched up another with his massive
pincers, the mans armor squealing under the strength of his grip.
Before the third could level a blow, the beast snapped his companion cleanly in half, hurling the
bisected body over the precipice and leaping forwards with blinding speed. His jaws snapped open and
he sank his great fangs into the warriors skull.
Ruaddon stared, wide-eyed, as Scyla effortlessly tore the mans head away from his shoulders in a
fountain of gore.
Dropping the mangled corpse, he turned to face Vhorgath and Ruaddon, a sluice of blood and bone
fragments drooling from his hairy
chin.
Scyla hungers, Freya finally

said. He always hungers.
-Talon of Khorne
At the conclusion of the End Times
Scyla fought in the battle of
Averheim, where he dueled the
Slayer King Ungrim. He was killed by
being hurled off a cliff.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Scyla is a Chaos spawn
with strength to physically rip a
man apart, a serpent tail capable of
ripping out throats, jaws to bite
through skulls and of course huge talons.
Defensive: Scyla is extremely durable to damage thanks to his thick hide, bony protrusions and sheer
size. He also has near total magic resistance.
Mobility: 4
"I am Egil Styrbjorn, High Jarl
of the Skaelings, slayer of souls
and butchers of immortals.
Hear my words! The blood of
ten-thousand slaughtered
enemies stains my blades. I
have bested the nameless
horrors of the northern wastes
and have walked free to speak
the tale. Alone, I speared a great wyrm of the underseas, battling it for a day and night before dragging
it ashore and cutting its head from its neck. I have walked the smoking paths of the nightshades and
have emerged unharmed. I have strangled Ice Trolls with my bare hands. I have run with the Ulfwerener,
hunted with the Ymgir and feasted with the Bloodbeast. I have stood upon the Knife Peaks as the gods
threw jagged bolts of lightning down upon me, and defeated one of the great dragon-kin wakened by
the storm, cutting its still-beating heart from its chest. This and more have I done, I, Egil Styrbjorn of the
Skaelings! Never have I asked for quarter from an enemy, and never have I offered it. Until now."
Egil Strybjorn is the personification of the dualistic Norse traits of savagery and honor, a chieftain of
Khorne who was as known for his skill on the front lines as he was leading from the back. He is a
legend among both his people- one of the largest tribes in Norsca- and his enemies. Even before his
ascension he was well-known for such feats as destroying a Dragon Ogre Shaggoth in single combat and
killing a great serpent under the sea. For years he dominated the scene in Norsca, killing countless
would-be challengers.
In the events of Knight of the Realm he leads an invasion force of tens of thousands of Norscans to
Brettonnia, seeking a cursed woman to give him a powerful daemon son for his legacy. His
arrival heralded much bloodshed, for Strybjorn hates the weak gods of the South and their followers and
desires nothing more to see them destroyed from this world. Multiple atrocities were committed, which
resulted in the Bretons mustering 10,000 Knights and far more peasants to acquire vengeance.
To the surprise and delight of the Brettonians, it appeared that the Skaeling chieftain had no knowledge
of tactics, for he chose a flat battlefield where their main force of knights and mounted archers would
have great benefit over the grounded Norse force which, with one to be mentioned exception, was
nearly entirely bereft of ranged attack. Indeed the battle appeared to be initially a slaughter for the
Brettonians, whose 10,000 strong knight force charged as one into the center of the horde, which was
composed of mostly lightly armored marauders.
Unfortunately for them Strybjorn took advantage of their arrogance, their belief that the "honourless
Norsicans" would be too stupid to come up with a proper tactic. He placed heavy reserves of Chaos
Warriors behind the center of his force to keep the charging knights occupied, while simultaneously
moving hidden flanking forces around both sides. Yet at the same time he ordered his Chaos Dwarf
hellcannon(an exceptionally large variant at that) to open fire into the massed knights, killing hundreds
with every shot.
The Norscans center, which had been composed of troops made to seem intentionally weak and
disorganized from the front, held as the momentum of the Knights failed against the heavily armored
wall of thousands of Chaos Warriors. Meanwhile Marauders assaulted the flanks and rear, entrapping
the force as Strybjorn himself led a coup de grace into the Knights ranks; three heavily armored and
massive 30 feet mammoths.
The result was the near total destruction of the Brettonian army, and a victory that pleased the Chaos
Gods themselves. They blessed Strybjorn's attempt to gain a daemon son, and the resulting copulation
would have been the end of it had not the Brettonians kidnapped his son and reluctant wife.
Enraged Stryjborn assaulted their main castle, a keep of such incredible reputation that in the 1500
years its walls had never once been breached. Strybjorn burst it open in a week,
taking grievous causalities even to his force but utilizing great cunning. After his Hellcannon
was destroyed, Strybjorn noticed that the perpetrators traveled under the water via magical means, and
that more importantly the ford they traveled along with only 30 feet deep. Stryjborn ordered a general
assault at the same time sending infiltrators up through the latrine chute to seize control of a vital tower
to open a causeway. With this opened, the Norse chieftain had his mammoths travel directly along the
ford (for they were tall enough to put feet at the bottom and still be able to breathe at the
top), surprising the Brettonians by emerging from the water to batter down their gates. Dragonships full
of Berserkers prevented the defenders from effectively responding to the threat and with the gates
destroyed the Brettonians were forced to retreat to the keep.
Then his son was born, and such was the power of it that its birth caused everyone to briefly cringe in
their very souls. All except Stryjborn, who was just happy to finally have a son. Sensing that the
defenders would kill the babe out of spite if he assaulted the keep, the Norse chieftain proposed a duel
with the Grail Knight Relous. If the Norse won, his son would be handed to him and they would leave. If
the Grail Knight won then Stryjborn would be dead and the Norse would retreat anyway.
This caused bewilderment and even anger among his followers, and Stryjborn first had to kill the most
vocal of them, a Chaos Dwarf named Zummah, in a separate duel. Then came the main event. The duel
with the Grail Knight Relous was long and brutal, with the Brettonnian boasting superior speed and
finesse while the Norscan had power and durability. Indeed the latter was actually disemboweled and
had his hand cut off in battle, but ultimately through sheer strength of will prevailed. Relous was
decapitated and the babe reluctantly handed over.
Stryjborn honored the agreement and left the Brettonians that day, but has vowed to return in the
future, to bring final destruction to their people. He would live to see this in the End Times, though he
was killed shortly after in Middenheim by one of the Incarnates.
LOADOUT
Offensive: Garmr and Gormr: The twin hellforged battle-axes of the High Jarl of Strovengaard; ancient
daemon weapons forged in the realms beyond flesh in honor of the bloody wolves said to accompany
Khorne the Blood God on his wild hunts across the heavens, which drive the sun to cower and flee
before the god's fury, creating the alternation of night and day in Norscan mythology. The axe heads are
thus forged in the likeness of howling wolves, and are heavy with infernal power, possessing the
captured essences of Bloodthirsters. Inset into their hafts are red stones the color of blood, which serve
as the eyes of the wolves. These gems burn with unholy power as the axes taste the blood of Styrbjorn's
enemies, wailing and screaming with delight as they kill. The mighty weapons are capable of splitting
fully armored men in two from crown to sternum, and in Styrbjorn's hands can deliver truly mighty
blows. He also has two throwing axes and when not dueling rides into battle on a Mammoth.
Defensive: Chaos Armor and blessings. Is durable enough to survive disembowelment.
===Additional Factors===
A vision by one of the main characters seems to imply that Styrbjorn is on the cusp of daemonhood.
==X-Factors==
Adaptive Creativity: 80/100: Frequently displays creative solutions to his battles, whether it
be encircling the Brettonians or having Mammoths travel underwater.
Tactics: 74/100: Though often taking terrible causalities in his desire to win battles, he has won every
battle he is shown to have fought in the novel. And won using brilliant tactics too, like Cannae style
encirclement.
Strategy: 60/100: Thanks to his limited vision his strategy is somewhat lacking, but he nevertheless
composed an overall plan to lure huge Brettonian armies to a field of his choosing.
Intuition: 59/100: Though adept at turning bad situations around, he nevertheless is often surprised at
first by the actions of his enemy.
Audacity: 87/100: Has no problem sending large numbers of his men, even his daughters, to their
deaths if it means he can achieve victory. Indeed the Norse religion believes there is much glory to be
won in battle. The only thing he wasn't willing to risk is that of his son and legacy.
Psychological Warfare: 66/100: Styrbjorn enjoys destroying enemy religious symbols, priests
and elements of culture, believing them all worthy of only destruction. He also gruesomely kills those
who don't fight.
Experience: 70/100:
Discipline: 65/100: Despite being one of Khorne's chosen, Strybjorn generally is pretty calm and does
not blink to sending copious amounts of men to their glorious death, or to suffer a upset which claims
massive amounts of his own troops.
Inspiration: 77/100: Revered by his troops as a warrior-king who leads by example. Thus far, his troops
have never retreated except when ordered and gleefully fought to the death.
Corruption: 82/100: Willing and eager to engage in countless atrocities to attract the god's attention,
including indiscriminate butchery, rape, and defilement of women and children. However unlike most
Norse he respects bravery and courage, and will give those who fight relatively quick deaths. He will
also respect and honor a deal once committed to it.
Training: 4-8
Mobility: 4
Skarr Bloodwrath began his
career as a mere whelp, where
to the surprise of all he slew
his powerful chieftain of a tribe
that specialized in combat in a
duel. Seizing control over the
tribe Skarr was instantly
rewarded for this feat by the
rune of Khorne branding itself
into his heart, the first of many
gifts by the Blood God. Over the
years Skarr would paint the
Chaos Wastes red in his zeal to
give the Blood God his due,
even at one point slaying a
Keeper of Secrets in single
combat. Yet eventually, he was
slain by a Tzeentchi sorcerer .
However Khorne was furious,
judging the blow- struck from
the veil of sorcerous illusion- a
cowardly one. He breathed
new life into his champion,
who quickly took revenge on
the sorcerer. Since that day
Skarr has died many times,
each time coming back a little
less human and a little more
devoted to bloodshed. His fury
is described as endless now, his
chain-linked axes always in
motion as he strives to continue
killing until there is nothing else
to kill. For that reason he is as much a terror to his own forces as he is to the enemy.
In the End Times it was Skarr who finally led the Skaramor into battle with the Southerners, who the
tribe had previously disdained for being weak. The Skaramor chieftain lost much in the campaign, was
killed several times with much of his forces massacred at range however, of course, Skarr cared not. He
even interrupted the delicate plans of Belakor to corrupt Athel Loren, refusing to follow the Daemon
Princes warnings of caution and thus throwing the whole plan awry. Skarr has no need for strategy,
only bloodshed.
He was eventually defeated by Caradryan in Athel Loren, ending his threat for a while, however he
resurrected once more towards the end of the End Times and roamed the world looking for battle as
existence ended.
Offensive: Bloodstorm Blades: Wielded with legendary skill, the Bloodstorm Blades are twin magical
axes that give the user supernatural strength.
Skarr Bloodwrath fought all but alone atop a pile of human and dwarf corpses, the few skullreapers at
his side drenched head to toe in blood. There was no technique to Skarrs blows, just the brutal instincts
of a born warrior. He hacked through shields and helms, throttled dwarfs with his axes chains even
tore out their throats with his teeth, if the opportunity presented itself.
Defensive: Some Chaos Armor. In addition the better Skarr does in a battle by killing enemy
champions and monsters- the more likely he is to be resurrected later on by Khorne.
According to a later biography in Age of Sigmar, Skarr will probably exist as long as Khorne does barring
utter destruction of the soul. He will essentially always come back from death in battle- however it is
heavily randomized. Sometimes it might be minutes, other times it might be decades
Mobility: 6
Role: Tactical Commander/Melee
*Note Thorgar and Hroth are the same, but called slightly different between the game Marks of Chaos
and the novelization of that game.
Thorgar the Bloodied began his career as a warrior of Khorne roughly two centuries ago, during the
time of the 12th Everchosen Asavar Kuls assault on the Empire. In what would be called the Great War
Thorgar distinguished himself as a powerful Khornate warrior, fighting notably in many battles. When
his warhand's Champion died in the fighting at the Battle of the Gates of Kislev, Thorgar took control and
led the battered survivors away from the vengeful army of Magnus the Pious. The now Chaos Champion
vowed to become his own master.
In the aftermath of the failed invasion, various Chaos champions worked to reunite the shattered
remnants. Among the claimants were Subodai, Subodais lackey, and Thorgar. Though initially Subodai
had Thorgar as a pawn, someone to be sacrificed so the Chaos sorcerer could achieve greater glory,
Thorgar was cunning enough to turn the tables on the Tzeentchi sorcerer, defeating the lackey and
becoming the master over the sorcerer.
Thorgar had a plan of his own, to claim the body of AKul and take his power. In the process he defeated
a High Elven expedition sent to stop him, foiled the Imperials and allied with a Skaven renegade named
Kasquit. Wandering deep into the Chaos Wastes, he finally came across the burial ground of the mighty
Kurgan Everchosen. In the Realm of Dreams he confronted Kul, and after a powerful battle consumed
his power. As a result Thorgar ascended to Daemonhood.
His first act was to attempt to destroy the nascent Empire, to achieve what Kul failed to do. With his
newfound Daemonic powers and his status as Khornes chosen gaining many followers, he launched a
fresh invasion of the South, quickly destroying a High Elf blockade and tearing a path through the
Empire. He attempted to put Talabheim to the sword, using his Skaven allies to attack from the
sewers of the city as his host assaulted the walls, guarded by the Imperials and the remnants of the
High Elf expedition. Ultimately however the Imperials prevailed and Thorgar was barely defeated,
though at tremendous cost.
Offensive: Powerful Daemon Sword
Defensive: Daemonic durability.
Lathyerin looked up with a sense of horror to see the massive daemon streaking down from the
turbulent sky.
'Sea guard! Turn your bows skyward!' he called, swaying backwards to avoid a swing of an axe from a
Norscan. As the axe sliced past him, an inch from his neck, he sent a fatal riposte stabbing into the man's
chest.
Dozens of arrows streaked into the air, many of them striking the descending daemon in his chest and
arms. They bounced from his armor, and shattered on his skin, slowing his descent not at all.
The ground trembled as the daemon landed feet first, scattering elves and Norscans alike. With a roar of
pure rage, Hroth swung his axe and sword around him, cleaving through a score of elves within seconds.
Blood fountained from the bodies as they fell around him, unable to match his daemonic power, frenzy
or speed. Blades rebounded from his flesh, numbing the hands of the elves assailing him. Spears jarred as
they struck him, doing little damage to the massive creature. In turn, he swept his weapons around,
cutting elves apart, severing limbs and heads, and cutting through torsos with ease.
The daemon turned and Lathyerin surged forwards, driving his glowing blade into the back of the
creature. Using all his force, the elf pushed the blade through the armor of his back, the sword tip
piercing the flesh of Hroth's lower back. Despite the magical nature of the sword, the blade only
penetrated a few inches into the daemon. Black blood bubbled from the wound, spitting and spluttering
with heat.
Roaring in fury, the daemon spun around, lashing out with its sparking sword. Lathyerin rolled
underneath the swinging blade, and came up on his knees, driving his sword towards Hroth's leg. Moving
with unnatural speed, Hroth lifted his leg, and slammed his foot, a cloven hoof, down onto the shining
blade, pinning it to the ground. His axe slammed down onto Lathyerin's shoulder, cutting the arm that
still held the weapon from his body. Hroth rammed his daemon sword through the body of the elf, and
the daemon within the blade fed upon his soul.
Flames washed over Hroth, and a long shining lance pierced his shoulder, throwing him to the ground,
crushing those he slammed into. He came up quickly, snarling his hatred, as the dragon roared overhead.
Blood spat from the wound on his shoulder, and with a roar he leapt into the air in pursuit.
The Dragon Prince, Khalanos, soared high into the air, wheeling around, hundreds of feet above the
battle. Coiling itself around, the dragon pulled its wings back and descended towards Hroth, who was
screaming up to meet it. Fire roared from the maw of the dragon, washing over the daemon prince,
scorching its face and chest, but it paid no heed. Prince Khalanos angled his gleaming lance at the heart
of the daemon flying straight up towards him.
Hroth smashed the lance aside with a sweep of his axe, and cleaved the Slayer of Kings straight through
the chest of the elf warrior. It tore through armor, flesh and bone, and the upper torso of the prince was
cut from the lower body with a spray of blood, falling down into the press of battle far below. The lower
part of the elf sat in the saddle for a moment, before toppling out, also falling far to the ground below.
The dragon scored a series of deep wounds down Hroth's body with its powerful claws as the two
creatures swept past each other.
His daemonic blood dripping a hundred feet into the press of battle below, burning all whom it touched,
Hroth turned in the air, far quicker than the dragon could, and descended towards the serpentine
creature, fury driving him onwards. He smashed into the dragon as it was sweeping over the battlefield.
Dropping his weapons, Hroth grappled the dragon around its long neck. His daemon sword fell, blade
first, into the head of an elf, driving through his body and embedding itself in the sand. Gripping the
dragon tightly, Hroth drove it down into the ground.
With titanic force, the two massive creatures smashed into the sand, crushing dozens of elves and
Norscans beneath their bulks. Hroth shifted his grip as the creature thrashed around blindly, engulfing
scores of men and elves indiscriminately in flame.
Hroth's massive muscles bulged, veins almost bursting with the exertion, but he refused to release the
maddened creature, and the two of them rolled over and over. The dragon coiled itself around the
daemon prince, and Hroth, releasing one hand from its grip around the throat, smashed his fist into the
head of the dragon, feeling the skull crack beneath the force of the blow. The dragon tightened its coils,
and Hroth's bones strained under the immense pressure. Still he held on, and smashed his fist into the
dragon's skull once again. It thrashed around powerfully, ripping itself free of the daemon prince's grip,
and uncoiled itself.
Rearing up, the dragon roared in anger, and lashed out with its snapping jaws, intending to bite the
daemon in half. Hroth caught the jaws of the dragon as they descended around him, holding them at
bay. His muscles strained as the jaws slowly began to close, and he roared his fury. With a burst of
power, he thrust upwards, extending his arms, and ripped the jaws of the dragon open further than they
were meant to go. A horrible tearing sound accompanied this violent motion, as the tendons and
jawbone of the dragon were ripped apart. It thrashed around on the blood-soaked sand, its jaw hanging
open loosely, emitting piteous growls and whimpers of agony and fear. It looked up at the daemon
prince looming over it with hatred. Hroth held out his hand, and the daemon sword pulled itself free from
the sand, flying through the air into the palm of his hand. With a single stroke, he cut the head from the
long sinuous neck. The body of the dragon convulsed on the ground before lying still.
Hroth rose to his feet, hefting the dragon's head in one hand, and roared in triumph. He turned around,
reveling in the victory. Dropping the dragon's head, he picked up his axe from where it lay on the sand
beside him. Swinging his two weapons around him, he grinned, the flames in his eyes and engulfing his
horns flaring brightly.
With a roar, he threw himself back into the fray. Within the hour, every elf on the beach was slain.-Mark
of Chaos
Mobility: 8
Max Range: Melee
Of all the warrior heroes of Khorne the Blood

God, there are few so devoted to their
thirsting master as Arbaal. Thousands have
felt his axe blade at their necks and now their
white skulls lie at the feet of Khorne. At the
city of Praag in the northlands, Arbaal led one
hundred Daemons in the assault on its
boundaries. It was Arbaal who finally
breached the gates of the city and ended the
siege. Legends claim that Arbaal slew a
thousand warriors that day. Arbaal is one of
the favorites of his master and his most
devoted servant. Khorne has gifted him with
the power of the Destroyer in recognition of
his devotion, a reward that belongs to
Khornes most favored Champion alone. Only
one warrior may bear the gift of the Destroyer of Khorne. Should his Champion be defeated Khornes
wrathful eye will turn Arbaal to foul Chaos Spawn, for only the victorious are worthy enough to serve
Khorne.
In the End Times Arbaal would command the Chaos portion of the invasion of Ind, killing so many and
stacking skulls higher than there was stupas. Many godly champions fell to his blade along with the
primogenitor of a vampire bloodline. By the time he recalled to Middenheim the kingdoms of Ind were
limited to only the innermost realms- and those were under siege. At Middenheim he would duel
Caradryan, Incarnate of Fire, and lose.
Caradryan spun his Phoenix Blade, blocking the deadly bite of the axe as it flashed towards him. The
Chaos champion known as Arbaal the Undefeated roared in fury and hacked at the Incarnate of Fire
again. Nearby, Ashtari shrieked in fury as he tore at the scaly body of Arbaals flesh hound. The daemondog wailed in frustrated rage as the firebird drove its beak into the beasts flesh again and again.
I have slaughtered armies of elves, Arbaal roared. His axe reeked of hot blood, and it left trails of
crimson smoke in its wake as he brought it slashing down towards Caradryans head. I have broken the
backs of dragons, and eaten the hearts of sea-leviathans.
Your culinary practices are no concern of mine, Caradryan snarled, parrying the blow. His arms ached,
but he whirled the halberd about as if it were as light as a feather. He twisted and spun, driving the
Chaos champion back. It does not matter to me how many you have murdered, monster. It ends here.
Quicker than thought, Caradryan lunged, slashed and jabbed, striking Arbaal again and again. He knew
that were he not host to Aqshy, he would have no hope of standing up to such a foe, let alone defeating
him. But with the fire raging in him, he felt as if there were no battle he could not survive. It was a
dangerous feeling. He had spent centuries honing his mind and body, and learning to control the rage
that was the curse of every elf. But the fire called to that primal part of him, and lent it strength. He
wondered if this was akin to what Tyrion had felt, when the fury of Khaine had driven him into madness
and despair. There was a freedom in it that called to him, and that he longed to embrace. Instead, he
whispered the mantras of Asuryan, trying to maintain focus.
Arbaal swatted the Phoenix Blade aside, ripping it out of Caradryans hands. The elf cursed himself for his
momentary lack of focus and threw himself over Arbaals next blow, his hands reaching for the halberds
haft. He caught the weapon and rolled to his feet, turning just in time to block a blow that would have
split him in half. Shattered cobbles shifted beneath his feet as Arbaal put all of his weight behind his axe,
and forced the elf back.
Caradryan wrenched his halberd to the side, trying to twist the axe out of his opponents grip, but Arbaal
was ready for such a tactic, and he drove a fist into the elfs belly. Caradryan staggered back, and lurched
aside as Arbaal tried to smash him from his feet.
The axe gashed his arm, and Caradryan bit back a scream. His blood hissed and bubbled as it splattered
Arbaals cuirass, and the Chaos champion hesitated, giving Caradryan a chance to put distance between
them. As he retreated, Caradryan cursed himself for a fool. If he hadnt moved when he had, Arbaals
blow would have taken his arm off. He could feel the fire within him, demanding to be let out. But to do
so would be to doom his warriors to certain death. Arbaal charged towards him, axe ready. The weapon
howled as it came around. Only one chance, he thought.
Caradryan spun about and leapt backwards over the sweeping blow. He tumbled through the air and
dropped down behind Arbaal. Even as the champion whirled to face Caradryan, the Phoenix Blade
slashed out. Ancient armor, crafted in Khornes own forges, ruptured as the fiery blade tore upwards
through it. Arbaal sagged backwards, clutching at the wound. He raised his axe, but Caradryan hacked
his arm off at the elbow. Arbaal screamed in fury and lurched towards the elf, groping for him with his
remaining hand.
Caradryan stepped back, out of reach, and pivoted, hammering the edge of his halberd into the space
between Arbaals collar and the bottom of his helmet. The white-hot blade tore through the champions
neck, and his head tumbled free to roll away across the cobbles.
Offensive: Arbaal wields the hurricane of destruction known as the Destroyer of Khorne, which boosts
the speed and potency of all attacks. He rides a great daemon hound into battle and is a legendary
duelist who was undefeated for several hundred years.
Defensive: Chaos armor and magic resistance.
Mobility: 5
Role: Anti-warrior champion
Long ago, when Chaos first invaded the world, the Tong
began their period of conquest, destroying all before them.
One Dolgan warlord, Vraks, dared stand against them,
leading a coalition to brief success before being routed by the Tong. In revenge the Tong warlord
impaled him and left him for dead. Such was the hatred Vraks had for his tormentor that he somehow
worked through the pain and- inch by agonizing inch- pulled himself up the pole. Finally after a whole
day of this Vraks succeeded, falling to the ground in a heap. As he lay dying he swore loyalty to any god
that would give him the power to avenge himself.
Khorne, who was greatly angered by the Tong Warlord's desire to actually try and build a civilization
instead of massacring absolutely everything, heard and agreed to Vraks request. The details that follow
are hazy but it is known Skulltaker all but blunted the Tong's offensive single-handily, and eventually
the Tong Warlord ordered his force to disengage rather than risk a crippled force. The two fought a
cataclysmic duel that ended with the Tong Warlord mortally wounded but triumphant, though only
barely. Vraks, who had now adopted the title "Skulltaker" vowed to take his revenge on
his descendants. Thousands of years later he would do so successfully, wiping out all 7 tribal leaders
descended of those that once formed the Tong offensive. In this way he earned full daemonhood, and
the Tong were forever more a scattered people.
Skulltaker is the greatest of the bloodletters, a being who has earned the respect of the gods
themselves. When not on campaign Skulltaker will seek out the warrior-champions of the greatest of
mortals and daemons. Hell dismount his juggernaut and bellow a great challenge for all to hear until
finally someone from within the enemy encampment accepts his request. Saluting them briefly, the
Skulltaker surges forward to claim yet another skull.
Such contests almost never end well for the mortal, for Skulltaker has skill borne from countless
millennia of experienced warfare. After ripping out the losers skull and hurling it in his trophy pile, hell
below out another challenge and another until either he gets bored or the enemy wises up to realize
they are wasting champions. Either way this bloodletter then leaves in search of a new foe.
Skulltaker has fought and beaten an architype of just about every mortal race in Warhammer Fantasy
with only two confirmed losses. In the first instance he lost barely to the original Tong warlord after an
extremely grueling fight thanks to the warlord's magical sword, and said warlord died later. In the
second instance he lost to the legendary Sigmar after a vicious battle and for that reason he has had a
grudge against the Empire ever since. This is in part because whenever he rips a skull out he inherits a
portion of their strength, making Skulltaker extremely formidable.
In the End Times Skulltaker traveled among the kingdoms Ind, hunting down the various champions of
that realm.
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Offensive: The Slayer Sword: Skulltaker wields a sword that contains a portion of Khornes own wrath,
this sword blazes with unholy fire energy and has the uncanny ability to find the enemies weakest spot.
He is skilled enough to take on dozens, even hundreds of enemies at once (though in part because
most of their weapons can't penetrate his armor) , beat down a sixty foot giant in single combat and
fought in hundreds of engagements throughout history.
Defense: Chaos Armor, Cloak of Skulls: This magical cloak offers some protection from enemy blows
and spells, being stronger then plate. Indeed most normal melee and ranged weapons bounce off it or
fail to penetrate! Skulltaker also has scaly skin which is naturally durable and innate, but not total,
magic resistance. Finally he has regeneration.
Skulltaker is a sublime duelist, and specifically an anti-warrior one at that. Skulltaker rides a juggernaut.
Mobility: 7
Role: Mass Destruction
From shadow, the daemon became a thing of solidity, a goliath monstrosity of tattered pinions and
leathery flesh. Massive thews rippled beneath the daemon's scarred skin, strings of gore swayed from
the tips of its black horns. Plates of brass were bolted to the daemon's crimson skin, each segment of
armor scored with the Skull Rune of Skarbrand's fearsome lord and master. In each of its mighty claws,
the Bloodthirster bore an immense axe of dark, lusterless metal that seemed to writhe and howl beneath
its gripping talons, eager to taste mortal blood upon their sharp blades.
Skarbrand's hound-like face split in a baleful grin, its eyes blazing with unbridled savagery.
The bloodthirster's cloven hoof smashed against the floor, cracking the flagstones and causing the very
mountain to shiver. The daemon's laughter thundered through the dwarfhold, blood trickling from the
ears of all who heard it.
Skarbrand was once the greatest of Khornes greatest champions, a warrior without peer who destroyed
Slaaneshs original palace and even led an army that triumphed over the combined armies of the
other three gods combined. Yet what could not be won on the battlefield, the other gods resolved to
win via trickery. Such was Skarbrands pride that it was effortless for Tzeentch to whisper in his ear that
he was better than Khorne himself.
One dark day, when Khornes back was turned and his attention elsewhere, Skarbrands fierce pride
grew hot and, blinded by rage, he smote the Blood God a mighty blow. Only the smallest of chinks was
cut in the Blood Gods armor, but even this was sufficient to draw the terrible fury of Khornes
gaze. Incandescent with wrath, Khorne seized the Daemon by the throat. The Blood God cursed
Skarbrands name and choked all personality from him, leaving only the bottomless rage that had
caused him to attack. Climbing the uppermost tower of the Brass Citadel, Khorne cast forth his arm and
hurled the Daemon deep into the Realm of Chaos, banishing the Bloodthirster from his presence.
For eight days and nights Skarbrand plummeted, a fiery comet of ill-omen streaking across the
unchanging sky. The impact of the Bloodthirsters landing gouged a canyon in the landscape and left his
wings tattered and torn. Since that fateful day, Skarbrand has wandered the mortal and immortal
realms, drowning his sins in the blood of the slain though he no longer has the wit to fully understand
why.
In the End Times he would take part in the siege of Naggarond, where he was ultimately defeated in a
duel by Malekith the Witch King.
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Offensive: Slaughter and Carnage: Skarband wields two immense axes that he can swing with both
great skill and speed, capable of carving a dozen foes up in a moment. Each axe contains the tortured
spirit of another Bloodthirster, and is powerful enough to ignore all physical armor.
Bellow of Endless Rage: Skarband is wrath incarnate, able to induce massive uncontrollable rage in both
allies and enemies, causing them to all attack each other incoherently. Fast friends and firm allies tear
at one another with wild abandon. Craven and brave beings alike claw at their foes without regard for
their own lives. Only those with powerful willpower or divine blessing can fight such rage off, and then
only with difficulty.
At its crescendo Skarband can yell a roar of such short-range intensity that it pulverizes flesh and
shatters buildings in his immediate presence (10 or so meters) .
Defense: See Bloodthirster with brass armor and heavy magic resistance . In lore it usually takes a
massive effort to bring Skarbrand down. In one example an Empire army unloaded every cannon and
handgun in its possession directly into the Bloodthirster at once. In another the Dwarves used a
powerful and enormous axe that had been directly blessed by one of their gods to cave its head in two.
Alone among the Bloodthirsters, Skarbrand cannot fly thanks to its wings being torn off by Khorne.
-Grey Seer Thanqouls Point of View, Thanqouls Doom:
No longer did the dwarfs hesitate, but targeted the ratmen with enraged abandon. Warriors cried out in
agony as the blades of their comrades missed Thanquol and gouged their flesh. A crazed light burning in
their eyes, the stricken dwarfs fell upon their former friends, tearing at them with clawed hands, cutting
at them with knives and hatchets, gnashing their teeth as they snapped at the throats of their kinsmen.
Thanquol scrambled away from the fratricidal fray. Even wracked by the black hunger, he had never seen
skaven overcome by such bloodthirsty madness. The dwarfs attacked one another with the mindless
ferocity of a cornered wolf-rat. The grey seer watched as one old longbeard continued to strangle the life
from his younger enemy despite the axe stroke that had disemboweled him. A leather-cloaked engineer
drove a heavy mattock into whatever came near him, uncaring of the red ruin dripping from his gouged
eyes.
The grey seer could feel the same madness trying to snake its way into his own mind, trying to seduce
him into berserk self-destruction. He drew upon every scrap of his occult knowledge to drive back the
tempting cries of the daemon, clinging to the tatters of his sanity as Chaos tried to consume him.
Thanquol scrambled past a knot of fighting dwarfs, retreating into the shelter between a statue's
immense legs. The dark shadow beneath the dwarf ancestor god seemed to welcome him, enveloping
him in the protective embrace of darkness. The grey seer rested his paws against the cold stone ankle,
sucking breath back into his panting lungs. If he could just concentrate, just recover his strength
Dwarf Engineer Klaraks Point of View, Thanquols Doom
Klarak just had time to see his words galvanize some of the dwarfs into action before a wave of almost
palpable malevolence smashed down upon him. He could feel the daemon's rage slam into him, crushing
him to his knees. The feral howl of a bloodcrazed beast snarled through the corridors of his soul. His body
heaved with revulsion. When he looked back at the shadow, a pair of immense eyes glared down at him,
blazing like volcanic fires in the gathering blackness.
Concentrated into the daemon's eyes was a quality of violence and havoc that made Klarak's flesh crawl.
He could see the fountainhead of all atrocity, the nucleus of all carnage, the cornerstone of all brutality
smoldering behind the daemon's gaze. The lust of blood and destruction began to grow inside him,
feeding from his every memory. He saw the goblins that had tortured and murdered his mother. He was
there as his father was smashed beneath the claws of a troll. He experienced the lynching of his
grandfather by human bandits as though wearing the skin of his long-dead ancestor. Each memory cried
out to him with a voice of wrath, urging him to vengeance, demanding blood and slaughter as the price
to wash away their pain.
The dwarf threw back his head, screaming in anguish. In that howl of agony, Klarak embraced his pain.
The daemon did not need the subtlety of lies to fan the embers of rage in the engineer's soul. How easy it
would be to listen to its seductive voice, to cast aside reason and to wallow in the mindless joy of wrath!
Pain would be forgotten when the world was painted red with the blood of the damned! Cast aside
suffering and abandon himself to battle unending!
No! It took all of Klarak's willpower to manage that single word, that single spark of defiance. He was a
dwarf! A dwarf was nothing without his past, without his traditions and his ancestors, without the
glories and the sorrows of his race! The very pain which the daemon had evoked to seduce him, to drag
his mind down into a wallow of violence and massacre, now became the dwarf's strength. What his kin
had endured, what his race had endured, these became like a sword in Klarak's fist, driving back the
daemon's call to carnage.
Blood streamed from Klarak's eyes as he fought free of the daemon's influence. All about him, he could
see other dwarfs shaking their heads, wiping gore from their faces. There was a haunted expression in
their eyes, but they had managed to cling to their sanity.
A new horror gripped Klarak when he saw that his words went unheeded. Studying the battle more
closely, he could see that it was not a simple matter of ratkin versus dwarf, but a confused melee that pit
ratkin against ratkin and dwarf against dwarf. The fighters slashed away, uncaring of who they came
against, cutting down their own as happily as they did their enemies. The engineer remembered the
horrible madness that had done its utmost to overwhelm him. Nearer to the daemon, those he now
watched had been unable to resist the bloodthirster's call to battle. Only a small cluster of dwarfs
gathered about Thane Arngar and his oathstone appeared to still be in possession of their faculties. They
did their utmost to fend off their crazed attackers without harming them, a restraint that went
unreciprocated.
Mobility: 7
Role: Vengeance
Karanak is a Daemonic Flesh Hound who is the incarnation
of Khorne's vengeance against those who insult Khorne's pride
or warriors that break Khorne's creed. It is fortunate that
Khorne only ever utilizes this hound for when a colossal, monumental insult is unleashed, for there is
perhaps no greater tracker in existence.
Karnak has three heads, each capable of tracking a different aspect of the enemy. The first can track a
foe through space and accounts for all the different environments that one might flee through. The
second can follow the scent through time, back into the past or the very creation of everything, or
even forward until the end of the universe. The third head tracks the quarry through his own thoughts,
pursuing through dreamscapes and illusion. While the first two heads can be tricked, only the insane
can run beyond the trace of their own mind.
Karnak bolts through time and space towards his enemy, gathering up more and more flesh hounds as
he runs. By the time he reaches his target there may many scores following him. Given the surprise
and massive onslaught of dogs, few if any foes can fight him off. Karnak will then return to the Realms
of Chaos, handing the skull of the slain to his master. The rest the demon chews on, eager for the next
command.
In the End Times the three-headed Flesh Hound was unleashed to aid Arbaal in Ind against the ten
thousand gods of that great land. At the head of an immense pack of his fellow hounds, Karnak savagely
hunted the avatars of Ind's gods and ran them to ground so that Khorne's champions could claim their
immortal skulls. Karnak was still hunting the last of these avatars when the world ended.
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Offensive: Teeth and claws. See Fleshhound, but bigger and with more heads.
Defense: Scaly skin and such magical immunity that only the most powerful beings could hope to hurt
him with magic.
Karnak only appears when someone of importance has offered a monumental insult to Khorne. Such as
the Sigmarite who continually tried to deny that Khorne existed and went throughout the Empire
preaching so for years. The Changeling too has delivered Khorne such an insult however he is one of the
few who can evade the great hound.
Mobility: 5
Training: 10
Max & Effective: 30 meters
KaBandha, right hand of Khorne, is the lord of
the third tier of bloodthirsters and leader of
the Blood Hunt. It is he that is assigned the
task of hunting the most high-profiled of
Khornes enemies, he that is tasked to bring
the death of legendary champions, kings and
great leaders. In all his history his success has
been many. Prior to the End Times his only
known failure was with the Emperor Magnus,
who survived thanks to Tecliss help.
Summoned in the End Times by the blood of Kalros Fateweaver, KaBandha was released and bidden to
hunt down the Emperor in Middenheim . His assault occurred at the climax of the battle, and it was
KaBandha that personally ripped open the doors to the Avergrad keep which had never previously
fallen. It was likely KaBandha that killed the incarnate Ungrim as he covered the Emperors retreat.
Teclis stared up at the beast, and felt fingers of dread claw at his heart. He knew the name KaBandha,
for it was associated with many dread prophecies and dark futures. The Huntsman of Khorne stalked his
prey across the vast sea of infinity, and had last trod the world during the previous Great War against
Chaos, when Teclis had helped the human leader, Magnus, escape the clutches of the Blood Hunt.
As he had done then, so many centuries ago, Teclis called up the lightning and cast it into the leering face
of damnation. Jagged bolts of crackling energy struck KaBandha; hissing magics crawled across the
daemons armor, and sparks played over the runic crown it wore. KaBandha laughed gutturally, and
bore down on them.
Two more treemen moved to cut the daemon off. They bounded up the dais with great, creaking leaps.
KaBandha cut down the first one without slowing, but the second caught the daemon a blow on the
back with both of its fists, dropping the brute to one knee. KaBandha roared and swung to face its
attacker, ignoring the lightning that Teclis continued to hurl at it. The treeman caught the daemons
thick wrists in vine-laced fingers.
For a long moment the two creatures stood almost motionless, straining against one another. Teclis
knew that the contest would not last forever. Strong as the guardian was, the daemon was stronger. He
reached out, trying to grasp the faint strands of Ghur which permeated the glade. Though the Wind of
Beasts was not strong here, it could still be manipulated, if he but had the strength. Catching it, he sent it
flooding into the treeman, giving the guardian new strength. He staggered, and Alarielle caught him.
KaBandha roared in baffled fury as it was slowly pushed back by its opponent. The Bloodthirster opened
its fanged maw and vomited a torrent of deep and ruddy flame into the treemans face. The ancient
guardian was consumed in moments, and KaBandha ripped its arms free in an explosion of charred
wood. The Bloodthirster whirled on Teclis and Alarielle, burning spittle dripping from its jaws. I will have
your skulls for such effrontery, little elves, KaBandha growled.
In the Battle of Middenheim KaBandha continued his unrelenting hunt of the Emperor. However,
though the Emperor was still de-powered the other incarnates were not. First Cardayln challenged him,
the Lord of Fire unleashing a whirlwind of fire that the challenged even the anti-magic runes of the most
powerful Bloodthirster. However Cardalyn was tired and wounded. KaBandha gained the upper hand,
killed his phoenix and then delivered the final blow to the incarnate, though was dreadfully wounded by
the Fire incarnates final assault.
Prince Tyrion raced forward to fight him and avenge his companion, wielding the powers of Incarnate of
Light. However, after a brief duel he too was defeated and would have been killed had not Nagash
suddenly appeared and dueled KaBandha evenly for several minutes. Finally, wounded and hit by
perhaps every single incarnate at least once over the last day (except Grimgor) KaBandha was pulped by
the newly empowered Sigmar.
KaBandha strength
Even with all that had happened, the Averburg could still have held. Alas, its gates, opened to admit the
retreating defenders, were too slow. Before the heavy barricades could close, KaBandha was between
them, a mighty claw braced against each. For a dozen heartbeats, daemonic brawn fought the steampowered dwarfen mechanisms that drove the gate. With each passing moment, more bloodletters
streamed beneath the greater daemons outstretched arms and into the Averburgs courtyard.
Helblasters flamed, and the leading daemons vanished, torn apart by the hail of shot. More bloodletters
flooded in behind, hacking down the gunnery crews before they could reload. Worse yet for the
Averburgs defenders, a series of clanging booms sounded somewhere in the walls as piston-seals blew
and scalding steam vented into the gatehouse. The gates gave one last shudder and went still. With a
bellow of victory, KaBandha passed beneath the crest of Siggurd, and into the last remaining fortress of
the Empire.- ET Archaon
Defense: KaBandha is an immensely durable Bloodthirster, able to ignores bullets, arrows, spears and
more as if they were just pinpricks. Courtesy of the highest level anti-magic, combined with his own
durability, he tanked magical blasts from every incarnate before Sigmar finally put him down.
KaBandha has a perverse honor system and has been known to spare particularly skillful foes if they
arent his target and dont use magic against him. However this is tendency is fickle and probably
depends on the daemons mood at the time. He is also bound by the traditions of the Blood Hunt and
must let his minions have a chance to claim kills before he himself attacks. This tradition dates back to
the time of Khorne and thus KaBandha has no desire to break it, even if he finds it disagreeable.
Handguns sparked and arrows whistled through the air as the assembled troops sought to fell the
monster in their midst. KaBandha bellowed brief laughter as the arrowheads and bullets nicked at his
flesh. Then the grim sound abruptly ceased, replaced by a thunderous intonation of harsh and writhing
words. Black blood spilled across KaBandhas limbs, running in rivulets down the pillar of skulls. The fluid
gathered in eye sockets and the hollows of brainpans, then spilled over the calcified ridges to gather at
the pillars base.
The soldiers in the square below redoubled their efforts, some noting in horror that there was too much
blood, far more than could have spilled from the daemons veins. Still KaBandha chanted, and the pool
of blood expanded across the cobbles, lapping at feet and ankles.
The first screams broke out moments later. Wiry arms lunged out of the blood, their dark talons latching
onto thighs and arms. Soldiers were yanked from their feet, dragged beneath the surface of a pool that
could not possibly be deep enough to conceal their bodies. Panic reigned as the militiamen backed
desperately away. A warrior priest shouted castigations, and struck at fleeing soldiers with the butt of his
hammer. As he railed at the fleeing men, a horned daemon, hunched and wiry, burst clear of the pool.
Springing to the priests side, the bloodletter beheaded the luckless mortal with a single blow, then
bounded to find another victim. As the priests headless body fell into the spreading pool, hundreds more
daemons breached the surface. With one last guttural syllable, KaBandha spread his wings once more,
and swooped to join the slaughter.- ET Archaon
The champions of Nurgle focus on the exponential spread of diseases and massed, durable hordes of the
corrupted afflicted as their main weapons in war. In contrast to the unpredictable moves of Nurgles
chief rival Tzeentch such strategies are fairly transparent and straightforward but, like the death and
decay Nurgle serves to embody, powerful and inevitable.
Mobility: 4
Role : Combatant
Over two hundred years ago, the name of Valnir the Reaper was
feared throughout the lands of Kislev and the Empire. Yet Valnir
was a miserable, bitter warrior who sought to hold up a mirror to
show the world the truth of its endeavours and the futility of
despair. As a great warrior in the Tribe of the Crow, he took the path over the Mountains of Dusk to the
Realm of Chaos , fighting through hordes of daemons, monsters, treacherous environment and more to
get to the North. Eventually he came across a great rotting tree, where he realized fully the futility of life
and gave in to Nurgle completely. Lord Nurgle made him the Reaper, the gatherer of souls whose task
was to slay in the name of the god of Pestilence. He granted Valnir a daemonic weapon of great
potency, a flail that could take souls as easily as it could take lives. Great was the number of innocents
harvested by Valnir the Reaper.
When the Great Chaos War came, Valnir answered the call to arms like so many other Champions of
Chaos. He fought for his patron at the siege of Praag and the titanic battle for the Gates of Kislev. In the
final cataclysmic melee he charged Alexis, theTzar of Kislev, but was cut down, mortally wounded.
Somehow he managed to stagger away from the battlefield.
His followers carried his body back to the lands of the Marauders as was his final wish. The Marauders of
the Crow tribe built a great stone throne from where Valnir could survey his ancestral lands. Thus it
remained for over two hundred years. But Valnir's work was not yet done. Over the years the black wind
from the Realm of Chaos grew stronger, and one day his rotted, skeletal form lurched to its feet. Thus
Valnir stood tall once more, not dead, not alive, but a daemonic creature sustained by the power of
Nurgle, the god of pestilence. His soul had returned to its Carcass. Valnir the Reaper stalked the land
once more. The tribesmen of the Crow fell to their knees when they saw him, and worshiped him as a
demigod. To them he was living proof that the lord of Pestilence was with them.
Only Valnir and his patron know how many souls he must gather before he can rest again. In the passage
of time Valnir has come to hate all living beings because they stubbornly hold on to their souls and do
not surrender them to his lord Nurgle. His Flesh has rotted almost completely away. His Chaos armor is
a shattered ruin. Maggots writhe in his eye sockets. His entrails ooze through the gaps in his armor. Yet
a terrifying strength lives on in his skeletal frame. His grip is like iron, and no foe Struck by his terrible
flail ever recovers. The more he slays, the greater his vitality grows. His body has been crushed in battle
many times, yet he has always risen again, ever eager to slay more and leave their rotting carcasses
empty of their essence, their souls sent screaming to the realm of Nurgle.
In the End Times, Valnir helped devastate the world by spreading plagues absolutely everywhere.
However he ultimately entered quarrel with Wulfrik the Wanderer and was killed by him after a three
hour long duel.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Gatherer of Souls : The Gatherer of Souls is a massive rusted flail, charged with the corpulent
power of Nurgle. Its blows do not only kill, they consume the souls of its victims as well. Much of this
stolen energy is passed to Lord Nurgle, but it also strengthens Valnir, making him stronger and faster
in his task of collecting souls.
In addition he has the slow magical ability to infect an enemy unit with either a fast acting red plague,
brain fever (which destroys the willpower of enemies with massive fevers and brain worms) or the Black
Rot which causes the flesh of the victims to turn dark, their hair falls out and their skin becomes a
leprous, putrefied mess.
Defensive: Chaos armor and troll-like regeneration. Though he can revive himself after death, this
usually takes several years .
Where Valnir walks, plague and
pestilence follow. Wells and fountains
dry up and rivers and streams turn foul.
Animals become rabid and men sicken
and die. Many-times has Valnir won a
battle before it has started, his fanatic
Marauders cutting swathes through an
army of stricken and diseased men,
weakened by the onslaught of the
Breath of Nurgle.
Mobility: 5
Training: 7
Long ago, Isabella von Drak was the daughter of the mad Sylvannian count Otto von Drak who, on his
deathbed, loudly announced that he would rather have his daughter and only heir wed a demon rather
than his brother (and her uncle). Barely had the words left his mouth than the door was kicked open by
a tall handsome Southern nobleman- Vlad von Carstein. Within a fortnight Isabella was married, the
Count died, and the Counts brother hurled from a tower.
What began as a marriage of convenience turned into genuine love. Isabella was turned into a vampire
by Vlad, and for a century they ruled Sylvania as husband and wife. Then Vlad got more ambitious,
desiring to bring the whole of the Empire under his rule. Though Vlad came close to total success, he
was ultimately killed outside the gates of Altdorf, in part due to betrayal from within (Mannfred). As she
realized that her soulmate was lost to her forever, Isabella cast herself from the citys battlements
rather than face eternity without him. Her body was impaled upon the stakes that jutted up around
Altdorfs walls, before crumbling to dust upon the wind.
Alas this wasnt the end of the tale of Isabella von Carstein. Fast forward 500 years, as the End Times
begin in earnest. Nagash was reborn and sought to bring forth mighty mortarchs to serve as his
lieutenants to conquer the world. However, even before Nagash raised his Mortarchs, another had
dredged Isabellas essence from beyond the veil. The plague god Nurgle drew the Countess willing soul
back into the lands of the living. This was no act of altruism. Rather, amused by his own abundant wit,
Nurgle sought to transform Isabella into a weapon of ironic retribution. She would be a walking avatar of
entropy and rebirth, the agent of great Nurgles punishment upon the undead. Too long had Nagash
and his ilk suborned the natural order of things, insulting Nurgle with every sorcerous reversal of the
cycle of decomposition and rot. Now, it pleased Nurgle greatly to turn one of the undead into the
weapon that would undo her kin.
To ensure loyalty, Nurgle bound the powerful plague daemon Bolorog to her soul. No matter how
much the countess pleaded, struggled or sought release nothing could shift the daemons control.
However it was not entirely unwilling, for Isabella needed little urging to go against the majority of
Nagashs mortarchsor the great Lich himself. Those she knew had treated her horribly, while those she
didnt know meant nothing to her. With Vlad himself, Bolorog poisoned her love, manipulating
memories to make him seem abusive and her, a slave.
Driven by a bitter desire for revenge against Vlad and all his kind, Isabella marched upon Sylvania as an
avatar of Nurgles power. Her touch now restored undead flesh to teeming life, working in seconds the
decomposition of countless years. The magics of undeath had no power over Isabella the Accursed,
while her mere presence was enough to undo the enchantments that held the walking dead in thrall.
Even the life-giving properties of the Blood Chalice had taken on a corrupt new form, sorcerous
contagions churning within its depths as they awaited release. Isabella would be Nurgles weapon
against the undead, Bolorog driving the countess to exact her revenge even as, deep within the last
rational corner of her mind, she screamed miserably for release.
Together with the Nameless, Isabella and several Great Unclean Ones spearheaded a massive invasion
of Sylvania. Though initially the forces of Nagash were able to repel the Nurglings through sheer volume
of undead, the surprise addition of both the Nameless (who possessed a massive horde of zombies)
and Isabella herself quickly turned the tide. The remaining vampires, now including Vlad von Carstein
who had returned from Averheim, attempted to hole up at an old abandoned church. However the
Nameless and Isabella came for them and, though the former was destroyed thanks to the cunning of
Vlad, killed every vampire but Mannfred who beat a hasty escape. Isabella herself killed Vlad, who was
unwilling to fight her, though the effort drained her emotionally (though courtesy of his magical,
resurrection-ring Vlad would later return).
The daemon pushing her on, Isabella next participated on the assault on the Black Pyramid, the source
of much of Nagashs power. She and her horde of plague daemons launched a full frontal assault on the
pyramid. As the enemy was by now actively targeting her Isabella hid from sight initially, however after
Nurgle himself intervened by pouring out his diseases through the thinning crack of reality Isabella
pushed forward. This forced Nagash himself to intervene, who quickly demonstrated his sheer mastery
of the battlefield. However, that was the plan all along, to distract Nagash and remove him from the
defense of the pyramid as the Skaven Warlord Ikit Claw infiltrated it from below. As explosions rocked
the Pyramid, Isabella swiftly teleported away before the full wrath of the necromancer could be brought
to bear.
Vlad and Isabella would come to blows one more time in the battle of Middenheim. There Isabella was
directed by Bolorog to destroy Vlads force, to prevent his undead from aiding Gelt and Arialles forces.
The two fought on top of the Middenplaitz wall, with Vlad at a severe disadvantage thanks to Isabellas
anti-undead specialty and his own unwillingness to hurt her. Finally, near death, Vlad seized her wrists,
her curse tearing through him as he did so. Before Isabella could react he took off his own ring and
slipped it on her hand and, with a last effort, flung them both over the ramparts, impaling them on a
giant stake below.
Isabella was reborn without the influence of the daemon yet, alas, her newfound freedom was short
lived. Even though Vampire Queen Neferata rescued her and took her to Sylvannia all perished when
the world ended.
Not so the three vargheists who followed in Mannfreds wake. With a blur of wings and claws they
barreled past their master, rapturous at the prospect of tasting flesh not already gone to the rot. They
were swift, but Isabella was swifter still. Her sword swept out, and one vargheist fell headless amongst
the gorse. The second screeched into death a moment later as Isabella whipped her blade around and
buried it hilt-deep in the creatures chest. The third, seeing his preys weapon trapped, roared in triumph
and pounced. Isabella made no attempt to free her blade, but instead side-stepped the lunge with
courtly grace, her slender fingers brushing lightly against the vargheists pale flank as she did so.
Mannfred had recovered from his fugue by this time and hurriedly urged Ashigaroth forward, but he
halted just as the remaining vargheist suddenly emitted an agonized screech.- End Times Archaon
Offensive: Rapier-like Sword and a Plague Chalice. If thrown this plague-chalice rapidly eats through
armor, skeleton and flesh. She is a level 3 wizard in the Lores of Nurgle and Vampires (see Nagash
profile) which is a primarily resurrection based lore.
Isabella also has several potent auras. The first of which applies to all undead within her immediate
proximity, sapping the bonds that keep bound to this plane of existence. The second, applies to those
right in contact with her and is essentially an aura that eats through the life energy (or death energy)
of anyone touching her.
Once again, the Doomed Legion pressed forward to Krells side, this time keeping Scrofulox at bay with
their press of blades. Isabella, however, was no longer prepared to stand idly by. Stepping briskly forward
she ripped her chalices lid clear and held the golden vessel aloft. At once, the vile fluid within began to
bubble and churn, birthing a thick, dense spore-cloud whose greenish folds gusted away south across the
Doomed Legion. Where the spores settled, armor and bone crumbled away, consumed by the hungry
bacteria within the cloud. In a matter of moments, the front rank of the Doomed Legion was naught but
liquefying spoil, and still the spores swept southwards, bringing the same fate to the skeletons marching
behind.
Protected as he was by stronger magics, Krell endured the spores, but even he did not emerge from the
cloud unharmed. His armor was left little more than a rusted mass, and his entire right side was pitted
and sliced with seeping green fluid.- ET: Archaon
Defensive: Vampire durability .
Mobility: 4
Max & Effective
Range: Melee
Role : Combatant/ Mad
Doctor
Once, a long time ago,
Doctor Festus was a wellrespected scientist and
doctor in the province of
Nordland. Compassionate
and skilled both, Festus
cured hundreds of people
each year and made it a
point to cure some of the
most virulent diseases
known in those parts.
However then came the
Gnashing flu.
Festus locked himself away

in his tower, dedicating every ounce of his life to curing this new illness. Nothing worked as all his test
subjects wasted away. In desperation he cried out for help. As one his formerly diseased test subjects
arose and promised every single detail of every disease known would be available to him in exchange for
everlasting servitude. In his desperation Festus agreed.
Nurgle honored the request, and Festuss knowledge became second perhaps to Nurgle himself.
However in doing so all traces of compassion were thrown away, leaving nothing but a desire to
experiment. Now he travels the world force-feeding enemies his newest concoctions in his quest to
bring ever more repugnant life into the world. It is said that its far better to die on the battlefield then
to be captured alive by the doctor.
Just prior to the End Times Festus embarked on a long term journey to the north to gather the rarest
items he could find. His goal? Gathering nothing less than seven all-powerful magical artifacts to be used
in a ritual to bring Nurgles garden to reality.
Upon Hexenacht of 2520, Festus secured the most hallucinogenic of ingredients the root of the crystal
mandrake, stolen over the course of a kaleidoscopic nightmare by the dream-trapped geomancer
Eregrest in exchange for a few more days of life. During a clash of daemonic armies less than a year
later, the Leechlord afflicted one of Slaaneshs own handmaidens with a disfiguring pox, and only gave
her the cure once she had passed him the scented oils she had taken from her masters boudoir.
Feigning great skill at dentistry, Festus convinced the Great Unclean One Ghubuhurgh that all of his
woes could be traced to rotten incisors, and personally extracted a dozen teeth from the daemons
maw. Later, by masking his scent entirely, Festus infiltrated the lair of the Goregluttons and worked
loose a trio of brass skulls from the metallic pillar that had sprouted from their offerings to Khorne.
Festus returned to Altdorf in 2525, hiding in the sewers as he strove to perfect the ritual. For months he
worked in secret, striving every night to perfect his work. He was nearly discovered by the Amber
Wizard Gregor Martak but, fortunately, a feud between Martak and the Altdorf commander Helborg
prevented the wizard from leading a patrol down there. He was aided every step of the way by daemon
Kurgath, who took a particular pride in Festuss work.
As the battle of Altdorf began Festus perfected his ritual, summoning a portion of the garden of Nurgle
directly to the middle of the city even as the rest of Nurgles forces assaulted on all sides. Together with
Kurgath he assaulted the Temple of Shallya, the sole bastion of the city that had hereto remained
pure. Festus was ultimately slain by Vlad von Carstein, though not before killing the vampire once and
slaying the king of the Brettonians.
Festus was glutted with the power of Nurgle, however, and pain was an old friend to him. The Leechlord
smashed the vial he had palmed a moment before into the Bretonnians face, boiling daemonic ichor
ruining the knights handsome visage forever. Louen reeled back, crying out in rage and pain. Festus
yanked a dirty bonesaw from his belt and leapt forward like a pouncing toad, ripping the serrated blade
across the reeling knights throat. The glowing blood that covered his hands burned worse than any bile,
but Festus was still a creature of the material realm, and it did not eat away his flesh as it had Kugaths.
The Leechlord sawed and sawed like a maniac butcher, the knight convulsing beneath him as liquid light
splashed and spurted in all directions. Then, to the utter horror of the Empire soldiery, Festus grabbed
the knights ravaged head by the hair and wrenched it from his body in a spray of golden gore.
The Leechlord stood up with a great shout of triumph, and the storm rumbled overhead, the indulgent
laughter of a father proud of his sons antics. Festus was lit from within by a green-white light that
poured out of his eyes and mouth, his entire form shaking with the fell energies that were being
bestowed upon him. Every daemon around the plaza that was not locked blade to blade with the undead
turned and knelt, chanting Festus name over and over again.
Vlad struck the Leechlord from the side like a black thunderbolt. Bodily slamming the glowing apothecary
into a shattered mass of tables, the vampire drew back his ancestral blade for the kill. Before he could
strike, Festus spat a phrase of power and blasted the von Carsteins flesh to a cloud of ashen mist. The
world held its breath for a moment as an empty suit of Sylvanian armour clattered to the cobbles, a
large, jeweled ring rolling away to settle under a mass of broken wood.
Festus chuckled and picked himself up, waving away the undead ranks that were shambling towards
him. Everywhere he gestured, the unliving warriors collapsed in on themselves, their flesh boiling with fat
daemon maggots that ate them away to nothing in the space of seconds. Bereft of the dark magic of
their master, the revenants were failing fast, and even more Plaguebearers were spilling into the square.
The Shallyan priestesses had made the most of the time their defenders had bought them. Sisters hurried
with urns of blessed water around the inner perimeter of the temple walls, washing away the filth that
stained the cobbles and forming a mystical barrier of consecrated ground across which the daemons
could not cross. Their circle was almost complete. Festus just sniggered to himself at their attempts to
keep him out. A simple gesture from him and the ground itself would heave upwards, tumbling the
temple and shattering their precious circle of sanctity in a single burst of glorious power.
Suddenly the mass of broken tables behind the glowing leechlord exploded upwards, and Vlad von
Carstein burst out, a jagged spar of wood held in one hand and his ancestral blade in the other. The ring
on his hand glowed bright enough to sear the eyes as the vampire darted forward, his motion almost too
fast for the eye to follow. Festus held out a fat hand and caught Vlads scything blade in a grip as hard as
rock, but the wooden stake in the other plunged deep into Festus chest.
The vampires intuitive gamble quickly proved correct. Filled to the brim with the burgeoning energies of
unbridled life, Festus body turned the inert wood of the stake into a wild and twisted tree in the space of
a single surreal second. Impaled bodily on a majestic Drakwald oak that suddenly sank its great roots
into the flagstones and swelled up and up into the skies, the leechlords chest was slowly pulled wider
and wider until he simply burst in a cloud of grey-green ectoplasm. A wail of frustration echoed around
the square as the strange mist was caught up by the tempest raging above and whipped away into the
Realm of Chaos- Glottkin
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Festus wields a Plaguesword and is a level 3 wizard of Nurgle. He carries with him a number
of powerful potions that could swiftly melt a squad of men to goo. Those chaos warriors that fight with
him have extremely deadly poisonous attacks; enough to stop even troll regeneration.
Defensive: He and his entire unit can regenerate wounds by drinking one of his potions, which are
powerful enough to bring a man back from near death.
In the long run Festus is going to be striving to constantly introduce new diseases into the campaign,
for that is his new prerogative in life. As Leechlord shows he travels the world with a makeshift
laboratory that he uses to brew up more diseases!
As of the End Times, Festus makes the very battlefield poisonous to move in for the enemy as Nurglite
gardens spawn up around him.
Do you know what a plague wants? he asked. What it desires the most?
Von Sturm puzzled, rubbing his increasingly blurry eyes. The question made no sense to him. Given the
pain rippling through his chest and his head, he could think of only one reply.
To kill? he wheezed.
Festus wagged his fat finger like a school teacher.
That is what a plague does, not what it desires, he answered. Tell me, what would you say are the
greatest plagues of all the ages?
Again, von Sturm struggled to think, fighting through the delirium to force himself to consider.
I dont know Blacklegge. The ghoulpox. Gnashing fever, perhaps, he replied.
I treated them all, said Festus. And they killed thousands, perhaps tens or even hundreds of
thousands. The dead went uncounted. Festus drew in closer to von Sturm yet again. Failures all, he
whispered.
I dont understand, von Sturm croaked. If you mean to kill me, then get on with it. I should have died
on the field, not like this.
Still Festus paid his suffering no mind.
Can you guess why they failed, all those terrible plagues? Festus asked, continuing the exchange with
little urgency.
Von Sturm shook his head. He was losing his strength by the moment.
It was not because they killed, but because of how they killed. Exactly because they were so very
deadly, Festus replied. The most successful plague is not the one that kills overnight. On the contrary,
the pox that eats through its host too quickly is no use to me at all.
Why are you telling me this?
Because you arent dead, Festus replied.
By the gods, you really are insane!
Festus shook his head. A host, he said. That is what every plague desires. A home where it can thrive,
a strong specimen with enough resistance to stay alive long enough for the pox to grow, to mature. To
spread. You see, my friend, the greatest plague of all is the one that can spread without killing, at least
not until it has used its host for all that it has to offer, to spawn new disease swarms to continue on, and
on and on. For that it needs a sturdy victim, such a rare thing to find. But when one does appear, there is
no more wonderful pairing to be had. A perfect symbiosis the most virulent of poxes spread by the
most durable of hosts.
Horrible realization began to dawn on von Sturm. No, he replied, his breath failing. Kill me. Kill me
now.
Kill you? I must say, I fear that you have understood nothing Ive told you, Festus replied. No, in fact
killing you is the last thing I mean to do, not when youve shown such natural talent. No, I mean to leave
you even better than I found you. In my hands, you will become perfect.
Perfect? I dont understand, he wheezed. Do you mean to heal me after all?
I shall shortly bestow a great gift upon you, Festus said. Youre a lucky soul few who have crossed
my path have ever been as fortunate as you. The gods have truly blessed you indeed. I intend to see that
your blessing is not wasted.
-Leechlord
Mobility: 4
Preferred Range: Testing Range
Role: Plague Experimenter
Whilst other Great Unclean Ones work to spread the plagues already extant, Kugath, the Plaguefather,
is fascinated by the breeding of new and virulent life. Kugath aims to one day breed a contagion that
can infect the gods themselves. The Plaguefather prides himself upon his detachment after all, what
concerns could possibly encroach on this great work? So absorbed is he in his search for the perfect
plague, Kugath remains relatively untroubled by the shifting balance of power within the Realm of
Chaos, yet this is not to say that the Plaguefather does not play his part in the Great Game. Kugaths
experiments are nothing without practical results, and he is ever eager to test fresh creations on the
battlefield.
The Plaguefather rides upon a massive palanquin bedecked with alchemical paraphernalia: vials full of
seething powder, flasks of indescribable liquid and hessian sacks stuffed to bursting with Nurglings. This
great bulk is held aloft by a carpet of straining Nurglings, and Kugath is attended on by countless others,
all bred from the Plaguefathers pox vats. Kugaths Nurglings are not merely servants they are also
ammunition, for in battle Kugath is willing to hurl them into the enemy ranks. The unwilling projectiles
burst on impact, drenching the target with disease-ridden fluids.
Kugath watches keenly as each Nurglings pox takes effect. Should the plague achieve Kugaths
expectation, he gurgles with a proud fathers delight. If the results do not meet with approval, Kugath
immediately brews a refined version of the plague, dunks a fresh Nurgling, and lets fly once again.
Of all Nurgles Daemons, Kugath is the most willing to enter the physical realm - his quest for more
efficacious plague-reagents knows no boundaries. A few drops of mortal blood can turn a quiescent
pox into a raging epidemic. Kugath has discovered that ground Skaven bladder, for example, increases
the virulence of Red Pox a hundredfold. Thus, in the cause of experimentation, Kugath makes a point of
acquiring fresh specimens whenever he enters the mortal worlds. Indeed, the Plaguefather keeps a
variety of specimens, mortal and Daemon, caged in a dank chamber among the sagging rafters of
Nurgles decaying mansion, so that he always has a suitable supply of ingredients to hand.
It is during forays into the mortal world that Kugath has encountered the one race that has penetrated
his scientific detachment to kindle his rage - the Dwarfs. On a professional level, the Plaguefather hates
the creatures for their resilience to disease; on a personal level, he is embittered by a truly ignominious
defeat beneath the walls of Karaz-a- Karak. Either way, there is no doubt in Kugaths mind as to the first
test subjects when his perfect plague is prepared.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: See Great Unclean One, and counts as a level 4 wizard of Nurgle. Kugath is noted for his
Nurgling infestation even as a Great Unclean One, and they constantly pour from every orifice. He can
even pick one of these up and hurl it as a missile at artillery range.
Defense: See Great Unclean One.
The Plaguefather's hatred of dwarves has come to near pathological levels, having lost multiple times
even armed with his best diseases in trying to destroy their holds. In one failed attempt he
so embarrassed Nurgle that this daemon was banished to the Forge of Souls as punishment. By default
he will attack them over all else given choice.
Mobility: 4
Max & Effective Range: Battlefield
Role: Tallyman
Epidemius is Nurgles chosen Tallyman, one of the seven Proctors of Pestilence and the cataloguer of all
the Plaguelords diseases. Epidemius task is an unending one, and it generates a great deal of
paperwork, so he rides a palanquin to share the burden and to more easily force a path through
Nurgles hordes. Two dozen Nurglings attend the Tallymans every need, providing the parchment,
operating the deaths head abacus, excreting the ink for the quill pens and even defending Epidemius
from harm should a foolish enemy venture too close. These Nurglings are uncharacteristically silent to
give Epidermus the concentration he needs.
From his perch Epidermus surveys Nurgles creations, making notes of causalities and infection rates as
well as secondary symptoms like change in color or mood swings. This information, properly collated
and distilled, is of incredible value to Father Nurgle, but must be recorded with absolute precision and
in a timely fashion to be of any use. Epidermuss appearances can be a bit random, as the tallyman goes
where plagues are at their greatest. This might mean the poor hygiene of an army or of the city slums.
Above all else Epidermus is interested in the departure of powerful souls. Nurgles Greatest plagues do
not merely infest the physical form, they also run virulently rampant throughout a being s soul,
destroying his sense of self and moral direction as thoroughly as they corrupt his fevered body.
Observing this decline is a rare privilege, and upon demise as a token of gratitude Epidermiuss
entourage strikes bells and gongs. This seems to give the potent strength of the owner to the fighters
of Nurgle nearby.
In the End Times Epidemius was summoned by a prominent Beastman Bray-Shaman to help destroy the
fortress of Talabheim. Together with the help of the Maggoth Lords he encircled the city and then used
one of Nurgles most powerful artifacts to unleash terrible plagues on the city. This had the effect of
forcing the defenders out into the open and right into the Daemons trap.
It was a difficult battle due to the tenacity of the mortals but eventually the sheer overwhelming plagues
plus numbers of daemons destroyed their force. The remnants of Talaabham fled to other cities, no
doubt bringing their plagues with them. Epidiermus would then fight in the Battle of Altdorf, to be later
felled by cannon.
Watching the carnage unfold was Epidemius, scrabbling to record the plagues that were blossoming in
the wake of his legions. His nurgling-borne palanquin bore him towards a trio of beasts of Nurgle that
were bounding towards Talabheims steam tank. The war machine was grinding its steely bulk through
the ranks of plaguebearers, leaving little more than ectoplasmic mush in its wake. Epidemius gave a
stern command, and with a great belly flop one of the beasts of Nurgle draped its fleshy bulk over the
front of the Miragliano. A moment later the excitable daemon was blasted apart by a cannonball.
Epidemius tutted in disapproval and gestured once with the feathered end of his quill. His nurglings
swarmed forwards, clambering all over the steam tanks metal bulk. One of the mites wedged his fat
buttocks into the Miraglianos cannon, giggling and picking its nose. A moment later a beast of Nurgle
careened towards the steam tank, and the machines cannon boomed. This time the tank itself came
apart in a thunderclap explosion of steam and metal debris. Jagged pieces of steel flew outward,
scything down the Talabheim troops that had used the tank as their rallying point. One of the shrapnel
daggers stuck right through Reban Greiss neck, ending his stream of invective forever.
With the death of their captain and the demise of their most powerful war machine, the nerve of the
Talabheim troops was finally broken. They turned and fled back to the Talagaad, joining the mass of
refugees that was flooding towards Altdorf in their panic. Rejoicing in their victory, the daemonkin and
their conjured storm followed close behind.
(..)
Over to the east of the city, the battle line of state troops was holding fast against the repugnant
daemons crashing against it. In the midst of the plaguebearer host was Epidemius, counting the deadly
infections that spread out from the front line wherever his minions struck. There were so many beautiful
gifts here from Nurgles boundless catalogue of contagion that the Tallyman found himself near frantic.
Epidemius scrabbled away with a quill in each hand, his usual fastidious and neat handwriting replaced
by a spidery scrawl that he resolved to write up properly once the battle was over. With every scroll he
filled, the plaguebearers around him became more energized, and the diseases on their blades more
virulent, until the slightest cut or graze caused the victim to fall frothing to the floor.
Nearby, Orghotts Daemonspew and his

maggoth riders were charging headlong
towards the gun battery that had been
wheeled out of the east gate. Despite the
sightless beasts having sustained terrible
damage, they had made it into the midst
of the entrenched artillery. Great
cannons rose and fell like improvised
clubs as the maggoths took their terrible
revenge. Yet there were but three
maggoth riders, and several dozen
artillery pieces, some of which were
pointing directly towards Epidemius.
The ninefold boom of a misfiring

Helblaster rang out, and man and
daemon alike were torn to shreds as a
hail of cannonballs blasted a gory path
through the battle. Epidemius looked
down at the hole that had scored his
torso like a rotten apple, counting the
infections that spilled out with a
detached interest. Slowly, his quill scrabbled to a halt, and the daemon herald faded from the mortal
realm like a bad dream.
- Glottkin
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Plaguesword, plus 2 dozen Nurgling bodyguards.
Defense: see Plaguebearer but stronger.
Epidermiuss greatest ability seems to be to infuse Nurgles minions around him with power based on
how well they are inflicting disease. This will first start with increased strength, toughness, making
their blows more powerful and finally making them magically harder to kill. These effects end as soon
as the Tallyman is dead. Generally he will only appear in the places with the greatest examples of
plagues.
Mobility: 9 (can scale mountains and walls)

Training:8
Collectively, Orghotts Daemonspew, Bloab Rotspawned and Morbidex Twiceborn are known as the
Maggoth Lords warriors of Chaos capable of mastering and riding foul pox maggoths into war. Though
these huge, larvae-like creatures share dominant physical features, they are quite different from one
another. Each has its own grim personality and a name that describes its foul physical attributes:
Whippermaw, Tripletongue and Bilespurter.
Though not Daemonic, pox maggoths definitely sit within the unwholesome menagerie of creatures
under Nurgles patronage, keeping company with the slug-like Beasts of Nurgle and bloated, rot-winged
Plague Drones. For their part, the pox maggoths have vile bodies akin to grubs or maggots with gangly
limbs, their distended flesh covered in layers of rippling flesh, bulging pustules and sagging folds of
greasy skin. At the end of their forelimbs are curved claws, as large and strong as sword blades.
Orghott Daemonspew, born the unholy spawn of a Greater Daemon and a human witch, has always
wished to be a real daemon. Long has he straddled too worlds but felt
like he truly belonged in neither; he has walked the Garden of Nurgle
but for him it was a hell, rather than a paradise. His only gain in that
realm was that he claimed a pair of magical axes that boosted his
strength and leaked poison. At a point in desperation he even began
consuming plaguebearers in the hopes of acquiring Nurgles Rot and
dying to become one of their ranks.
Ironically enough the same Daemonflesh that gave him enhanced
durability stopped the warlord from moving on. With barely restrained
rage, Orghott vowed to become a Daemon Prince. Though the position
still carried the stigma of mortal birth among Orghotts Daemon allies, it
was the best he could get. For that reason he fought on for hundreds of
years seeking favor, finally rewarded with the maggoth mount
Whippermaw. As the scale of his deeds grows ever greater, Orghotts
chances of true immortality become greater with every passing night.
Bloab Rotspawn was once a cruel sadist, a person who

loved nothing more to torture and kill little animals or
insects in horrible ways. Eventually this drew the attention
of Nurgle, who was angered by his champions one man
war against the tiny creatures of the world. So Nurgle
devised a creative punishment. First he made Bloabs skin
ultra-hard by blessing him with Thundertusk skin. Then,
as the champion labored in magically enhanced induced
sleep, a horde of rotflies descended upon the chaos
champion pouring through his open mouth and laying
thousands of eggs. Soon these daemonic insects hatched
and began eating. Just as he had taken his time
dismembering and persecuting those creatures smaller
than him, the daemon larvae were in no hurry, lazily
chewing at their screaming host with their tiny razored
mandibles until there was nothing left of him save a sack
of toughened skin.
However, Grandfather Nurgle, in his beneficence, wished
not to kill Bloab, but to put him to new use. With the energies of Nurgle sustaining him, Bloab survived
his ordeal, even with his insides hollowed out like a drained gourd. One by one, the fat pupae that
wriggled inside him matured and split. New daemonflies hatched one after another to crawl out of
Bloabs mouth and buzz in his wake, their affection for their host like that of grateful children.
The Daemonflies have served him for the centuries since. It was they that sought out and corrupted
Chaos champions of the Skull Keep, turning them into Putrid Blightkings. They infected and tamed a Pox
Maggoth, Bilespurter, which has served as a mount ever since. In recent months his swarm has thinned
in number, its eldest members buzzing out on lengthy migrations to seek out new champions for
Nurgle. Rumor has it that those touched by the Lord of the Daemonflies swarm are destined for great
things, though there are just as many reports of their painful bites bearing deadly infection as there are
rumors of the seeds of greatness.
Mutilated at birth by a childhood fire, Mordibex blamed

Tzeentch for his woes and decided to one day travel
north to seek the aid of Tzeentchs greatest rival,
Nurgle, as part of a revenge plot. Already a mighty
warrior, he traveled further north and further north until
finally he traveled to the Garden of Nurgle itself.
Morbidex was climbing the sheer side of Icehorn Peak
with only a pair of sharp axes when this wave of
strangeness washed over him. As he hung precariously
from the mountainside, an avalanche descended upon
him not of snow and ice, but of giggling, excited
nurglings. The nurgling avalanche took Morbidex with it
all the way to the bottom of the mountain, each of the
portly little daemons squealing in delight around the
chieftain as they tumbled into the mortal realm.
Unable to move each Nurgling offered their help in
exchange for a riddle each. Those answered correctly saw the particular Nurgling help, while those left
unanswered or answered incorrectly dug their talons into his flesh, mutating him. By the time
Mordibex managed to get out he was a strange mix between a man, a tentacle monster, and a
Nurgling. Morbidex fought through the pain of his transformations, bursting up from the nurgling-tide
like a zombie clawing out from the grave. The daemon-mites, impressed by the tenacity of the champion
in their midst, cheered in unison as Morbidex threw back his newly-horned head and laughed manically
at the shimmering skies. He swiftly impressed Orghott Daemonspew and soon tamed a Pox Maggoth of
his own, Tripletongue, by feeding it enough Nurglings (which now follow him everywhere) to poison it
and change its disposition.
In the End Times the Maggoth Lords, eager to all win personal glory, somewhat ignored the
Glotts orders and left their army at home. Instead the three of them sailed and traveled alone, avoiding
major Empire strongpoints and keeping to the backroads. What Imperial patrols found were easily
dealt with and the Empire was stretched too thin to deal with reports of three lone warriors making
havoc. After weeks of cautiously traveling the Empires underbelly and over mountains- which no sane
Empire general thought possible- they arrived at the Brass Keep, where they quickly won over the
allegiance of the Putrid Blight Kings.
Yet Orghott did not intend to wait for the Glott and Spume to arrive at Altdorf. Instead, he hoped to
quickly take Taalabacam and then speed to Altdorf, conquering it before any other Nurgle force
arrived and winning all glory for himself. To that end he launched an impulsive attack on the first city,
temporarily surprising the defenders but getting beaten back and losing half of his force. Fortunately,
Epidiermus arrived with a massive host of Plaguebearers and, using one of Nurgles special super
plagues, forced the garrison to leave the city. The battle that followed was brutal but ultimately a victory
for Nurgle.
Though upset at his failure to arrive first, Orghott nevertheless took part of the combined Nurglite push
at Altdorf. In battle he and his Maggoth Riders sought out and destroyed enemy artillery, even a pair of
rare Empire Steam Tanks. Though the battle was ultimately lost, it was only done so through the return
of Sigmar himself.
Later in the End Times, all three Maggoth Riders would end up falling. Orghott was killed by Sigmar
himself sometime after the battle of Altdorf. Bloab Rotspawn was hunted down by the Knights of Shallya
and the Death sorceress Elspeth Von Draken, though only after killing the entire order of knights. The
final member, Mordibex, was killed after entering quarrel with Vilitch the Twisted Twin.
To the east, Orghotts Daemonspew made straight for the hissing wedge of steam tanks that was
trundling towards his lines. The engines of the metal contraptions roared against the fury of the storm as
they gathered pace, one of the machines venting a great cloud of steam from its boiler. A cannonball
hammered into Tripletongue, tearing away half of the maggoths eyeless head. The thing stumbled,
falling forward and nearly unsettling its rider, before hauling its bulk upright to lope unsteadily onwards.
Orghotts grinned evilly, clashing his axes together in anticipation of revenge.
The pox maggoths gathered speed, easily dodging the juggernaut charge of the steam tanks as the
machines ploughed past. Rotspawneds maggoth, Bilespurter, grabbed the turret of the nearest tank and
pulled with all its might, wrenching the metal cupola off and vomiting a great stream of daemonic bile
into the tanks interior. It rumbled on for a few more seconds before coming to a halt in a cloud of foulsmelling steam.
The other three steam tanks ground on into the plaguebearer host beyond, forcing Epidemius to shuffle
his palanquin sideways in order to avoid sharing the fate of his minions, who were crushed into a greygreen paste. The Tallyman tutted in irritation and raised a winding finger to the skies. Chanting in a
doleful tongue, the herald peeled off a thin cyclone of pus-white cloud that crept slowly downwards, its
funnel grounding on the top of the steam tank. The armored engine wheeled around slowly, then span
about its center with gathering speed, eventually toppling onto its side and venting boiling water and
scalding steam in all directions. The scalded engineer crew, crying out in agony, attempted to climb clear,
but they were quickly hacked apart by the plaguebearers milling in close.- End Times: Glottkin
Offensive: Orghott wields a pair of magically endowed Rot Axes that both boost his strength and make
all his attacks be carried out with deadly poison. Bloab Rotspawned is a level 4 wizard, skilled in the Lore
of Nurgle, who has a swarm of daemonflies that follow him. When enemies get within 25 meters of
him, they swarm and bite, sometimes picking foes entirely clean. He also has a pair of Doombells from
Nurgles own garden that disrupts the concentration of enemy wizards within 50 meters of him.
Mordibex has a great axe and is followed everywhere by a swarm of Nurglings.
Whippermaw, Orghotts mouth, has a long tongue capable of spanning out 25 meters to grasp foes.
Bilespurter, the mount of Bloab, can lob a glob of acid at a foe at range of up to 240 meters. See the Left
4 dead spitter; very similar to that. Mordibex has Tripletongue, whose impaling tongue can hit a foe at
up to 25 meters.
Defensive: Chaos Armor for all. Orghott and Mordibexs semi-daemon skin also serves as protection ,
capable of turning aside weak blows and when blows are sstruck Orghotts acid blood flies out
everywhere.
Mobility: 6
Training: 5
Gutrot Spume, Lord of the Dragonbone tribe, has long plagued the Empires coast with his nautical
raiding. Spume believed firmly that the gods would be far more impressed with his feats of the sea than
his contemporaries achievements on the land, and to that end he personally hunted down Kharibdyss,
sea serpent and merwyrm alike. Alas for Gutrot one day he decided to hunt down a rot-kraken, which
ripped off his arm and nearly drowned the Norse sea admiral in the depths.
However, while most of the gods turned away at Gutrots failure, Nurgle saw fit to reward the admiral
for his bravery. His left side merged with the Kraken-spawn that had taken his arm, his entire left side
bristled with tentacles that had a mind of his own. Whereas before, Gutrot honored all the gods, now he
channeled his faith particularly to Nurgle.
It was not long before Spume marshalled his armada once more, this time intending to sack the coastal
settlements of the Empire. Word spread of his powers, for those who opposed him quickly sickened and
died, or were found drowned inexplicably in the night. By the spring equinox Spumes fleet of
ramshackle vessels was plunging through the waves of the Sea of Claws towards the coast of Nordland.
Ten thousand men and more were held within the hulls of the algae-caked ships, marauding tribesmen
and armored killers in equal number. This time they would carve their destinies from the soft flesh of
southerners.
Gutrot Spumes fleet reached the Nordland coast all but intact, braving the cannon fire of its fjord-forts
only to find the beach packed with rank upon rank of Empire state troops. Above them, commanders in
elaborate helms flew on Pegasus and griffon, bawling down orders for their men to hold. Amongst their
number was Karl Franz himself, for the Empire knew well of the Norscan love of spring raids, and word
of the approaching fleet had travelled fast.
The invading fleet sailed at full speed into the bay, bellowing hordes leaping over shield-studded
gunwales and thundering out into the shallows. In a matter of minutes battle had been joined, Spume at
the forefront as the killing began. The warlord shouted a challenge to the Emperor high above, but
instead of fighting him, the griffon rider turned his steed around and fled.
Spume was still laughing when the southern ruler returned a few hours later. His mirth soon faded when
the pale-skinned Ice Queen that now shared his saddle cast a great spell that froze the waters of the
bay, trapping the vast majority of his men up to the knees with it. With the Norscan hordes trapped in
the frozen waves, the state troops of the south redoubled their attack, finding it easy to kill Spumes
warriors one by one with longspear and halberd. Gutrot fought hard but eventually admitted defeat,
skidding back along the thick ice to his flagship and sailing back to the Dragonbone tribe to lick his
wounds. Over the years that followed, he rebuilt his armies and his fleet, swearing a solemn oath that
should he find a chance to wreak his revenge, he would seize it without hesitation.
Gutrot would come to seek this revenge in the End Times. He allied with the triplet Glotkin, and was
given command of a portion of the Nurglite assault. Though all three sets of Nurglite commanders were
supposed to meet up together and assault capture Altdorf in one night, Gutrot schemed to overtake his
contemporaries and take the city in one fel swoop, seizing all the glory for himself. To that end he would
march through Laurelorn forest and Drakwald, evading the main roads to emerge from the forest and
attack the capital.
However Gutrots plan ran into significant snags, not the least of which he profoundly underestimated
how difficult it would be to navigate Drakwald. His men were often picked off by Beastmen or Goblins,
and he had very little knowledge on how to navigate the terrain. Eventually Gutrot managed to get
lucky. A key Beastman shaman, the Harbinger, sought to make an alliance with Gutrot, seeing how
blessed the man was by the gods. Together the Chaos Admirals forces and the Beastman horde fought
an army of Orcs, Goblins and Spiders that arrived to attempt to stop him. Though wounded many times,
ultimately the Orcoid force was completely routed from the forest.
That said Gutrot was significantly delayed by the measure, and thus arrived late to the battle of Altdorf.
Yet he nevertheless participated in the battle, leading a vanguard of beasts and elite warriors to assault
the north gates. Alas the rebirth of Sigmar spoiled his chances to take the city, and forced him to retreat.
Spume leapt from the front of the warshrine, his silhouette outlined against the gloating orb of
Morrslieb for one brief moment before he slammed down into the midst of the Reiksguard. Six tentacles
shot out as he landed, each pair yanking a knight from the saddle. The seventh tentacle raised Spumes
greataxe high, and the warlord decapitated the three knights one after another.
Zintler bellowed a Sigmarite oath as he turned in the saddle to slam his sword between Spumes
shoulderblades, its tip bursting out of the Norscans chestplate. Pseudopods whipped out to lash around
the Reikscaptains wrist, and Zintler found himself both pulled from his horse and disarmed in one
horrible second as Spume turned around, the blade still embedded in his torso. The warlord laughed
wetly, blood drizzling from under his helmet, as one of his coiling limbs reached over and pulled the
ancestral blade from his back. The Lord of Tentacles slammed a boot down on the Reikscaptains chest
and rested his greataxe against the corpse of a horse as the pseudopod that had disarmed his foe
handed the silversword to Spumes good hand. Zintler struggled, shouting the most terrible of curses, but
fell silent as his own sword was rammed through his neck up to the hilt, ending his life.-Glottkin
Offensive: Great Axe and seven Kraken Tentacles. These flailing tentacles can reach out and entangle or
strangle multiple foes in combat.
Defensive: Chaos Armor and Nurgles Rot
Gutrot is an admiral and is at home commanding troops at the sea as on land. Most often seen riding on
a Chaos Warshine.
The minions of Tzeentch are the least numerous of all of legions of Chaos, but the most magically
powerful. Their commanders are schemers and planners all, commanding legions of pawns both willing
and unwilling. Tzeentchi schemers are some of the most clever individuals in the Warhammer world,
capable of spinning webs so twisted and convoluted to baffle and outwit even some of the greatest
order tacticians. Indeed even if victory is attained one can never be certain that wasnt the plan of these
masterminds from the start!
However Tzeentchi strategists have as many issues as they do benefits. They can be so caught up in
their web of scheming and the creation of intricate plans that they can miss minor details that wreck
even the best made plans. Other times they are caught and strangled in one anothers web for the
followers of Tzeentch are notoriously fickle (sometimes their very god himself is the one that dooms an
aspirant). Underestimation of enemies, arrogance in their own abilities and insanity are common
personality traits.
Mobility: 8
Max & Effective Range: Hundreds of meters
Role : Rampaging monstrosity
Standing thirty feet tall Galrauch, the first of the Chaos

Dragons, was once a mighty defender of Ulthuan, fighting
alongside the High Elves in the first Chaos incursion of the
world. Such was the power of these dragons that it was
said that only the greatest of daemons could match them.
In one such battle Galrauch challenged a daemon lord of
change to battle. It took but an instant for the great
dragon to fell the daemon, but unfortunately this was its
plan. The Daemons corruptive essence was absorbed
into the dragons skin.
Moments later Galrauch was wracked by terrible mutations. Leering faces forced themselves
through his great bulk, spikes emerged and his head split into two separate entities. Great was the
dismay of the elves as both heads suddenly turned against their lines, decimating them. Yet before the
elves could be pushed back one of the heads of Galrauch rebelled, viciously attacking the other. By the
time the chaos head was able to regain control the battle had been won by the Elves, and it was forced
to retreat.
Galrauch has emerged many times since, each time to devastate the lands of men, dwarves and elves.
He has sacked entire cities and even burned an entire dwarf hold, as well as has won numerous
engagements for the Chaos forces. Yet even after nearly 7000 years the spirit of Galrauch still remains
trapped- and fighting- against his daemonic oppressor. Many a battle has suddenly ended with the
great dragon trying to kill itself.
In the End Times Galrauch would take part in the despoiling of Ind. As the End Times went on his Chaos
half became ascendant however, as the influence of Tzeentch waned, his other half began to fight back.
As the world ended the two halves finally tore themselves apart.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: One head breathes fire, or, rarely, the very breathe of change which causes those hit to
horribly mutate. Galrauch is also a powerful sorcerer of Tzeentch, and can use all of his spells. Finally it
has a large mass, powerful talons and a whipping tail.
Defensive: Galrauch is both rather large and covered in thick, scaly skin stronger then plate mail. Of
course he can fly too.
Galrauch is a mighty flying dragon whose will still hasnt been entirely subsumed by chaos. There is a
chance every battle that this mighty head might rebel, stopping the Chaos dragon from attacking
anything else as its body rebels. According to the novel Sigvald the chance of this happening is amplified
if he hears the sounds of elves, for that reminds him of his ancient oaths to that host.
Mobility: 4
Max Range: Spell
Role: Tactical Commander/Adviser
Sayl the Faithless, of the Dolgan tribe, got his name for his legendary deal-breaking, scheming, and
dishonorable nature. He made pacts and then broke them with daemons, Beastmen, men of Chaos and
even Chaos Dwarfs, earning him countless enemies. However so successful was his politicking that he
succeeded in taking over his powerful Dolgan tribe, even though everyone in it hated him.
At one point he betrayed his own sorcerous master Schalkain, convincing him first to slaughter three of
his other apprentices and then disrupted a daemon summoning ritual. This resulted in Schalkain getting
torn to pieces by daemons and the remaining other three apprentices to get merged into a monstrous
Chaos Spawn known as Nightspawn. However as seeming punishment for this treachery, Sayls mortal
sight was lost and replaced by the daemonic and hellish senses of the other-realm.
When the great warlord Tamurkhan came seeking the Dolgan tribes aid- for they had many war
mammoths at their disposal- Sayl skillfully bargained to hand over his force without a fight, as long as
he became a major lieutenant in the army. Tamurkhan accepted though to Sayls dismay he found they
were not going directly South as he had presumed (which would likely to them into Ind) but West, to the
Empire.
Before this occurred, Sayl caused quite a bit of stir by taking a force and raiding a Cathayan outpost,
only to have much of the Brayherd he commanded destroyed utterly. This angered Tamurkhan who had
his orders ignored to specifically avoid said outpost. However Sayl narrowly and skillfully avoided
execution for this act by calling upon the gods themselves to strike him down if even one of his Dolgans
perished in the fighting (which was true since Sayl refused to commit them at all, essentially using the
Beastmen as guinea pigs) and then cast blame on the Beastlords/Shaman of the Brayherd. Though
Tamurkhan knew this was a lie, Sayl had called upon the gods who had let him live, and to strike him
down now would go against their divine will. Reluctantly, he let it go.
This probably proved the wrong choice, as Sayl frustrated and slowed his entire expedition while
simultaneously proclaiming loyalty. In fact he became the unofficial though mistrusted leader of the
opposition. That said throughout the campaign his magical and tactical acumen greatly aided the overall
force even as he sewed seeds of mistrust.
Alas in the end Sayl withdrew his forces from a key and vital position in a battle that, had victory been
won, would have resulted in Tamurkhan becoming a Daemon Prince. For this the gods punished him,
blinding him further and removing him from his position of power. However Sayl was not done just yet
and schemed to return to power once more, with vengeance against Cathay stated to be one of his
goals.
Whether Sayl managed to achieve this vengeance in the End Times is unknown, only that he made the
common Tzeentchi mistake of thinking that Archaon was a dupe and that Sayl could manipulate him as
easily as the sorcerer had Tamurkhan. He was wrong.
===LOADOUT===
Offensive: The Viperous Staff: Sayls staff is a foul heirloom of the Dolgan and is full of dark iron vipers
that come alive at the owners command. These vipers possess formidable venom as they strike with
formidable speed and power.
-Magic: Can use any spell from the Lore of the Shadows or Heavens. Spells from the Lore of the Heavens
include
--Iceshard Blizzard: with a range of 300-1 kilometer, this spell hurls shards of ice from the sky to blind or
dishearten an enemy ranged unit.
--Harmonic Convergence: Diving auspicious signs, the caster guides the minds of his fellow warriors for
one unit at 300 meters or all friendly units within 50. This causes said warriors to be more durable and
hit better thanks to coordination.
--Wind Blast: Seizing control of the winds, the caster violently pushes away an enemy unit from his
position, scattering them or sometimes even hurling them against other units.
--Curse of the Midnight Wind: Calling upon a curse that was old when the world was young, this spell
targets either a single enemy unit at 300 m or all enemy units at 50. In a sense this curse gives makes it
so those afflicted must struggle to hit or defend, usually failing in the act. So if a heavily armed shield
wall was afflicted its shields would break down at the worst possible moments, and many counter
strikes would also fail by being dodged or hitting a hard point in the armor. However it only lasts as long
as the wielder doesnt cast another spell.
--Urannons Thunderbolt: The wizard conjures a almighty ball of lightning that can kill six at once.
--Comet of Casandora: Probably the most powerful spell here, the wizard pulls a small meteorite from
outer space and has it crash on the battlefield. Fails some of the time due to scarcity of comets/meteors,
but utterly awesome when it succeeds.
--Chain Lightning: Lightning launches from the wizards hands and leaps across the battlefield,
potentially running through dozens or more enemies.
Sayl rides Nightmaw, who counts as a very powerful Chaos Spawn.
Defense: Chaos Armor. Nightmaw deploys a shifting veil of darkness that makes it hard for the spawn or
Sayl to be targeted at range. Finally he has a magical artifact Schalkains Teeth that would allow him to,
if he ever messed up casting a spell, to shift the end result onto someone else. So a random Chaos
sorcerer nearby minding his own business could suddenly be dragged to the warp through no fault of his
own, while Sayl giggles in the background.
One of Sayls greatest attributes is that he can see directly the winds of magic and the otherworld. This
gives him multiple advantages. It made him the man who conducted many rituals for Tamurkhans
Horde, giving them the will of their gods. It gives him some measure of precognition and finally it allows
him to better utilize the magic of the Winds of Magic.
. ===X-FACTORS==
ADAPTIVE CREATIVITY: 63/100

TACTICS: 62/100: Sayl is noted for his competence in
tactics and his breadth of plans, however he has yet to
reliably win battles with this acumen.
STRATEGY: 68/100: Skilled at long term planning however
has Tzeentchi tendency to not think things through and
underestimate his foes.
INTUITION: 79/100: Limited precognition.
AUDACITY: 76/100: Sayl is actually pretty conservative
with his Dolgans however with other allied forces he can
and does use them as pawns.
PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE: 83/100: Regularly betrays everyone and then somehow gets them
to not only allow him to live but give the sorcerer power, even ally with him against other foes.
All this despite the fact he is hated by everyone.
EXPERIENCE: 70/100
DISCIPLINE: 56/100:
INSPIRATION: 40/100: Everyone, even his own Dolgans, hates him even if they reluctantly
follows his orders.
CORRUPTION: 95/100
Mobility: 5
Training/Experience: 5-6 (purpose not fighting)
Role: Spell Acquisition
Once, long ago, Tzeentch held ascendency over all other gods with
his sorcerous might. Jealous & fearful the other three temporarily
united to put an end to his might. In one climatic battle they
broke him into a thousand fragments which scattered throughout time and space. Though Tzeentch
reformed, he never regained the entirety of his former mastery.
To this end, Tzeentch created two Daemons, P tarix and Xiratp, tasked with learning every spell in
existence. Though Blue Horrors in form and surly personality, the quest required these Blue Scribes to
be more self-aware than others of their kind. Ever careful of betrayal, Tzeentch bestowed this
intelligence with care. Ptarix can transcribe the magical syllables of any spell to parchment, but
cannot read. Xiratp can read his brothers scribblings, but cannot understand them. Judging his work
to be good, the Great Sorcerer sent his creations out into existence to complete their quest.
The Blue Scribes ride their Disc of Tzeentch through realms eternal and mortal, squabbling as they seek
lost fragments of their god to bind them with parchment and ink. P tarix scrawls frantically with a quill
crafted from a Lord of Changes pinfeather. Xiratp reads the written words to check for mistakes; in so
doing unleashing the power bound within on any unfortunate enough to be nearby. The Blue Scribes
mission often draws them to battlefields, where the most destructive and powerful magics are used. If
threatened, Xiratp starts reading at random from the accumulated scrolls, trusting to the hand of fate,
his master, to guide him to the correct scroll for each occasion. This can have quite spectacular and
bizarre results, with a foe as likely to be struck by multicolored lightning as he is to be drenched by his
own personal thunderstorm or transmuted to solid gold.
In truth, the Blue Scribes can never complete their task, for magic has multiplied in the service of
mortals. This is well for Xiratp and P tarix and for existence itself. Should the Blue Scribes complete
their task, Tzeentch would swallow them, reuniting the lost fragments of his being and absorbing the
extra power born along the way. It is doubtful that any creature, mortal or Daemon, would survive such
a renewal.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Scrolls of Sorcery: If Threatened the Blue Scribes start reading off random spells in the hopes
they will do something. These can range from very weak attacks to something massively powerful.
Defense: Some ability to manipulate fate to avoid damage, but not much otherwise.
Blue Scribes can steal spells from the enemy upon their use, transcribing them immediately onto their
scrolls which inadvertently unleash the spells power. Blue Scribes avoid direct battle if they can, as
their purpose is to gather up magic not fight, however they will certainly engage if needed to. They ride
a single Disc of Tzeentch.
Mobility: 5
Preferred Range: Unknown
Role: Dickish Prankster
The Changeling personifies the part of Tzeentchs psyche that is the
meddler, the deceiver, the trickster. He can take the form of other
beings, from the tiniest of insects to the most massive of Greater
Daemons. None, save perhaps Tzeentch himself, know the Changelings
true form, for he goes cowled and cloaked when in his own shape
perhaps even the Changeling himself has forgotten it.
Afflicted as he is with a low tolerance for boredom, the Changeling
exists to play malicious tricks upon all about him. On one such occasion, taking the shape of a
Daemonette, he stole the silver apples of knowledge from Slaaneshs palace.
On the edge of the Dark Princes territory he then assumed the form of a Plaguebearer and slipped into
Nurgles garden, only to grow tired of the game and abandon the apples to rot amidst the decaying
fronds. When Slaanesh discovered the theft, he flew into a rage and sent his armies to retrieve the lost
treasures. So did Slaanesh and Nurgle come to blows, the former believing the latter to be a thief, and
the latter convinced the former had engineered a pretext for invasion.
The Changeling was already elsewhere stealing Collars of Khorne from Flesh Hounds and melting
them down to create brass dioramas of the Blood Gods greatest defeats. So has the Changeling passed
through eternity, sowing mischief in his wake. It was he who cut away Slaaneshs hair while the Dark
Prince slept, and from it wove the cloak that Tzeentch presented to the mortal champion Egrimm van
Horstmann. It was the Changeling who sealed the doors of Khornes citadel while he was away
campaigning, forcing the Blood God to shatter his own proud gates when he returned.
The Changelings handiwork is always obvious after the fact indeed, part of the prank is to make the
victim aware of his deceiver, but impotent to act against him. It is of little surprise then that Tzeentchs
brother gods burn with desire to destroy the Changeling, to tear him limb from limb and scatter his parts
and pieces across reality; yet somehow he always evades capture.
Though Tzeentch loves to take credit for the Changelings schemes, only a handful of the Daemons
adventures are carried out at his patrons direction. The Great Schemer is content to let the Changeling
roam wild throughout eternity, causing havoc where he may. Each meddling opens up more
possibilities in the Great Game, and Tzeentch watches with amusement as the Changeling weaves his
uneven tapestry of disruption. That so many of his pranks have caused terrible wars is of no concern to
the Changeling. He loves the discord of conflict, for it breeds opportunity to deceive and dismay like
nothing else. His enjoyment begins even before armies clash: impersonating messengers and generals to
disrupt strategy wherever possible. When battle begins, the Changeling is wont to adopt the shape and
skill of the most powerful foe, pounding the enemy to pieces with malicious enthusiasm and borrowed
muscle.
In the End Times he would play a key early role first impersonating the apprentice of the chief Empire
wizard Balthazar Gelt, who he gave the idea to create a giant magical wall around Sylvannia to keep
the vampires penned at Tzeentchs orders. This would have kept the undead away from the key early
stages of the End Times (however, the Changeling probably did not consider that the vampires would
take his idea, go to the same Gelt, and use it to create the Auric Bastion- magical wall of the north that
forestalled the initial Chaos invasions). He would later cause all sorts of minor havoc including
accidently crating a hole in the Auric Bastion that he then allied with the unknowing mortals to prevent,
for Nurgles minions were set to take advantage of it.
Eventually he decided to try to murder Karl Franz however the boy Valtern, with a fragment of Sigmars
divinity in him, saw through his disguise and pulped the daemon. Later he would be torn from the
Forge of Souls again in the End Times, only to get pulped again this time by Sigmar himself who
immediately saw through his disguise.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: When forced into battle the Changeling will morph into his toughest foe before attacking,
though never for long as he quickly gets bored of whatever form he chooses. Though most forms he can
take the power levels of, the most powerful (such as Belakor) he cannot take the full extent of powerhis imitation of Belakor is far weaker than the real thing. He can also use a few spells from the Lore of
Tzeentch.
Defense: Some ability to manipulate fate to avoid damage, but his main defense is simply not being
caught.
To date the only effective means of detection is either having a divine aura (which the Changeling
cannot mimic in entirety) or advanced foresight, as the Tzeentchi arch sorcerer that Archaon has in his
entourage was able to discover the Changelings true nature prior to their encounter. Sigmar and
Valtern provide examples of divine auras being able to see through his disguise, with Sigmar essentially
doing it on sight.
Archaon turned his greatsword in the broiling stone of the wound. Belakor screeched. His wings flapped
and his spine arched. His knees sank into the floor and his claws trailed stringy stone where he had
splashed the morphing material in his infernal agonies.
Now were talking, Archaon told the daemon. This is a language that both of us can understand.
Belakors claws tore at his daemon form. He was becoming one with his surroundings. In the throes of
white-hot pain and the purity that still afflicted the crusader swords steel, he was changing. The palace
was also losing its consistency. Liquid rock glooped and streamed from the ceiling while the ribs and
bones contorted within the structure. Belakor and palace were as one. Except neither were Belakor.
Your name, daemon, Archaon demanded as his sword burned in the monsters flesh. Its wings and
features dribbled away. The creature sank into the floor. Into itself. It splashed like a flailing swimmer
before thrashing beneath the surface of the stone. Its face rippled through the horrific visage of a
thousand other diabolical things. Archaon pulled Terminus from the daemonflesh. For a moment
everything was silent. The shrieking agony that shook the palace was gone. The Forsaken Fortress had
melted to a ruptured, contorted mess.
Archaon lost his footing as the floor seemed to sink through the palace. The Chaos warrior turned the
greatsword about in his grip, aiming its tip back at the floor at his feet. Like a corpse in a river, the
daemon floated to the surface of the stone. It was a lesser thing now. A thing of arms and hidden form,
lost within the twisting folds of a hooded shroud. As the color of the stone bleached from it, the daemon
began to move.
Archaon lifted Terminus higher, indicating his intention to bury the Sigmarite sword in the creatures
extended form once more, but the walls liquefied about him. The palace cascaded around him towards
the ice floe. The fingers of one puny arm begged him to desist. The razor gales of the Southern Wastes
and blizzards of splintered ice once again intruded on the scene. Archaon was standing in a sea of stone.
The sea retracted to a lake. Then the lake to a puddle about the daemon until finally the thing held only
its own form. Archaon stepped forward, holding his shield before the maelstrom and Terminus high
above his head.
Enough of your tricks, dissembler, the dark Templar told it. Your name.
Long forgotten, the creature managed. Along with the face that it belonged to.
Well, Changeling, Archaon roared through the howling wind. It matters not that you are known. Only
what you know.
You sought me out?
Yes, daemon, Archaon said. It is said by the bestial shamans and diabolical creatures of this land that
you are a deceiver and that you meddle in the great affairs of this dark world. That you hold a looking
glass to both the damned and the damning and that you become what is seen.
I have my questionable gifts, Archaon, the Changeling hissed, as the chosen of the Ruinous Powers
must have his own.
Then you have held your glass to the infernal prince I seek, Archaon said, circling the prostrate
monstrosity with his sword as snowfall gathered about the daemon.
I have studied him.
Why, darknid thing? Speak and live to hold your mirror again.
It pleases my master the Changeling told him. the great Lord Tzeentch, to have the Dark Masters
ambitions frustrated.
And so you impersonate Belakor, his form, his fortress.
To god-pleasing perfection.
You are a twisted thing, Changeling, Archaon told the daemon, on a crooked path to nowhere.Archaon: Lord of Chaos
.
Mobility: 4 (8 on Dragon)
Role : Strategic Commander
Originally Engrimm was a child refugee on the run with his little sister after his village had been pillaged.
Along the way they met a pair of traveling Light mages and begged for their assistance. These mages
instead threw the two of them in a snake pit to test the theory that the innocent would be consumed by
the snakes while the corrupt would be saved by the snakes as the snakes recognized their own. They
were right.
Horstmann burned with revenge and spent years planning with his already genius intellect. This boy
didnt just want to kill those two mages in horrific fashions; he wanted to destroy all they represented.
He killed off an already dying Light Battle mage to find the Light College where he was let in by those
who recognized his talent. In order to ensure this revenge he met with Tzeentch himself, swearing
everything but his soul in exchange for aid. Tzeentch accepted, already plotting the acquisition of the
latter too. From this point while he was a light mage by day, he was a Chaos sorcerer by night.
With Tzeentchs aid and captured daemons Horstmann rapidly rose to power, engineering little
conflicts and power plays in the meantime. All of them ended nearly flawlessly for him, however little
by little paved suspicion among one of his subordinates named Kant. When he became Patriarch of the
Light College he used his position to plunder ancient treasures hidden in the vaults, plant seeds of
corruption among the students, and sow all sorts of nasty seeds in the department.
When Kant finally convinced the Witch Hunters to track Engrimm down the Chaos sorcerer was ready.
He destroyed the battle mages and witch hunters sent to kill him through a series of well-timed
attacks and plots. At last he got revenge on his childhood tormentors by having one of them locked
away for an eternity to watch his world turn to dust around him, and having the other infected with an
extremely nasty nurglite plague. In the moment of ultimate triumph, he unleashed a Chaos Dragon
that had been locked away for a hundred years and escaped to the Chaos Wastes. Things nearly went
perfectly but.
Tzeentch wasnt done. The God temporarily possessed one of his daemons to whisper into the air
Splintertree . This caused the uncorrupted half of the chaos dragon to remember his name and attack,
temporarily subduing the other half and nearly killing Horstmann. It was then that an agent of Tzeentch
intervened, promising to spare Horstmanns life in return for servitude. Reluctantly, knowing he had
been outmaneuvered, Horstmann agreed.
With his corrupted acolytes Egrimm formed the Cabal, perhaps the mightiest of all the war bands of
Tzeentch. Through which Egrimm covets nothing less than dominion over the entire world. He is a great
conspirator, second only to his master Tzeentch. His acolytes are everywhere, and many of the secrets,
cults and covens in the Old World are ultimately controlled by Horstmann. Such plots and schemes
please Tzeentch immeasurably, and he has rewarded van Horstmann greatly, making him the most
favored of his servants.
"There is no action you have taken, said van Horstmann, or that you will take from now on, that I have
not foreseen. Think on the path that led you here. What manner of demonologist would I be to show my
hand so early, by casting a host of daemons at you the moment you walked in through the door? And
what manner of a witch hunter would you be, if you did not storm down here yourself, to lay down
Sigmars law in person? Every step of that path, I have set out for you. You are here because I have
brought you here."- Van Horstmann
In the End Times Horstmann would try to seize control of the Wind of Fire, buttressing his soul with
hundreds of sacrifices to better absorb the flame. However he both underestimated his task and
overestimated his soul. He was incinerated the instant the Wind of Fire went into his body.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Chaos Runeblade: Horstmann doesnt specialize in close quarters, but when he fights he has
a powerful Chaos runeblade that can ignore armor. He also rides the Chaos Dragon Baudros.
Defensive: Chaos Armor
Horstmann is a schemer, and would rarely be seen in direct combat, for such is not his way. With his
small army of Cabalites, including a large selection of Tzeentchi sorcerers, this sorcerer will likely spend
most of his time plotting how he can best manipulate fate to benefit him. T
However the battles he does participate in will be brilliantly planned and manipulated towards a predestined outcome from the start. Only a few commanders, such as Horstmanns successor Kant, have
ever gotten the better of him in combat- and even those outcomes are uncertain.
Horstmann is a cult master, and is noted for establishing more cults in the Empire (and perhaps
elsewhere) than anyone else. These need not be dedicated solely to his patron, as the Cabal has shown
its hand in controlling cults dedicated to other Chaos gods as well. Through select agents Horstmann
controls them all, undermining enemy nations from within.
Adaptive Creativity: 83/100: The Forces of Tzeentch are always extremely creative with the means they
are given, whether it is that on their own force or the enemies, striving to work everything in their
innumerable plots and plans. By far Horstmann is the most creative barring possibly Vilitch and
opponents can never truly predict him.
Tactics: 75/100: Generally Tzeentch followers have difficulty in predicting the chaotic motions of a
battlefield to perform their exact specifications, however Horstmann is noted to be a tactical genius said
to have a portion of Tzeentchs cunning. Enemy commanders feel like they are pieces on a board game
with Horstmann as the sole player and only a few of them, like the most stubborn or cunning, have
been known to beat him. However Horstmann (and Tzeentch masterminds) rarely fights directly, but
rather schemes from the rear, deploying expendable proxies when necessary.
Strategy: 70/100: Any plan Horstmann participates in will be brilliantly devised and will likely
incorporate strange and creative factors . Tzeentchi plans are as subtle as they are convoluted and are
extremely difficult to guess. Perhaps a victory here was really a defeat, in the long run?
However Horstmann (and all Tzeentchi planners) suffers in that while he has innumerable schemes and
plans, all really well thought out, there are very few end points, for that is against his or Tzeentchs
nature. Their schemes are always never-ending, for to have an ultimate victory would end the constant
cycle of change that they so desire. They rarely come true in full fruition or often take years to do so,
and these schemes can sometimes strangle each other and result in disruptions of other
plans. Tzeentchi schemers also have an unfortunate tendency to betray each other and ruin one
anothers plans, even their own rarely. Tzeentch himself has been known to do this to his followers.
For example at one point Horstmann set out to create a new more resilient breed of troll but failed,
instead creating a troll that could vomit up magic. Most of his Cabal died in the fighting that followed,
with Horstmann only barely escaping. However the incident served Tzeentchs purposes, for there is
now a breed of troll that vomits up mutating magic everywhere.
Intuition: 82/100: Tzeentch followers are masters when it comes to prediction, for their magic allows
them to scry the future. Even without such divination their planning can be of unfathomable brilliance,
with Horstmann successfully predicting nearly every event in his titular book. As a downside, should
something unpredictable occur as did in the end of said book Horstmann may struggle to react in time.
Audacity: 78/100: The majority of the time Horstmann works his plans through pawns or his cabal, but
he will fight if required. He has no qualms expending pawns towards a goal.
Psychological Warfare: 77/100: Horstmann and the followers of

Tzeentch weave around enemy plans, incorporating them into
their own. They can implant seeds that, although they dont take
root immediately, nevertheless have great future significance.
Experience: 62/100:
Discipline: 86(68)/100: Thanks to various magical spells
Horstmanns Cabal can operate under near perfect cohesion, as
Horstmann and his elite wizards can control these Cabalites like a
player could control his units in a RTS video game. This allows him
a 20 point lead over the normal Tzeentchi score.
Inspiration: 87 (60)/100: All those that join his small cabal are
branded with the rune of Tzeentch and cursed so that if they
attempt a treasonous thought, they die horribly. This score only
applies to his cabal though, and would worsen significantly when
commanding others of his ilk (Tzeentch followers) .
Corruption: 91/100:
Mobility: 5
Preferred Range:Ranged
Role: Strategic Commander/seer
Kalros Fateweaver is the closest thing Tzeentch has to a

second in command. When Chaos first bust through the
warp gates over 8,000 years ago, it was Kalros who led
Tzeentchs effort in the bitter centuries long war vs. the lizardmen. It was he who helped sack their
greatest city and he who hurriedly tried to break Aenerion and Caledors attempt to suck up much of
Chaos. Only in that last campaign did he meet failure, being destroyed by Aenarion in a duel.
Later on Kalros would be assigned, forcibly, by Tzeentch to explore the mysterious well of eternitysomething even the Great Sorcerer couldnt enter. And by assigned I mean forcibly picked up and hurled
down it.
Since he clawed his way back from the Well after years uncounted within its depths, Kairos can see
things that are hidden even to Tzeentch. His right head sees possible futures as clear as day. No
scheme is hidden from its sight and the infinite possibilities of tomorrow crystallize into irrefutable
fact. Kairos left head sees the past without the petty colorations of perspective and bias. Past and
future pulse through a body shriveled and twisted by its passage through the Well. Valuable as this
vision is, it comes with a heavy cost. Both of Kairos heads are blind to the present; he cannot see time
as it passes only events that might come or whose time has already lapsed.
Kairos blindness to the present makes him vulnerable to physical attack the future does not reveal
itself swiftly enough to predict battles to and fro. Nevertheless, Kairos unique vision allows him to stay
one step ahead of adversaries, pitting various assailants against one another in time stream-straddling
duels. In the arena of magic, Kairos is unstoppable. He knows every spell in existence, every sigil, sign
and quirk of mystical power; though even he cannot marshal them all without a modicum of
preparation. Such ability makes him Tzeentchs favored agent. On the occasions Fateweaver leaves the
Impossible Fortress it is always in the service of a dire task, be it the recovery of a magical artefact, the
predestined crushing of an army, or Some other ineffable purpose.
Fateweaver served as an advisor to Archaon during the early part of the End Times, using his gift of
future and past sight to aid in the planning of his campaign. Ever treacherous however Archaon wisely
was distrustful of his advice. In the battle of Middenheim Kalros would serve on the frontlines, where he
was taken out- but not banished- by the wizard Gregor Martak. Still scheming he was after the battle
seized by Archaon and sacrificed to Khorne to bring the Bloodthirster, KaBandha, into existence.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Kalros Fateweaver wields the Staff of Tomorrow, allowing him to attempt to alter fate so
that a lucky opponent might have his luck severed, or a mediocre attack becomes more devastating.
This takes a bit of preparation however and fate being fickle this alteration has the potential to be more
underwhelming then the original attempt!
Between the two heads Kalros knows all eight of the main lores, as well as the lore of Tzeentch,
requiring only a little preparation to muster them.
Good artwork from 40k

Defense: Kalros can manipulate fate to avoid certain attacks, though even he struggles to do so as he
cannot predict the chaotic actions on the battlefield. Furthermore his reaction time to events as they
happen is extremely slow.
When Kalros appears, its always a sign of Tzeentchs personal interest in the engagement. Kalros will
give Chaos some potent advantages thanks to his long-term farsight, once summoned
The Servants of Slaanesh seek not sensation in battle above all else, even victory. To such a commander
the despair, terror and humiliation of defeat is to be as savored as the exhilaration, triumph and pride of
victory. For this reason their aims in battle are often different from their foes, and as a result of their
god encouraging them to pursue extremes in all things personality traits are heightened to insanity and
whims are pursued without regard to discipline. Sigvald is a great example of this.
That said as Slaaneshi are perfectionists in all things, and it is in theory possible that one can dedicate
him or herself so much to mastering the art of strategy to become a genius in the field. Alas this doesnt
happen much.
Mobility: 8
Role: Eternal Dancer
Once the Masque of Slaanesh was the most favored of the

Daemonettes, a being whose dances could soothe even the
gods. Yet the Masque was undone when Slaanesh suffered his
most terrible loss in the Great Game, maneuvered by Tzeentch into a war with Khorne and Nurgle that
he could not hope to win.
Thinking to ease Slaaneshs mind and ills, the Masque danced for her dark lord. Never before had she
performed with such skill. She glided across that ballroom floor of broken dreams and sundered
promises, each sensuous and graceful motion flowing effortlessly into the next. No mortal could have
watched her dance that eve and remained unmoved, yet Slaanesh was angry at his defeat, and his proud
heart filled with the acrid pain of humiliation. As he watched the Daemonette dance her faultless dance,
Slaanesh saw only a barbed jest at his expense, a subtle mockery aimed at his wounded pride.
Slaanesh cursed his daemonette, commanding her to dance evermore of Slaaneshs greatest victories
and triumphs. So has the Masque been doomed ever since. She dances across the mortal and immortal
planes to music only she can hear, never able to rest. She is drawn to places of sensory excess and is
wont to appear before the high table at great feasts, or during the closing act o f a fine opera. Her
golden mask flickers and changes as her dance progresses, taking the guise of the characters she
portrays. Such is the power of the Masques curse that all nearby are drawn into her unholy pageant.
Eternal Daemon or mortal man, all play their parts in her fluid pantomime as flawlessly as if they had
been rehearsing for the moment all their lives.
The dances tempo changes as the story of Slaanesh progresses. In the Dance of Dreaming, where the
slumbering prince waits to be born, the Masque and her chorus drift in sedentary and languid
movements. Conversely, the Pageant of Pain, re-enacting one of Slaaneshs great victories over
Khorne, is a tableau of spasmodic movements that ends with the entranced cast tearing at each
others throats and eyes. Not all the dances are from the past they are drawn from all points in time.
The power of the Masques curse allows her to recreate events yet to come, from the caging of Loec and
the purging with fire of Nurgles garden, all the way up to the legendary Rhankadanra, the final
battle and twilight of the gods. Any who survive these manifestations have only the scantest memories
of what truly occurred. They see only the ruin and death around them, and feel only the bone-weary
agony of a body pushed beyond its limits. Meanwhile and elsewhere, the Masque dances on ...
In the End Times she continued this pattern of random dancing, taking little part in Archaons
coordinated campaigns. She was still dancing through the ruined streets of Wurtbad when the world
came apart...
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Each dance has a magical aura of 50 meters and can have a myriad of effects ranging from
the victims bones breaking from overexertion, the victims getting extremely drowsy, weak, killing
each other at random or other myriad effects. In a fight the Masque is a quick and master duelist,
armed with her claws from her Daemonette days.
Defense: The Masque of Slaanesh is extremely agile and hard to hit, even more so then a Keeper of
Secrets.
The Masque travels alone and can appear randomly in any place where there is great excess.
Training/Experien
ce: 9
Max & Effective
Range:Spell
Preferred
Range: Melee
Role: Anti-Elf
Long ago, when
Chaos first came
to the world, it
was N'kari who
was the first
daemon to invade
the realm of the
Elves. When the Elves, who were then an innocent agrarian people, rose to meet them in combat N'kari
had them slaughtered gruesomely to an elf. For the next hundred years the daemon
ran roughshod through Ulthuan, committing every manner of murder and rape and debauchery
imaginable. Then the Elven Hero Aenarion, who had left Ulthuan even before N'kari arrived, returned
and for the first time presented the Keeper of Secrets a real challenge. For eighty years the Elf Hero and
N'kari fought for control of Ulthuan in a great contest of armies, yet the Elves were slowly getting
grounded down by the arrival of Chaos Warbands from elsewhere, having by now neutralized most of
the Slann world empire.
In desperation Caledor, the greatest of the Elven Magi, launched his great warding plan, forcing N'kari
to join forces with three other Chaos leaders to assault. All were defeated in single-combat by
Aenarion. N'kari's soul was then trapped in Caledor's mighty vortex for nearly 6,000 years, spending
the entirety of it slowly building up his strength and avoiding the potent ghost- archmage disciples of
Caledor, who wielded enough power to destroy him utterly.
Finally when those 6,000 years were up N'kari managed to break free from his imprisonment and in
his vengeance sought the descendants of Aenarion. For a month he, using his knowledge of Old One
webway-paths that were built into Ulthuan, went on a rampage and killed the vast majority of them in
truly gruesome ways. Finally he assaulted the mighty Temple of Asuyren where the twins Tyrion and
Teclis stayed. Though N'Kari butchered his way through the guards and nearly killed the twins, he played
too long with the athletic twin Tyrion, allowing the crippled twin Teclis to gather enough energy to
destroy him.
Banished for 100 years, N'Kari was then summoned up and bound by Witch King Malekith in order to
use the Daemon's knowledge of portals to invade Ulthuan. This initial invasion went very well thanks to
portals allowing the Dark Elves to attack everywhere at once however N'Kari again ran afoul of Tyrion
and Teclis, and though he nearly won the Daemon was again banished back to the nether.
However over the course of the conflict, the Witch King was also cast into the Realm of Chaos. For over
a hundred years in real time (and an unknown amount in the Realm of Chaos) N'kari tried to slay the
Witch King, coming close but ultimately failing. He then tried to kill the Witch King in his own
homeland, besieging the city with a Slaaneshi army. He was again defeated by the Witch King in a great
duel, leaving him to brood in the nether yet again.
Finally in the End Times NKari manifested a final time in an attempt to destroy Ulthuan utterly.
However, as is typical of his fashion, NKari was once again destroyed by Tyrion & Teclis.
The remaining Phoenix Guard threw themselves forward to meet the daemon. Its blade reaped their
lives like wheat. It laughed with soul-flaying mockery. Blood and brains splattered everywhere, hitting
Tyrion on the face. Calmly he wiped them away to clear his sight.
It was all just information. His death was one of the rules of this game. Accepting the truth of it,
he could still win. The goal was to distract the daemon until Teclis cast his spell. It was now simply a
problem of tactics.
I am going to die.
The daemon gestured again. Polychromatic lightning surged from its extended claw. It hit one of
the defenders and consumed his flesh even as he groaned in what might have been agony or ecstasy. The
flare of the bolt cast the huge statues of the old god into stark, blasphemous illumination.
NKari was huge and very fast and enormously strong. Its claw was capable of shearing a fully
armored elf warrior in half with as little effort as a seamstress cutting thread. It could fire bolts of magic
at its targets. It was all but invulnerable to mortal weapons.
I am going to die.
Blades shattered on NKaris flanks or passed through flesh that knitted behind them. Whatever
protected the daemon seemed random but it was effective.- Blood of Aenarion
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: See Keeper of Secrets, though N'Kari is said to be one of the best Keeper of Secrets to ever
live, able to fight through dozens of elite Phoenix Guards and their Dark Elf equivalent. In addition he is a
potent magician, a level 4 in the Lore of Slaanesh.
Defensive: See Keeper of Secrets
N'Kari does seem to have some knowledge of the Old One's Webway, at least around Ulthuan, and
might help his troop's mobility through such means. As his role suggests he absolutely hates and
despises the Elves, particularly Elven heroes, and will try to kill those he meets as slow as possible.
Alas though said to be one of the greatest of one of the most potent Greater Daemon archetype, he is as
known for his frequent failures as he is success.
Mobility: 5.5
Max & Effective Range: Dozens of meters (aura)
Long ago Azzazel was once an early blood
brother of Sigmar himself, named Perron, one of the mighty champions of the god-kings burgeoning
empire. Yet Azazel carried bitterness in his heart, and one day betrayed Sigmar, nearly killing him and
successfully slaying Simgar's wife (and Azazel's sister) before fleeing to the Chaos Wastes. There he
pledged himself to Slaanesh.
Azazel was greatly favored by his master, and rose quickly in his esteem. After slaying Arthar, the exalted
Champion of Khorne in single combat, Slaanesh turned his eyes upon Azazel and elevated him to
Daemonhood, making him commander of the Prince of Chaos' daemonic legions. He returned for
revenge against Sigmar, only for the champion of order to defeat and imprison the newly made Daemon
Prince under a mountain, where he languished until his new patron finally sent a legion to free him.
It is said that the beauty of Azazel is second only to his patron. But as irresistible as his beauty is, there
is a deadly edge to it. Those who have gazed upon him never forget the sensual temptation his presence
arouses. It is a beauty which evokes loathing and a temptation that sickens the soul.
Azazel's hair is long, jet-black, and as fine as flax. Two great lacquered horns crown his handsome brow.
His eyes are full of innocence and yet they are cruel, calculating and without pity. His smooth skin is
white, the color of the finest porcelain, and his movements are graceful, his limbs long and delicate. In
his right hand he carries an enchanted blade that writhes as if alive, and his left hand is a long, chitinous
claw, delicate and yet deadly.
His wings are of the purest white, their beauty unmatched by swans or other creations of nature. He
soars over the battlefield, sometimes sweeping low to strike his foes, and yet his feet never touch the
ground. Azazel dresses in robes made of the finest silks, and his body is bedecked with gorgeous jewels
and shining gems.
Azzazel is the right hand of Slaanesh, and one of his greatest commanders, leading his armies within the
Realm of Chaos. Such is his power that many who come into direct contact with him, all but the
strongest willed or most inspired/resistant, lose themselves over to his will. Even though who can fight
off often feel the bite of his influence in combat, for Azazel is capable of seeing their innermost desires
and secrets.
In the End Times Azzazel took part in the despoiling of the Empire. In order to further wound the hated
Sigmar he took the time tracking down the various knight orders pledged to Sigmar and killing them off
or corrupting them one by one. . However, in the final battle of Middenheim, Azzazel met the newly
reincarnated Sigmar himself who annihilated him after a brief battle.
===LOADOUT===
Offensive: Azzazel is capable of using spells from the lore of Slaanesh, has a deadly daemonblade that
ignores armor, a crab-like claw and a double-headed tail. Azazel is an incredibly skilled duelist, able to
defeat even a champion of Khorne in single combat or defeat some of Sigmar's greatest friends in
combat (though not the man himself). By far his greatest power is his sheer amount of aura, which can
lead mortals to bow before him and acknowledge him as master even as the daemon prince takes great
pleasure in torturing them to death. Essentially to ever battle him enemies must pass a willpower check.
Defensive: Azazel wields the dark halo of Slaanesh, and thus has constant magical protection around his
person.
Mobility: 4
Role : Combatant, Tactical Commander
Dechala is the mistress of the Tormentors, one of the greatest of
Slaaneshs Warbands to ever roam the Chaos Wastes. She is as
cruel as she is beautiful and as pitiless as she is beguiling. The
earliest records of the ravages of Dechala reach down through
the centuries.
Dechala is mutated beyond recognition, making her a creature of Chaos more akin to a Daemon than a
mortal. Her skin is smooth and milk-white. Her legs have been replaced by the lithe and sinuous body of
a snake. Her multi-headed tail cracks like a whip, and drips with poison. Her multitudinous arms grasp
heavy-bladed swords and her deep blue eyes glow with an inner light, promising terrible pain and
pleasure to any who dare to stand before her. She has beauty that only Slaanesh may grant, but it is as
unearthly and disturbing as it is irresistible. Her visage evokes loathing as much as it arouses pleasure.
Dechala is a rare example of a corrupted elf in the setting, being once a High Elf princess of renowned
beauty. So beautiful that she had the misfortune of attracting the eye of the Daemon Prince Samael, a
Slaaneshi servant of high favor. The Daemon Price desired her and, in the horrible fashion of Slaanesh,
sought to woo her overby making her familys every moment a living nightmare.He violated their
dreams and minds, killed pets and servants in horrific ways, hounded their every footstep and gradually
drove the family into madness. Finally, after months of torture, Dechalas father gave her to Samael.
Rather than simply abuse her and consume her soul, Dechala chose to corrupt Dechala so that her
beauty and grace would be his forever more. Out of resentment for her father and fear of Samael
Dechala agreed, so long as she was granted the power to avenge herself on the family that gave her
away. Samael agreed and blessed Dechala with supreme strength and skill with blades. So grizzly and
terrible was Dechalas burtchery of her family that Slaanesh himself approved and blessed Dechala with
his markwhich, unfortunately for her, made Samael extremely jealous.
Though Samael and Dechala were married Dechala had tasted glory, and was not content to live under
Samaels shadow. So she ran away. Furious, Samael whined to Slaanesh asking the god to bring Dechala
back for him. Slaanesh, upset at the mortals demands, refused but out of a twisted love to the servant
who had tortured so many in His name, offered a compromise. If Dechala returned to him then they
would truly be bound forever. However if she did not than while Dechala may be further rewarded with
gifts she would never achieve equality with Samael, i.e. the much sought after position of Daemon
Prince. Thus she became The Denied One, a creature high in favor and dedicated to her master but
always denied the ultimate promotion.
Knowing her existence will never meet its ultimate potential, Dechala seeks the ultimate self-indulgence
and freedom from the shackles of law and order, but she desires this pleasure only for herself: others
can suffer and die as long as her wishes are fulfilled. She is served by a host of slaves, victims of her
hideous poison that erodes both the will and the body.Such is a fate commonly held to be worse than
death.
As Dechala preffers slaves rather dead victims at the end of a battle she and her servants will hold down
captives and drop a single sip of elixir down their throats. This elixir, described as a mix of sacrificial
blood, warpstone, and the fluids of her own fornification, is perhaps the most addictive drug in the
world. For from the moment this elixir is consumed no chains are needed, for Dechalas slaves become
the most helpless of addicts. These slaves quickly grow into legions as each dose of elixir received causes
the minds of the slaves to dip further into a dreadful waking nightmare as their minds mutate. Abused
by Dechala and her warriors, these slaves eventually devolve into a quivering mass of abused flesh that
are then abandoned by Dechala, denied the elixir, and left to die from a extemeley painful withdrawal.
Dechala leads the Tormentors, a Warband of extreme Slaaneshi sadists alleged to be one of the most
terrible in existence. These decadent hedonists are extremely skilled and like to take their time with
victims. Those not killed are overwhelmed by masses of screaming slaves and forced to ingest the elixir.
In battle Dechala is an enchanting sight, her snake-like body dancing to amuse her patron. And as
delicate and as sensuous as her movements are, they are nonetheless lethal to those who dare to
oppose her, and many an opponent has been cut to pieces while entranced by her dance.
In the End Times Dechala, no doubt using both her supernatural allure and poisons, subverted a large
portion of the South Ind into joining her pleasure cults which then rose to revolt even as Arbaal led an
invasion from the North. Between the two of them and simultaneous Skaven assaults Ind was mostly
destroyed, with only a few isolated kingdoms remaining in the interior.
Summoned back by her patron to Middenheim, Dechala was finally destroyed by Tyrion, Incarnate of
Light, in a duel.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: She has 6 arms, each armed with a deadly poisoned sword, and is a master in melee combat.
Her dances in battle have magical connotation, making her harder to hit or making her hit faster.Has the
Mark of Slaanesh
Defensive: She has some Chaos armor wrapped around her form, and is difficult to hit.
Dechala is a spiteful creature, forever denied the opportunity

to become a daemon princess thanks to a plea by a rival
keeper of secrets to Slaanesh. She takes this hatred out on
her enemies, and has invented an incurable drug that can
hopelessly addict with a single drop. She will capture
prisoners and force-feed them this drug, getting them to spill
their guts and utilize them as slaves. Eventually the cruel
Slaaneshi releases these prisoners, letting them die a slow
and agonizing death from withdrawal in the wildness.
The Beastlords of Chaos are known for their ferocity and power more than any other trait. Lacking even
the tiniest trappings of civilization that Chaos men possess the scions of the Beast often seem to be dry
and unimaginative, relying on brute force more than any other trait. While this is true they are also
guerilla ambush specialists and many an orderly imperial regiment, believing themselves superior in
both training and mental capacity, has been torn to pieces in the forests by a well-placed ambush.
Mobility: 5
Max & Effective Range: 300m?
Role: Tactical Sub commander (of Ungors)
Of the Ungors, few can claim to have had it as bad as Ungol Four-Horn, for
he has been cast out of two societies, both beast and man. . As a child he
was left in the woods by his birth-parents for the crime of having two heads,
which Beastmen who passed by thought was unique enough that the child
was spared, and raised by their kind. However Ungol had small horns which
were a sign of mockery in Beastman society, and to make matters worse his two-heads resulted in much
jealousy among the Ungors. Friendless, beaten, mocked and bruised daily it was only a matter of time
until he snapped.
One night, bleeding from a dozen wounds, he could take it no more. While the rest of the herd slept in a
drunken stupor Ungol first crept up and beat his chieftain to death with a rock. Then he moved onto the
shaman, strangling him. Not done he sawed off the horns of both and attached it to his own head
shouting and singing "Four Horns! Four Horns! Four Horns! He then evaded his vengeful tribe by hiding
in a nearby cave system.
Though it drew him the ire of Gors everywhere, the act finally gave him respect among the Ungors,
who admired him for being even more hateful then the norm. Now he leads an army of Ungors,
mutants and monsters all filled to the brim with hate. Any that falls before him suffers and to be taken
prisoner by such a force is a terrible fate.
In the End Times he appears in Kislev, taking part in the final battle there.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Two Hand weapons. He also wields the magical "Crown of Thorns" which are the sawed off
horns of the shaman and Beastlord. In battle this magical power manifests in him either becoming
stronger and more skilled with weaponry or becoming a minor wizard (level 1 Lore of the Wild)
Defensive: Not much, maybe some scavenged leather or mail.
Ungol's forces are by nature going to be wary of cooperation with other Beastmen, given their past...
However even without them he is shown to be a skilled and crafty commander of Ungors, carrying on
raids for many years and foiling both man and Beastman attempts to destroy him.
Mobility: 5
Max Range: Melee
Ghorros is an immensely ancient and powerful Centigor, one that

has slaughtered for centuries and never succumbed to his
injuries. His vitality is legendary and despite his age it is said that
Warhoof has never had an idle moment. Whether it is getting drunk, rutting or fighting Ghorros
continues to make himself known in even the modern era.
As centigors are already legendary boasters, Ghorros strives to take this example and beat it . He does
so, claiming that not only did he sire a thousand young but that all Centigors everywhere are drawn
from him . Few challenge him, in part because his rage is truly fearsome while drunk. Yet another reason
is the suspicion that it might actually be true, for Ghorros has an innate following among the Beastmen.
When Ghorros goes to war his entire extremely devoted clan goes with him. Devoted enough that they
would readily sacrifice themselves to save his life. The fields thunder and shake with the sound of a
thousand hooves as they ride, joined not only by centigors but all manner of mutants and four legged
creatures.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Mancrusher: Ghorros wields the mancrusher, a great spiked mace that has slew countless of
varied dynasties and has enough enchantments that it functions almost as a power weapon.
Defensive: Skull of the Unicorn Lord: Long ago Ghorros slew the a unicorn lord in Athel Loren in a deed
that Wood Elves are still trying to avenge. This magical creature's skull gives Ghorros heavy magic
resistance. In addition to this he wears light leather armor.
Ghorros is going to be a sub-commander based primarily around mobile Centigors, mutants with equine
features, and other highly mobile foes. His bodyguards, the so-called "Sons of Ghorros" , composes of a
group of highly skilled veteran sons who will not only fight to the death at his command, but also thrown
themselves in the path of imminent danger to save Ghorros. Should he die however the act temporarily
enrages all Beastmen causing them to fight harder.
Mobility: 6
Role : (Random) Tactical Commander
The creature known as Moonclaw was not born of mortal

parents. Rather when Morrslieb, the Chaos moon, was at its peak
this awful creature burst forth from its pale belly in the form of a
meteor. The impact wiped out everything for miles around,
humans and Beastmen both. Only Moonclaw, hatching from an
egg of pure warpstone, survived.
Since then he has wandered around the forest in no particular pattern, muttering to himself backwards
in a language only he can understand. His goat-like eyes glow with a supernatural presence, and his
shadows leave temporary doppelgangers. When Beastmen catch sight of him they fall to the ground in
worship.
However when Morrslieb is closest, its power most manifest, Moonclaw undergoes an abrupt
transformation. No longer does he wander aimlessly but rather moves with purpose. Gathering entire
armies of insane Beastmen to his cause and summoning a mysterious, two-headed riding beast
Umbralok to his side, Moonclaw sets in motion a frenzy of activity. Warpstones, those ancient relics
that inhibit the spread of Chaos energy, are deliberately sought out and destroyed. Enemy towns are
sacked and defending armies are bombarded by chunks of giant moon warpstones and driven mad by
waves of insanity.
In the End Times Moonclaw took part in the destruction of Averhiem, fighting with distinction.
Afterwards he seized control of the fallen region around with Archaons permission and began hunting
large warpstone fragments of the fallen Chaos Moon. His motives remained a mystery however his
power seemed to remain constant, courtesy of all the main fragments saturating the planet.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: For melee he generally wields a braystaff, though his mount has claws to help in this. At long
range during the full moon he can call down showers of deadly, inherently corruptive warpstone
meteors. He is a level 1 wizard of Shadow or the Wild. He has a fifty meter aura of madness that can
drive any inside insane, friend or foe. The resistance to this depends upon discipline, training and
mental conditioning.
During the full moon this power magnifies itself. Not only can he call upon small meteor showers but he
becomes a more powerful wizard, his aura of madness much more potent. This buff apparently occurs
nonstop in the End Times, despite the destruction of Morrisleib by the Skaven.
Defensive: Moonclaw has the protection of Morrislieb, meaning he is heavily resistant to magic and has
a protective aura around him.
Mobility: 5
Slugtongue invokes fear just by looking at him. His
body is host to hordes of tics, lice, worms and
cockroaches inhabiting every crevice. Centipedes pout
out of his empty eye sockets, slugs from his teeth.
Worse still his stinking breath coalesces into terrible
shapes on its own and he is perpetually surrounded by
an aura of chill.
While other Beastmen enjoy the simple act of
slaughter, Slugtongue has a more refined taste.
Embodying somewhat the aspects of Nurgle this
Beastman wants to see his enemy suffer first.
Resenting mankind's domination over nature Slugtongue seeks to undo mankind's exalted position
entirely. When he passes through a land, no matter how fertile, it turns into a barren and freezing
wasteland crawling with vermin. At his command Locusts will tear across crop fields, rivers turn to bile,
maggots rain down upon freshwater lakes, harvested crops turn to sludge and barrels of fine drink turn
out to be infected spittle.
His plan is to starve the enemy into desperate and foolhardy acts. As their families die and land is utterly
despoiled, hordes of the armies of man head to kill the one who inflicted such punishment upon them in
a desperate bid to end their curse. When these starving, frightened armies meet Slugtongue's force they
encounter hordes of well fed, hot-tempered and battle ready Beastmen. Thus, for army battles,
Slugtongue is the enemy of the opposing force's logistics.
In the End Times even as Malagors super spell combined with Nurgles plagues ravaged the Empire,
Slugtongue robbed the land of even more of its strength. Wherever that wizened fiend walked, famine
followed. The locusts and cockroaches that flocked in his wake were put to good use gnawing away
the last of the harvest that the people of the Empire had stowed away. Tall, strong men were slowly
reduced to sallow shadows that moaned and clutched at their bellies, eating cats, dogs and rats in
their overriding hunger. Armies of the starving and the desperate were mustered, and though many a
warherd was brought to battle, the Lord of the Black Harvest was never found.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: For melee, in addition to his disease infested state, he wields a poisoned braystaff. He is level
2 wizard that can generate spells from Lore of the Wild or Death.
His most potent power though is his aura of famine that can affect everything within 500 meters of him.
Such an aura seems to affect each individual unit differently, with roughly half experiencing nothing
but disgust and maybe a little horror at the being before him. The other half begins to weaker or even
worse outright collapse before this supernatural famine, which can affect even magical creatures.
Defensive: Nothing in terms of armor, he does have minor regeneration however for when he is hit.
Given his special powers and purview, Slugtongue is going to be focusing, as a sub-commander, directly
on enemy logistics. He will seek to weaken them through starvation and dehydration. Fertile fields are
going to be ruined, lakes and other natural water sources poisoned, and stocks of enemy supplies
made untenable.
Mobility: 5
Preferred Range: Spell/Melee
Role: Corruption Incarnate
Perhaps the most fearsome of the Beastman heroes, Morghur has wrought the most carnage of all
during his long life. Indeed The Wood Elves first fought him three and a half millennium ago, and the
Beastmen themselves claim him as a progenitor of sorts. Beastmen from thousands of miles all flock
towards him, such is their respect for him. Most perish in the process. A few reach him but are not
strong-minded enough to withstand his presence. These go insane. However for those very rare few
who do not go insane and withstand the journey, a lifetime of success awaits (successfully becoming a
Beastlord for one).
Morghur has so far proven immortal. Every time he gets struck down-which is always a drawn out affairhe comes back centuries, decades, years even months later. The first known instance of his death was
the result of a giant treelord seizing him so that one of the best mages of the world could disintegrate
him with magic. The second bound by much magical binding and then torn apart by another Treelord.
The third was more mundane, as he was pierced by a 100 arrows. Though it sometimes takes him years
to come back, none of these deaths have put him down for good. It is easy to tell when Moghur is
reborn into this world, for in his current incarnation he ripped his mother apart from the inside and
turned his father into a chaos spawn. When a travelling band arrived days later they found the village
humans , now half-animal, crawling around in the mud with twisted limbs. The livestock now stood
upright, spoke in unfathomable tongues, and ran around eating everything.
So far only the Wood Elven Ariel queen knows what Morghur's true nature is, and she is terrified it. For
he is corruption itself destined to return again and again until his foul will is enacted. When he passes
through forests trees shrivel, grass blackens, and beasts grow even more wild. Even the treefriends and
spirits of the Wood Elves weren't immune, and it was frequent that, on the eve of victory, a part of the
Wood Elven army would rebel. With the very embodiment of corruption now part of this beast army,
those it rules will fight all the much harder and wilder than ever before.
Morghur was last seen in the late End Times, having been reborn a final time to war with the Elves
there. It is likely he was still fighting as the end came.
=LOADOUT==
Offensive: Bray Staff of Morghur and Stones of the Skull Cave: The twisted staff of Moghur is an
incredible conduit for chaotic power when combined with the stones of skull cave, and it writhes
constantly as if living. This staff can make any wizard manipulating the Winds of Magic to have an
increased risk of turning into a chaos spawn.
As the spirit essence of Chaos his very presence mutates those around him. Beastmen that follow too
closely may turn into chaos spawn, for they are already not too far away from it. For the uncorrupted
enemy this is harder to do, though not impossible.
Defensive: Skull-Weave: The skulls woven into his hair and horns gibber and screech constantly,
invoking fear in those who see it.
Aura of Transformation: Morghur's presence warps reality. Cannonballs turn into puffs of smoke midair,
missile attacks randomly fall short, spells in showers of blood, creatures mutate horribly, and even
enemy soldiers are known to turn into a mass of tentacles or jelly. Sometimes those that are not are
turned mad, like the creatures of Athel Loren. Barring exceptional attacks, Morghur cannot be hurt in
any way by anything that is not within 50 meters of him and those enemy soldiers in striking distance
are particularly susceptible to mutation. As Guardians of the Forest shows us they must rely heavily on
their own willpower to resist the transformation, not giving into it for a second. Even with all this his
aura can be bypassed in short range and he can certainly be killed, as the Wood Elves proved four or
five times, but it usually done as the result of many powerful attacks at once (Athel joining the fray, 100
arrows from expert archers etc.).
Moghur is a massive morale factor for the Beastmen, a legend and very embodiment of everything they
look up to. His every thought and dream is of visions in which order does not exist, progress ripped
asunder and everything corrupted. His hatred of civilizations is legendary and though incredibly insane
he will do everything in his power to ensure the brayherds are focused solely on the destruction of
enemy civilization, whether it is the keeps of the Empire or the forest realm of Athel Loren. This
hatred can spread through his forces like wildfire, boosting up their rage and drive. His piercing roar
can draw Beastmen to him from miles around, even causing those fleeing to suddenly scurry around
and join the fray.
Mobility: 9 (Flying)
Max Range: Magical spell range
Role: Advisor/Tactical Commander
Known as the Crow-father, Malagor is a being as revered by
Beastmen as hated and feared by man. Among holy men he is
the epitome of sin for Malagor desires not just the destruction of
the physical aspect of man but also his works, civilizations, and
religion. Ancient woodcutting statues with his form reveal that he
was feared even before the time of Sigmar.
When he was born it was obvious to all that he was blessed, for
he had been birthed with wings enabling flight. Malagor is a bray shaman though not one dedicated to
any single Beastlord. Instead he seeks to counsel the entire Beastman race, providing advice for all
beastlords in a bid that increasingly sees Beastkind unified under one purpose. When assaults are
launched Malagor is at their head, flying in with a thousand carrion birds at his back. Of all the vile
rituals he initiates and atrocities he commits nothing is more pleasurable then to see the destruction of
temples, to sacrifice priests/priestesses on holy alters and drink their blood in mockery of their most
holy sacraments.
It was Malagor who takes the most delight in ripping in two the standards of the empire, who pushed a
massive statue of Sigmar onto a congregation below, drenched flagellants in fire to be set loose on half a
town and who caused a river to boil as knights crossed it. Malagor is infamous for salting the Earth
behind him, wrecking them into literal oblivion as nothing remains once his armies finish. Recently he
has been spotted lending his counsel to Khazrak the One Eye.
In the End Times Malagor was initially entrusted by the Chaos Gods to stop Arkhan in his attempt to
resurrect Nagash. The Bray-Shaman fought numerous leaders and gathered up a huge army however he
was outmaneuvered by the undead into attacking a Dwarf force, which was ironically also given the
same task at stopping Nagashs resurrection. Though Malagor had enough discipline to resist attacking
the mountain dwellers his force did not and he was reluctantly drawn into a conflict that his force
would lose.
Desperate to renew his favor with the gods, it was Malagor that would unleash one of the most
powerful spells in the Warhammer World. After weeks of preparation and ritual and harnessing
Tzeentchs dominance of the winds of magic, Malagor completed a ritual of such wide-ranging potency
that every hamlet, farm and township in the Empire fall under assault by its own altered livestock.
Army upon army of Beastmen was born in a single night, each driven by a maniacal desire to feed on
those who had planned to slaughter them for their own feast days. In one stroke, the Crowfather had
turned the scales of domesticity upon the race of men. He had not only robbed the Empire of much
of its edible meat, but also ensured that its citizens were penned into their own homes by the very
beasts they had sought to tame. Road wardens, garrison-farmers and militia were all too busy battling
against their own home born terrors to unite against the encroaching chaos force from the North.
Later he took part in the Beastman assault on Middenheim where, though inflicting causalities, he was
killed by the Ulric possessed patriarch Gregor Martak.
A shriek from above tore Martaks attentions from the carnage being wrought in the square. He and
Valten looked up, to see a swirling murder of crows descend on the artillery at the top of the steps.
Gunners cried out in fear and pain as Malagor swept through them, plucking eyes and raking flesh. The
Dark Omen was monstrous and unstoppable, and his body dissolved into a shower of feathers only to
reform elsewhere to wreak more havoc. Even as the bodies of those hed slain tumbled down the steps,
Malagor vanished, the thunder of wings echoing in his wake.
Valten started up the steps, hammer in hand. Martak grabbed his arm. No. Ill handle the beast. You see
to the battle. Valten opened his mouth, as if to reply, then nodded and turned to race down the steps.
Martak cracked his knuckles, and then closed his eyes. His nostrils flared as he inhaled the stench of
Malagors magics. The creature was ripe with the stink of the swirling energies which permeated the
clouds far above. Martak, eyes still closed, turned one way, and then another, following Malagors
twisting, turning pilgrimage across the battle-lines of the Empire. Men died wherever the beast settled,
and it seemed to be unconcerned with the savage slaughter being inflicted on its kin, for its attacks were
random, rather than calculated to ease the advance of the Beastmen.
Nonetheless, the Beastmen were possessed by an unmatched ferocity, and down in the square they
hurled themselves through the teeth of the artillery and crashed home at last, smashing into the ranks of
the state troops. The creatures were outnumbered, and almost ridiculously so, but Martak knew that
such concerns no longer held sway over them. The Children of Chaos had been driven into a killing frenzy,
and they were determined to taste the blood of their enemies.
There!
The thought sliced through his consciousness, and Martaks eyes snapped open. His head ached with the
pounding of wings as he turned and saw a mass of whirling feathers dropping towards Greiss and his
knights. Martak raced down the steps, one arm flung back. He stopped, and his arm snapped forwards. A
jagged spear of amber, coated in ice, cut through the air with a whistling shriek.
The mass of shadow-crows gave a communal scream and something hairy dropped from their midst to
crash down on the steps. Martak pounced, his hands seizing the length of his conjured spear, and he
shoved his prey back down as it tried to rise. Malagor howled in agony as it pawed uselessly at the ice. Its
blood had splattered out across the steps like the wings of some great, malignant bird. Martak leaned
against the spear with his full weight. Malagors flesh blackened with frostbite, and its froth became
frozen slush. It glared at Martak, and he matched that gaze, even as he had before.
Then, with a frustrated whimper, Malagor flopped back and lay still.- Lord of the End Times
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Braystaff. Malagor is also an exceptionally powerful wizard(level 4) who can call upon spells
from the Lore of Beasts, Wild, Death or Shadow. With every spell he successfully casts in battle his
power increases.
He possesses a series of defiled icons of just about every religion of man that not only enrage the
enemy, but inspire his followers to even greater acts of desecration. They fight far harder, longer and
more fearlessly then other Beastmen.
Defensive: Not much, maybe some scavenged leather or mail.
Malagor is going to serve as adviser as Khazrak in this campaign. Given his favorite hobby, if the enemy
has any established religion, sacred icons, or established clergy, he will likely direct his personal efforts
on those.
Mobility: 5
Role: Co-commander
Of the great Beastlords only Gorthor is more infamous then Khazrak. And even he may be eclipsed
soon, as more and more Beastmen flock to the Foe-Renders banner. With good reason to, for Khazrak is
said to be the most cunning Beastman alive.
Khazrak began his career as a bestigor under Beastlord Graktar. Unlike many ambitious bestigor, who
take the first opportunity they can get to challenge the Beastlord, Khazrak bid his time. He watched and
learned how the Beastlord operated, its general tactics, potential improvement and the way it fought
enemies. Khazrak was patient and cunning. He knew that his Beastlord was a formidable fighter, one
who had crushed countless rebellious bestigor beneath his hooves. For his part Graktar seemed to
recognize the threat Khazrak posed and tried to limit the threat he posed by seeming to favor other
bestigor. Yet in this Graktar was outmaneuvered, and Khazrak quickly gained the favor of the local
Bray-shaman.
Noticing his Beastlord heavily wounded after a raid on a caravan, Khazrak seized this moment to
challenge him to a duel. It was a long fight but ultimately one that Khazrak emerged victorious, keeping
one of Graktar's horns as a trophy. Yet oddly he let his former master live as Khazrak found him to be a
worthy foe to challenge wits against in the future.
This was just the start of Khazrak's reign. Humanity quickly learned both of his name and how terrifying
a commander he could be. Entire settlements were raized, caravans destroyed, and military
retribution was either eluded or led into terrible ambushes. Eventually elector count Boris Todbringer,
an eccentric and clever count himself, got involved in the hunt. For a while Khazrak eluded even him
however eventually he was forced to battle. During that conflict Todbringer's magical runeblade cut out
Khazrak's eye after a terrible duel. Only the intervention of Khazrak's trained hounds saved the
Beastlord's life and allowed him to flee.
Normally such a wound would be a death sentence in Beastman society however Khazrak was clever
enough to ward off all such challenge while planning for revenge. For many months he brooded in his
lair and watched Boris from afar, patiently plotting. Then when the time for battle arrived he expertly
lured the count into an ambush, killing most of his retinue and then, with slow deliberation, gouging
out an eye with his horn. Yet Khazrak liked matching wits with the count, so he let him live.
In response the Empire sent even more armies to hunt him. Those Khazrak hasn't eluded are never seen
again, their bodies and souls scarified to the dark gods. More and more towns, forts and even castles fell
to his well-planned (for a Beastman) attacks. By the time of the End Times he had become a fearsome
force in the Drakwald forests.
Several years into the End Times Khazrak decided to at last end his old rivalry with Count Todbringer,
even as the elector sought to end his insane grudge with the Beastman leader. Khazrak succeeded in
ambushing and destroying the Elector Counts force however hubris forced him into a duel. Though both
were wounded in the end Todbringer prevailed, even if he was shortly torn apart by Beastmen
thereafter.
Horns blew, loud and low and long. The sound shivered through him, and the Beastmen pulled back,
whining and griping like hounds denied the kill. Something pushed through their ranks and came into
view. I knew it, Todbringer murmured.
Khazrak the One-Eye had come to claim his due. The banebeast of the Drakwald was large, and bulky,
heavy with muscle and old scars beneath a suit of piecemeal armour. Yellowing skulls hung from his
leather belt, and he carried a barbed whip in one giant paw, and a blade covered in ruinous sigils in the
other.
The trees rustled in a sudden breeze, and it sounded like laughter. Khazrak spread his arms and the
Beastmen backed away, making room. Todbringer felt his heart speed up. Khazrak hadnt just come to
watch him die. The banebeast had come to kill him.
Mortal enemies, brought together by fate. The thought brought a mirthless smile to Todbringers face.
He glanced up. The clouds resembled vast faces in the sky, leering down through the canopy of branches:
like gamblers watching a dog savage rats in a pit, he thought. Well, he croaked, here we are again, old
beast.
Khazrak hesitated. The beastmans good eye narrowed. For the first time, Todbringer noticed how much
white there was in the others hair, and how carefully the beast moved. Like an old warrior, conserving
strength. Like Todbringer himself. He felt a pang of sadness. For all that the monstrosity before him
deserved death, it had been the closest thing hed had to a friend these past few years. Knowing that
Khazrak was out there had given him a sense of purpose. It had given him a reason to live, after his
wifes death, even if that reason was for hates sake. And in a way, he was grateful to his enemy for that,
for all that he intended to take Khazraks head. Some things are just meant to be, he thought grimly.
Then, he laughed. At least now I can stop chasing fate.
Khazraks thick wrist flexed, and the barbed whip uncoiled. Todbringer took a breath. How long, old
beast? A decade? Two? It seems a shame to miss the end of the world, but weve never been showy,
have we? he asked. No, best to let them get on with it, eh? We know where the real war is, dont we?
The caterwaul of the gathered Beastmen dimmed as he raised his sword. They were no longer important.
They never had been. Only Khazrak mattered. The others were animals, and no more or less dangerous
than any beast of the forest. But Khazrak was almost a man, and he deserved a mans death. Preferably,
a long, lingering one.
Slowly, the two old warriors began to circle one another. Oh yes, we know, Todbringer murmured. You
took my sons, and I took your whelps. I took your eye, you took mine. He reached up to trace the scar
that cut across the empty socket. Khazrak mirrored the gesture, seemingly unthinkingly. The world is on
fire, but our war must take precedence. We have earned this, havent we, old beast?
Khazrak met his gaze, as the question lingered on the air between them. Yes, this is our moment. Let us
make the most of it. Todbringer took a two-handed grip on his runefang. Khazrak raised his blade. It
might have been a salute, but Todbringer doubted it. No, Khazrak knew nothing of honor or respect. But
he recognized the totality of this moment, as Todbringer did. Strands of destiny bound them together,
and as the world ended, so too would their war. It was only appropriate. Todbringer brought his sword
back and closed his eye. Guard my city, Herald of Sigmar. May the Flame of Ulric burn bright
forevermore, and may its light guide you to victory, where I have failed, he thought.
Khazrak bellowed, and Todbringers eye snapped open as the beast lunged for him. Their blades
slammed together with a sound that echoed through the trees. The two old enemies hacked and slashed
at one another ferociously. They had fought many times before, and Todbringer knew the creature, even
as the beast knew him. Blows were parried and countered as they fell into an old, familiar rhythm. Two
old men, sparring in the mud, surrounded by a circle of monstrous faces and hairy bodies.
He flashed his teeth in a snarl, and Khazrak did the same as they strained against one another. The faces
of his sons, his wives, his soldiers flashed through his mind all of those hed lost in the course of his war
against the creature before him. He wondered if Khazrak was seeing something similar how many
whelps had the banebeast lost over the course of their conflict? How many of his brutish mates and
comrades had Todbringers sword claimed? Did he even feel love, the way a man did, or did he know only
hate?
The mud squirmed beneath his feet, and his heart hurt. His head swam, and his lungs burned. He was
old, too old for this. He could smell Khazraks rank perspiration, and the creatures limbs trembled no less
than his own. How many challenges to his authority had Khazrak faced, in his long life? Todbringer
recognized some of the beasts scars as his handiwork, but the rest Did they toss you out, old beast? Is
that why youre here, and not with the rest, laying siege to Middenheim? Or did you refuse to go, did you
refuse to bow before the Three-Eyed King until our score was settled? Were you waiting for me? he
gasped as he leaned against his sword, pitting all of his weight against that of his opponent.
Khazrak gave a bleat of frustration as they broke apart for a moment, and the whip hissed and snapped
as the Beastman sought to ensnare Todbringers legs. An old trick, and one that had caught Todbringer
unawares many years before. But he was ready for it now. He avoided the lash and stamped down on it,
catching it. Even as he did so, he lunged forwards awkwardly, slashing towards Khazraks neck, hoping to
behead the beast. Khazrak staggered back and parried the blow.
Off balance, Todbringer jerked back as Khazrak snapped the whip at his good eye. The tip of the lash tore
open his cheek. Khazrak pressed the attack. The beasts sword hammered down once, twice, three times
against Todbringers guard. One blow tore the shield from Todbringers grasp and sent it rattling across
the ground, the second and the third were caught on the runefangs length, but such was the force
behind the blows that Todbringer was driven to one knee. Thick mud squelched beneath his armour, and
he felt his shoulder go numb as he blocked another blow. Khazrak was old, but strong; stronger than
Todbringer. And fresh as well. He had saved himself, gauging the best time to strike. Even as he reeled
beneath his enemys assault, Todbringer felt a flicker of admiration. What a man you would have made,
had you been born human, he thought. A fifth blow slid beneath his guard, and he felt a pain in his gut.
He shoved himself back, and saw that Khazraks blade was red to the hilt.
The gathered Beastmen scented blood and began to bray and stamp in anticipation. Todbringer was
nearly knocked off his feet by Khazraks next swing. He sank back, rolling with the blow. Khazrak charged
after him, snorting in eagerness. Todbringer lashed out, and felt a savage thrill of joy as his blade caught
Khazrak in the shin. Bone cracked and Khazrak gave a cry. The banebeast fell heavily, and Todbringer
hurled himself onto his enemy, knocking the weapons from Khazraks fists. He raised his runefang over
Khazraks pain-contorted features. For my sons, Todbringer hissed.
Khazraks good eye met his own. The Beastman blinked, just once, and stilled his thrashing, as if in
acceptance of what was about to transpire. Then Khazrak snarled, and the runefang descended, piercing
the creatures good eye and sinking into his brain. Khazraks hooves drummed on the ground for a
moment, and then were still. Todbringer leaned against the hilt of the runefang until he felt the tip sink
into the mud beneath Khazraks skull. This time, stay dead, he wheezed.
The gathered Beastmen were silent. The Drakwald was quiet. But Boris Todbringer was not. He rose
wearily, his strength gone, only stubbornness remaining. He was wounded, weakened, and surrounded
by hundreds, if not thousands of Beastmen. He would die here.
But he had won.
Todbringer tilted his head back and laughed the laugh of a man who has shed the last of lifes shackles.
For the first time in a long time, he felt no weight on his heart. He had won. Let the world burn, if it
would, for he had made his mark, and done what he must.
He looked down at Khazrak, spat a gobbet of blood onto the death-slackened features of his old enemy,
and ripped his sword free, even as the closest of the Beastmen began to edge forwards, growling
vengefully. He was going to die, but by Ulric, theyd remember him, when all was said and done.
You want the world? Boris Todbringer growled. Clasping his runefang in both hands, the Elector Count
of Middenheim, supreme ruler of Middenland and the Drakwald, raised the blade. He smiled as the
enemy closed in.
Youll have to earn it.- Lord of the End Times
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Scourge: This

magically enchanted whip is
wrapped in generations of
bitter curses by Bray-Shamans,
making it especially potent. Its
barbs are exceptionally
proficient at tearing out great
junks of flesh and can attack
multiple foes at once. He also
uses a sword in his other
hand, and is noted to be a
master duelist.
Defensive: The Dark Mail: This
ancient suit of armor, made
countless years ago by a
forgemaster, provides even
greater protection then the
Chaos Warrior's vaunted
chaos armor! Most attacks fail
to get through, and in addition to that this piece of mail has a special enchantment that actually negates
any magical weapons used right next to him. Older lore also has it giving some minor magical resistance
and can absorb a little bit of power from those spells, transplanting it to Khazzak.
Khazrak is going to be surrounded not only by Beastmen but a small pack of exceptionally trained chaos
warhounds. As the most powerful Beastman currently, he is going to be the one most Beastmen
gravitate for war leadership. Any ambushes he leads personally should be considered to be expertly
planned, unlikely to have the tendency of Beastmen to get lost in the forest.
==X-Factors==
Adaptive Creativity/Resourcefulness: 60 /100: Khazrak has shown himself to be incredibly cunning and
elusive, winning him many great victories and sparing him losses. He is smart enough to deliberately
target and destroy the supply lines of the enemy. However his adaptions are mostly just enlightened
variations on the main Beastman tactic of surrounding and slaughtering. Which normal Beastmen
mostly use over and over again
Tactics: 69/100: Khazrak has achieved massive success of the last few years thanks to his cunning, and is
said to be the most cunning Beastman ever lived. He is a master ambusher and any army that he
personally leads is going to be that much more skilled/successful at ambush and the means to set one
up from physical encirclement , luring, opportune timing and feints. On at least one occasion he made
like Hannibal at Cannae and completely destroyed his foe. His ratio isnt unbeaten however, and has lost
quite a few times to Count Todbringer.
Strategy: 53/100: Unfortunately his grand plan has yet to come into fruition yet. Worse he keeps letting
people live that are clever and smart enough to hinder his plans severely.
Intuition: 67/100:
Audacity: 68/100: Though normally Beastmen just love to charge in without thought, Khazrak has
seemingly forgone such tactics. When he does charge in it is usually after careful analysis and
observation. That said he is perfectly willing to be bold if he feels it will win him the day.
Psychological Warfare: 64/100: Khazrak and the Beastmen realize fully that to humankind they are
bestial, disgusting and menacing, that the beast's desire to tear down civilization is extremely disturbing.
For that reason Beastmen live to befoul everything that humanity (or whatever race they are fighting)
sees holy in order to both enrage and demoralize.
Inspiration: 63/100: Though his leadership is far from unquestioned among the Beastmen, he has
managed to unite the largest Brayherd since Gorthor, and commands a great amount of respect
Experience: 62/100
Discipline: 56/100 : Normally Beastmen are given to random if powerful charges and infighting between
different castes. Khazrak is one of the few capable of controlling that to an extent.
Corruption: 82100
Cold, logical, persistent and calculating are all traits that apply weakly to Chaos but personify the Chaos
Dwarfs. Their commanders are often taught by the finest schools their civilization has and carry with
them decades or centuries of experience. They are capable planners who plan for both victory and
backups in case of defeat. As Tamurkhan: Throne of Chaos shows the Chaos Dwarfs make use of supply
lines, mechanized warfare, and lines of retreat. However like most forces of Chaos they also make heavy
use of overwhelming by mass, sending hordes of expendable slaves or hobgoblins in while using their
own elite troops to expend incredible firepower from range.
Mobility: 4 Slavelord, 7 Ironskin

Max Range: Spell/Melee
Preferred Range: Melee/Ranged
Ghark Ironskin was once beaten on the head as a child

by a father disappointed in his son for eating too
slowly. A nail got lodged in his brain where it would
rust throughout his lifetime. The longest serving of his
Irongut bodyguard claim that this may be the reason
for Ghark's obsession for metal, a passion that has
spread throughout his tribe. It is a mark of status for
an Ironskin Ogre to cover himself with iron rather than
mere trinkets such as gold. After all, gold is soft and beautiful; a woman's metal, whereas iron is tough,
strong and ugly, like a Bull. The Ironskin tribe believes that where an Ogre can gain much in trade from
gold, a stout iron club can cut out all that confusing haggling and get straight to the good stuff.
This obsession with metal led the Ironskin tribe to form an alliance with the Chaos Dwarfs, where the
Ogres would give the Dwarfs a copious number of slaves in return for their refined metal. At other
times the Ironskins would fight alongside the Chaos Dwarfs and, at one point, they traveled all the way
to Brettonia to serve them. The Ironskins wiped out much of the Brettoni army however the favorite
rhinox of Ghark was slain.
Enter the Chaos Dwarfs. They replaced their ally's Rhinox with a mechanical monstrosity of hissing
pistons and rune-etched chains, a daemon-fueled engine of destruction that obeys Ghark's every
command (though he still bashes it over the head now and again, for old time's sake). None can doubt
that Ghark Ironskin is amongst the mightiest of Tyrants, riding his unstoppable steed at the head of an
iron-clad army of Bulls and Rhinox riders, the ground shaking at their tread.
Now, among the Ironskins there are many slavers but one that stands out. Known to the Chaos Dwarfs
as Ghrask Dragh, literally corpse-slaver, Braugh Slavelord is a legend even amongst his own merciless
peers. Ogre slavers are a common enough sight in far corners of the world, but only one among them
can claim to enslave his prey in death as well as life. With magical soul-binding chains not even in death
can one escape this slavelord, and through the chains Braugh can command these slaves to fight on his
behalf.
Ghark Ironskin and Braugh Slavelord were among those ogres who fought against Grimgor on behalf of
the Chaos Dwarfs. The Ironskin Tribe made their stand at the Sentinels, in an attempt to break the
invaders' momentum. Ghark was subsequently cut down by Grimgor Ironhide in single combat, and
Braugh was humbled by the combined efforts of Wurrzag and Golgfag, who strangled Braugh with his
own sorcerous chains.
Offensive: Ghark is armed with a giant iron club and on top of a giant iron rhinox. His rhinox can snort
scalding steam at enemies in front of him. Meanwhile Braugh is armed with a mean axe and his soul
binder chains, which actively seek and try to enslave enemies in battle.
Defensive: Ghark has the ironskin armor, a rough patchwork of iron taken from hundreds of foes over
the years and upgraded with protective runes. Braugh meanwhile has bound slaves he can use as meat
shields while also having a gutplate magically blessed to ensure speed to those around him.
Mobility: 4
Max Range: Melee
Preferred Range: Behind you!
Hobgoblins are backstabbing, double-dealing
and ruthlessly treasonous creatures. Only the
Hobgoblins most efficient in the arts of treachery rise up through the mobs of such despicable
Goblinoids and then only the most sneaky or lucky can remain in charge for any significant length of
time. Fortunately for Gorduz Backstabber, he shares all of the above talents along with an exceptional
streak of extremely good luck. Hence, Gorduz is the longest living and greatest Hobgoblin Chieftain of all
time, or so he claims!
All fame is fleeting and all glory ultimately fades away. The renown of Hobgoblin chieftains tends to fade
more quickly than most, usually with the help of a dagger, poison or nasty accident. Gorduz
Backstabber has outlived most of the other tribal leaders thanks to a naturally distrustful disposition and
lashings of low cunning. He has also been lucky as the hardened scar tissue that crisscrosses his massive
bony shoulder hump testifies.
Gorduz is a traitorous as all his kin, and thinks nothing of betraying his fellow Hobgoblins to his masters
in exchange for their favoritism hence his epitaph. Unlike in almost any other species, this does not
lead to him being despised, but in fact admired and respected by other Hobgoblins. In a race that has
evolved a bony hump on their shoulders due to their predilection for clandestine assassinations, Gorduz
stands as a paragon of those dubious Hobgoblin values.
In the End Times Gorduz Backstabber turned on his masters at the Battle of Hashut's Maw, when he and
his sneaky gits opened the great eastern gate and allowed their eastern cousins into Zharr Naggrund.
Alongside Ghazak Khan, Gorduz led the hobgoblins of the temple-city in attacking their former masters.
Gorduz paid for his treachery, however, as Zhatan the Black crushed the life out of him on the steps of
the temple of Hashut.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Axe and plenty of knives.
Defensive: Light leather armor, shield. His greatest defense is his uncanny instincts that has allowed him
to survive countless battles and backstabbing, as well as a back-plate of course!
He may ride a great wolf into battle. Gorduz is going to be closest thing that the Hobgoblins have to a
central leader, and they will presumably look up to him for whatever leadership their culture would
provide.
Mobility: 4
Max Range: Melee

Rykarth is exceptionally malevolent creature with a wicked righteousness and patriotism for the security
of the Hashut Empire. As captain of the Immortals, he oversees all internal investigations and when
misconduct is found he is swift at dealing heinous punishment, unscrupulous torture and ultimately
violent death. When the Slave Lord Krazhark returned to the Plain of Zharr with only a few hundred
prisoners in tow, it was Rykarth that accused him of incompetence and had the Slave Lord thrown into
the roaring fires of the Furnace of Hashut. When the atrocious Daemonsmith Bharrzok accidentally
summoned the Daemon Horde of Skulltaker into the weapons foundry of Razark, it was Rykarth that had
Bharrzok stripped naked, painted red and trampled to death to the Great Taurus, Turax. And when High
Priest Gharzoth plotted to eliminate his rivals on the Council of Hashut, it was Rykarth that exposed the
priests treachery and had him eaten alive by a mob of famished Orc thralls.
Known for his Toughness, Rykarth is said to be among the most courageous of his kind. In a race of
stouthearted and disciplined warriors, Rykarth is viewed as a paragon of Chaos Dwarfen toughness,
resolve, and cunning. He has faced many a canny and powerful foe and always triumphed. Rykarth
himself was present in the forges of Zharr Naggrund when Archaon brokered his deal for the dreaded
Hellcannons. It is said that Rykarth was able to meet the withering gaze of the Lord of the End Times
without looking away. A few moments later, Archaon agreed to the exorbitant price demanded by the
forge lords.
In the End Times Rykarth the Unbreakable led the Chaos Dwarf forces at the Great Bastion. It was he
who swept an entire section of the vast wall clean of defenders, and he later hunted down the last of
the war-monks who guarded the inner chambers of the Bastion. Rykarth was slain in battle with
Grimgor Ironhide, after a duel which lasted hours. As the sun set over the burning ruin of the Bastion,
Grimgor hung Rykarth's broken form from the parapets with the very chains the Chaos Dwarf had used
to bind his ogre slaves.
Loadout:
Offensive: Great, giant rune ax
Defensive: Armor of Gazrakh: An exceptionally powerful and durable armor that is near impossible to
crack by conventional means.
Rykarth is known for being exceptionally inspirational to the Chaos Dwarfs, a paragon of virtues. They
fight all the harder in his presence.
Mobility: 3(Cinderbreath: 7)
Preferred Range:Ranged
For more than a thousand years, the dark,
burning spire of the Black Fortress has stood
sentinel over the crossing place of the River Ruin
at the southern edge of the Mountains of Mourn and guarded the border of the Chaos Dwarf Empire of
ash and suffering. It is a nightmarish place of soot, blackened iron and jagged rock, and burning magma
runs through it like lifeblood. For centuries the master of this dark demesne and the warriors and slaves
that inhabit it has been Drazhoath the Ashen, a twisted, power-hungry-creature and potent sorcerer.
Drazhoath was first sent to the Black Fortress in effective exile after losing favor in the brutal politics of
Zharr- Naggrund as a minor hell smith but has since risen to become its lord through his innate cunning
and bitter, ruthless ambition. In battle Drazhoath is both a mighty sorcerer and an able warrior who
leads his war hosts from the fore mounted upon the Great Taurus, Cinderbreath, bringing fire and ruin
down upon the enemy. Drazhoath's power has grown over the decades, and there are few sorcerers
now in the service of Hashut who can match him in arcane might or knowledge in the creation of war
machines and daemon-binding. He also has undisputed mastery of the Legion of Azgorth a potent
army of Chaos Dwarfs and Hobgoblin slave soldiers based at the Black Fortress whose duty it is to raid
across the river and patrol the savage wastes of the southern Dark Lands to maintain the Chaos Dwarfs'
tentative dominion over the deadly, monster-plagued expanse.
But for all his power and the forces at his command, Drazhoath is all too keenly aware that he has
reached an impasse and his black-hearted ambition can take-him no further, for the Black Fortress is
many leagues away from the center of the Chaos Dwarf empire at Zharr-Naggrund and is ill-regarded.
The voice of this lord of exiles carries little weight with the great conclave of Hashut's priesthood, and in
particular none with Astragoth Ironhand, the oldest and most powerful living Sorcerer of ZharrNaggrund, and the master who sent Drazhoath into internal exile long ago. Astragoth is ancient beyond
measure though, and at last his powers have begun wane. He is kept mobile only by sorcerous
mechanisms of his own dark design, and so Drazhoath's dreams of a triumphant return to ZhairNaggrund are slowly kindled in his spiteful breast. Drazhoath needs above all a great victory to seal his
prominence for when Astragoth finally falls, and a great flow of fresh captives and plunder into the
coffers of the Chaos Dwarf empire would go far to expand his influence beyond his own blighted
domain.
This however is not proving to be such an easy ambition for Drazhoath to achieve, thanks to the
enemies which continually beset the Black Fortress (which are after all its reason for existing) and he has
been left wanting. When dark rumors began to reach the Lord of the Black Fortress of a monstrous
horde rising in the cast and era before it, Drazhoath consulted the flames and embers or sacrificial altars
for what they portended. He saw both dire peril and opportunity in the coming of Tamurkhan with the
malefic intent that so characterizes his cold mind-he he drew his plans accordingly.
During the campaign Drazhoath was initially so stubborn that, even knowing that the Chaos force
outnumbered his own by many orders of magnitude he refused to bow to Tamurkhans wishes and
fought. He was defeated after an awesome fight, but still managed to save the Chaos Dwarf core of his
army (sacrificing many, many Hobgoblins to do so). He then skillfully negotiated the right to many
slaves, materials, and the prestige of defeating the machines of the men of the West (Steam tanks) as
well as the Chaos force first agreeing to destroy nearby enemies for Drazoath, in exchange for leading
1/3 of his force to join Tamurkhans.
Throughout the campaign Drazhoath fought skillfully, being tactically deployed mostly to break up
sieges. Despite a powerful Night Goblin ambush the Chaos Dwarf force, through Drazhoaths careful
leadership, took far fewer causalities than any other sub-force and even managed to save Sayl the
Faithless (much to his later regret). In the campaign against the Empire, he focused on destroying their
vaunted walls, bombarding/destroying their cannons at superior range, and ultimately dealing with
their new Landships. However he retreated after Sayl betrayed the force through inaction. That said
Drazoath managed to preserve most of his force and thus lost relatively little on the campaign, leaving
Tamurkhans force to ruin in order to do so. Not that he cared of course.
In the End Times Drazoath and his legion were among the first Chaos Dwarfs to feel Grimgor's fury, as
the Waaagh crossed the mountains. While the Ashen One defended the Black Fortress fiercely, it was all
for naught as Grimgor unleashed the Wind of Beasts and tore down the citadel, burying its defenders
amid the rubble. Drazoath was hurled from his mount as Grimgor split Cinderbreath's skull, and the
sorcerer-prophet was soon overwhelmed by the green tide.
===LOADOUT===
Offensive: Drazhoath carries The Graven Sepctre, a badge of rank that has been held by the commander
of the Black Fortress since the site was founded. This weapon allows it to ignore or work around most
types of armor. He also then carries Daemonspite Crucible, which allows him to capture souls of wizards
and use it to empower his magic.
Finally he rides the Great Taurus Cinderbreath.
Defensive: Hellshard Amulet: Gives the wielder a bit of magical shielding, and makes it so any close
combat attack that gets through does some damage on the one who caused it as the damage is
reflected back.
Drazhoath is an experienced, accomplished commander, and is a up-and-coming rival to Atragoth.
Should the old Chaos Dwarf leader die, through whatever means, the schemer Drazhoath may well one
day achieve his long-desired position of Chaos Dwarf society. In campaign Drahzoath is known for being
rather cautious of his own men, preserving them as well as he can, while expending large amounts of
meat (Hobgoblins, other Chaos followers).
*This page can be considered representative of the Chaos Dwarves.

Adaptive Creativity: 66/100
Tactics:70/100: The Chaos Dwarves, and Drazhoath in particular, are usually well-suited by their order
and stratagems for victory. Even if they lose their core almost always manages to get away, courtesy of
expending hordes of hobgoblins and slaves.
Strategy: 68/100 : The Chaos Dwarf overall strategy is carried out over centuries rather than a mere
campaign, with the Chaos Dwarves slowly expanding through trade, guile and sheer calculated brutality.
Usually, the Chaos Dwarves are most prepared for a defeat as well, keeping backup garrisons and an
open route to fall back if need be. Thus in Tamurkhans campaign while most of the titular warlords
force was decimated, the Chaos Dwarves managed to retreat in good order.
Intuition: 62/100:
Psychological Warfare: 59/100:
Audacity: 72/100: Chaos Dwarves normally have no problems wasting slaves, hobgoblins/allies and
underlings- in that order. However they do desire to preserve their own force above all others, in order
to continue to guarantee their personal power and protection, and thus will retreat or proceed
cautiously in battles where they might lose large chunks of their force.
Experience: 81/100: At least several centuries in the zone that contains the most battles of any part of
the Chaos Dwarf empire.
Discipline: 82 (55)/100: Not only do Chaos Dwarves show great cool in regards to losing causalities, they
are also very cautious of falling into traps or overextending themselves. The Chaos Dwarves themselves
fight in near perfect discipline (Hobgoblins significantly less, which lowers the average). Only lowered
down as Drazhoath temporarily lost his discipline in shock when he saw the Marianburg landships.
Inspiration: 60/100
Corruption: 92/100: Chaos Dwarves wish to enslave and dominate everything. They are utterly
sociopathic in their outlook.
Mobility: 3
Max & Effective Range: Melee & Ranged
Preferred Range: Melee & Ranged
Under the dark tower of Zharr Naggrund a million evil souls labor to the glory of Hashut Father of
Darkness. From a thousand burning forges come weapons of burnished iron and corslets of ruddy bronze.
It is the greatest city in the world and it is ruled by the most black-hearted lords of all, the Chaos Dwarf
Sorcerers.
Acts of the most cruel and heartless nature are everyday occurrences in the lands of Zharduk. Thousands
of slaves endure unimaginable agonies in the pits of Zharr, mining out the poisonous wealth amidst
choking fumes and impenetrable darkness. In the workshops of Zharr-Naggrund untold slaves are
worked to death in their chains so that their masters can enjoy a lifetime of ease. The Hobgoblin
overseers in the Vale of Woe beat their pitiful charges so that their flesh hangs from their backs like
bloodied rags. Even amongst such wanton cruelty there is one whose deeds of brutality are remarkable.
Zhatan serves the Chaos Dwarf Sorcerer Ghorth the Cruel, most potent of all living Chaos Dwarf
Sorcerers. It is said that when Ghorth presides over the sacrifices of Hashut the only sound louder than
the screams of his victims is the gloating laughter of Zhatan, his general. Zhatan is kept busy by his
master's insatiable demand for fresh slaves. The Chaos Dwarf has led many successful slaving
expeditions to the west, crushing every Orc army that has dared to stand up to him. All the Goblin tribes
between the Plains of Zharduk and Mount Grimfang have bowed before his armies, sending thousands
of their kind in tribute to the Lords of Zharr Naggrund. The workshops and mines of Ghorth can scarce
keep pace with Zhatan's demand for weaponry. Every expedition he undertakes brings further slaves
whose labors fuel fresh conquests.
In the End Times it was Zhatan that played a major role in the Cathay campaign and in the Badlands. It
was he who, when Ghorth made his coup, seized military control of Zharr Naggarund. In the brutal
battle against Grimgors army Zhatan struck down dozens of champions of the Beast Waaagh personally
before dueling Bragg the Gutsman, who gutted him and left his dying corpse for goblins to torture.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Generally he carries a Warhammer for combat, though he can take magical weapons. He
serves in combination with Ghorth the Cruel, an extremely powerful wizard of the Lore of Hashut (Level
4)
Defensive: Blackshard armor and any magical items he chooses.
May ride a Lamassu or Great Taurus. This commander is also infamous for his cruelty and is said to have
a manic hatred of all things, obsessively waging war in part due to this contempt.
Mobility: 1
Max & Effective Range:Spell
Role : Inspirational Commander
"I stand here, atop the Ziggurat of Zharr-Naggrund, the Place of Fire and Desolation. From where I
stand, I can gaze across the plains of Zharrduk, and what I see is pleasing to my eyes.
It is forever Dark under the sun here in the heart of the world. The smell of sulphur and of burning oil fills
the air. The cracking of whips and the wailing of slaves drowns out the clatter of machinery.
This is the future. One day Hashut, the Father of Darkness, shall rise from his slumber, and trample the
world beneath his brazen hooves. The dead shall outnumber the living, and those that remain shall be
dragged in chains to the pits of Zharr to toil for the greater glory of Hashut.
And all will be blessed Darkness."
-From the prophesies of Astragoth, the High Priest of Hashut-
Astragoth is the oldest living Chaos Dwarf Sorcerer. When he was at the height of his powers he was the
most potent sorcerer to walk the Plain of Zharr in a thousand years. Now his powers have begun to
wane, his body is slowly succumbing to petrifaction. A decade ago he constructed a mechanical device
by which he is transported from place to place. His legs have long ceased to work and even his hands
have now turned to stone. To an extent these have been replaced by the machinery grafted to his body.
This engine was constructed by his slaves to plans created by Astragoth himself, and combines the
undoubted skills of the Chaos Dwarf race with twisted dark science.
In the End Times Astragoth was betrayed by his former apprentice Ghorth the Cruel, in order to usurp
his position, as the war against Grimgor proceeded. Astragoth's engine-suit was sabotaged, and the
high priest left a living statue, unable to act or speak as Ghorth took his place. During the destruction
of the temple of Hashut, Astragoth's stony form was shattered by parties unknown.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Astragoth is a master of the Lore of Hashut, and in addition he can carry a sword or axe. His
machine significantly boosts his power and ability, allowing him to sometimes kill in single blows.
Defensive: Blackshard armor and any magical items he chooses.
Some of these commanders are unaligned by choice, either honoring the gods equally or being
understandably reluctant to place their fate in such fickle hands. Others are corrupted champions of
Order, each having now irrevocably thrown in their lot with chaos. Some are fouler still.
Mobility: 4
Role : Champion
A mighty champion of the north, when
Beorg of the Urslo clan killed two
champions of the Wolf clan in single
combat he was rewarded by the gods.
As Beorg threw himself upon his enemies his back arched and split, his ribs cracked and turned in upon
his body, his face was consumed from within by a snarling black muzzle. The gift of the were bear was
upon him... the gift of the gods to the people of Norsca he was Bearstruck.
Like all savages of the northlands, Beorg despises the weakness of lesser men! He cares nothing for the
so-called civilized lands that lie to the south. When the Chaos armies of Warlord Archaon marched upon
the lands of the Empire Beorg gladly joined them. His warriors had grown tired of easy conquests
amongst the tribes of the north! At the Battle of the Monoliths, Beorg led his warriors against the army
of Arch-Lector Mannfeld of Nuln. The soldiers of the Empire were horrified to find themselves
confronted by men in half- bear shape, snarling and tearing like the savages they were! Amongst them
all was the towering shape of Beorg casting aside his foes with great swipes of his claws, knocking heads
from shoulders and tearing arms from their sockets.
For a time Beorg stuck it out in the Border Lands, becoming a mercenary to hire with the rest of his
tribe.
In the End Times the Bearmen took part in the destruction of the empire, fighting with distinction on
mnay battlefields. However he died in one of the final skirmishes of the Battle of Middenheim along
with the rest of his tribe.
===LOADOUT===
Offensive: Tooth and Claw for the whole regiment. Beorg also has a magical Bear Standard which
drives all nearby units to beserker like fury.
Defensive: Light Armor. Beorg also wears a magical talisman that provides some defense against
horrifying wounds.
===ADDITIONAL FACTORS==
Beorg is accompanied by 1-2000 of his bear tribe, all of which are Werebears to varying degrees.
Mobility: 4
Max & Effective Range: Hurled Insults (Earshot)
Role : Squad commander/anti-champion
Wulfrik the Wanderer is a warrior born, an individual who even from his
marauder days was killing champions and collecting their skulls. One day
he aided a scheming king in killing another within a large battle,
slaughtering the enemy king personally. At the victory banquet held in his honor he drank so much
mead that even the travelling ogres were impressed. His boasts became ever more grandiose, from
destroying half the enemy army by himself to boxing in the ears of the emperors of Nippon, Cathay and
the Empire. Finally he said that no possible champion, either mortal or immortal, could ever best him
in a duel. Unfortunately for him the gods were listening.
Through a dark emissary these gods, though angered by the boast, gave Wulfrik the chance to prove his
claim. He would travel the world seeking out the rarest and most ablest champions, slaying them and
offering them to the gods. Grudgingly, knowing his soul was damned if he didn't, Wulfrik carried out this
task. From Khemeri to Norsica there were countless champions he slew, yet all the while he dreamed of
freedom. He longed to both be a king and to marry the love of his live, Hjoldis.
One day a mysterious shaman arrived offering said freedom in exchange for potent magical artifacts.
Wulfrik, desperate for a bid of freedom, agreed. He fought through the pits of the Chaos Dwarves for
the first artifact, plowing through great numbers of Fire Dwarves on the way, even defeating their
tyrant in personal combat. Then he went to Ulthuan to seek a second artifact, killing a group of Elven
witches, who turned out to be wives of the Elven leaders, in the process. It was then that this shaman
revealed himself to be a traitor (also secretly an Imperial Wizard) and, using illusions, stranded Wulfrik
and his group in the Elven lands. As a result everyone but Wulfrik and one rival nearly died, with Wulfrik
swearing revenge .
Wulfrik traveled back home where he found the love of his life reluctantly married off to another man at
her fathers behest. Beyond furious, he nevertheless secured a massive raiding force against the Imperial
Wizards town. In one battle he personally ended a baron, fought through hordes of troops, barely
destroyed the wizards automaton and ended the wizard himself in a grueling fashion. His revenge
then expanded further to include Hjoldiss father, her would-be suitor, and even Hjoldis herself. With no
one left to kill he then fully dedicated himself to becoming a true champion of the gods.
In the End Times Wulfrik traveled around the world killing champions. In Ind he hunted down many of
the foremost champions of the realms ten thousand gods. In Naggarond it was he who killed Rakarth
the Beastlord in a fantastic ship vs. dragon aerial duel. However in Middenheim he was finally slain by
Valtern.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Hand weapons, with a heavy potential for taking those magical. Wulfrik is an extremely
capable combatant, with superhuman agility, experience and even strength. He has taken down enemy
Chaos Champions, monsters and small legions of lesser troops before by himself. That said he is not
unbeatable and was nearly outmatched by a stone Tomb King statue the wizard at the end used against
him, only winning through conveniently finding acid at the right time. In addition he can be worn down
from attrition of wounds taken in battle and has expressed reluctance to engage magic users by himself.
However as a slayer of champions there is perhaps none his equal save Skulltaker.
His most noted ability however is the so-called Gift of Tongues. The gift does not merely allow Wulfrik
to speak and understand any language, but allows his words to strike into a creature's very being and
compel them to fight him. Combined with the well-known Norscan aptitude for biting, albeit unsubtle,
insults, Wulfrik is able to goad his enemies into a reckless fury where they are more likely to make fatal
mistakes for him exploit, thus ensuring his victory in battle all the more. He can do this to entire units,
such as the time he made the heavily disciplined Immortals unit of the Chaos Dwarves break ranks and
run at him out of fury.
Men of the Empire! Wulfrik called out, his voice like the roar of a lion. I would have words with your
leader! He waved his sword through the air, Torgalds head bouncing upon its tether. Fetch him that I
may speak with him!
I am Baron Udo Kruger! a sharp voice rose from behind the fortified face of the gatehouse. Weisberg
is under my protection and I have no words to waste with heretic scum!
Wulfrik laughed at the barons rebuke. Protect your town then! I only came here to see your wife and
my children!
There was an inarticulate screech of outrage from within the gatehouse. Wulfrik retreated back to the
safety of the shield wall as dozens of arrows came shooting down at him. A few of the northmen cried
out as handguns were discharged and shot punched through their shields.
Let me in, Kruger! Wulfrik yelled. Its not right to keep the baroness waiting!
Wulfrik smiled as he heard the baron shrieking in fury, calling for armor, demanding his knights saddle
their warhorses. From his tone, it seemed he wouldnt be swayed by his advisors or his officers. He was
determined to answer the challenge Wulfrik had hurled upon him, the insult the Gift of Tongues had torn
from Krugers mind and placed on the heros lips." Wulfrik
Defensive: Chaos Armor. Wulfriks durability is enough that he
can withstand dozens of arrow points and minor wounds sticking
out of him
Wulfrik is a champion who specializes in taking out other
champions, a head-hunter . He is aided in this by Seafang, his
magical flying ship that can traverse massive distances via sailing
the Winds of Magic themselves. Seafang can carry about 200 men
though this number is always reduced slightly by the time they
reach the enemy, courtesy of daemons luring his crew off the ship
or else Wulfrik executing some of his men for behaving like
cowards. It is thanks to this ship that he can suddenly appear 100s
of miles away from his last reported location.
Mobility: 4
Role : Combatant
Let Mordrek be a warning to all those who would seek fame

and life eternal from the daemon gods of Chaos, for he has both
of these things and yet he is damned. For he must walk all the
lands of the world at the whim of the Chaos Gods, always fighting, always serving, never dying, yet never
ascending to the realm of Chaos as daemon or departed spirit. He has been slain countless times
throughout the centuries of recorded imperial history, and yet each time it is said that Mordrek has been
resurrected to serve his masters anew. Yes, Mordrek has endured many deaths and lived for many, many
lifetimes of mortal men, yet his unnatural life is no blessing.
For Mordrek must slay in the name of his infernal masters, he is a pawn in their great schemes that they
never tire of using. Beneath his all-encompassing and faceless armor, Mordrek's physical form changes
constantly, ravaged by the terrible mutations caused by the power of his curse.
The legends say that Mordrek hopes one day to be freed of this curse of non-permanence and ascend to
the peaceful rest of death. This is a dream of one in denial, for the gods shall never tire of their games.
Surely he must envy even those victims that are transformed into grotesque spawn of Chaos by the touch
of his sword, for they gain the oblivion he craves, but cannot have.
Such is the curse of Mordrek the Damned.
In the End Times he would finally meet his doom assaulting the city of Middenheim. Though killed
numerous times in the siege it wasnt until the duel with Valtern, where the Herald wielded the power
of Sigmar, that Modrek was finally put down.
Crossbows, Canto said and raised his shield as crossbow bolts punched into the front rank of warriors
moving up the viaduct. Dozens of men and mutants fell. One, however, remained on his feet. Crossbow
bolts jutted from his all-encompassing and faceless armour, but still he staggered on, dragging his sword
behind him. As he neared the gatehouse, he seemed to gain strength, and he swung his sword up to
clasp it with both hands. With a hoarse cry, he began to run towards the enemy. That one is looking to
catch the eyes of the gods, Canto muttered as the lone warrior charged towards the smoky ruins of the
gatehouse.
He already has, Unsworn, Horvath grunted, plucking a bolt out of his arm. Dont you recognize him?
He snapped the bolt in two. Thats Count Mordrek.
The Damned One? Canto murmured. No wonder he seems in such a hurry. Mordrek the Damned was a
living warning to all those who vied for the favor of the Dark Gods. He walked at the whim of the gods,
never knowing rest, oblivion or damnation. Mordrek, men whispered, had died a thousand times, but
was always brought back to fight again. He was the plaything of the gods: beneath his ornate armour,
his form was said to change constantly, as if he were the raw stuff of Chaos made flesh.
()
Middenheims walls came alive with blossoms of fire. Bolts, bullets, cannonballs and mortar shells fell
among the throng. Canto saw a bouncing cannonball carom off Count Mordrek, knocking the Damned
One from his feet. A moment later Mordrek was shoving himself upright, the buckled plates of his
armour reshaping themselves even as he staggered back into motion. He is truly blessed, Horvath said.
()
Mordreks blade screeched as it skidded across Valtens pauldron, drawing smoke from the metal. Valten
turned into the blow and his hammer smashed into Mordreks belly, catapulting him off his feet.
Mordrek hit the ground and rolled. Valten stalked forwards as Mordrek levered himself up, one arm
wrapped around his stomach. Mordrek, still on one knee, extended his sword towards Valten, holding
him at bay.
Pain, Mordrek rumbled. I have felt so much pain. Pain will not kill me, Herald. My will is strong, and I
will not be denied. He lunged to his feet, sword whirling over his head. Valten ducked aside as the blade
snarled down, cleaving a cobblestone in two. Mordrek spun, and his sword lashed out again. It
connected with a hastily interposed hammer. Even so, the force of the blow nearly knocked Valten from
his feet. Fight, damn you, Mordrek roared. Fight me, Herald. I am here to kill you to spare the ThreeEyed King your wrath, and see that the desires of the gods are not thwarted. But I do not care about
Archaon, or the petty wants of fate. What shall be or would have been is not my concern. Fight me. Kill
me!
Valten did not reply. He swatted aside Mordreks next blow and sent Ghal Maraz shooting forwards
through his grip, so that it crunched into the visor of Mordreks helmet. Mordrek staggered back. The
terrible hammer licked out and smashed down on Mordreks sword arm. His blade fell from nerveless
fingers and clattered to the ground, where it screeched and wailed like a wounded animal. Valten
stamped down on it and kicked it aside before Mordrek could retrieve it.
The hammer snapped out, and Canto winced as one of Mordreks knees went. Mordrek sank down with a
groan, and the world seemed to shudder slightly, as if it were out of focus. The hammer dropped down,
crushing a shoulder, then a clawing hand. Canto risked a look up at the howling sky, and saw no leering
faces. The gods had turned away from this battle now. Were they disappointed, he wondered? Part of
him hoped so. Part of him hoped that here and now Mordrek would slip their leash. He turned his
attentions back towards the duel.
Mordrek knelt before the Herald of Sigmar, head bowed, his armour shuddering slightly, as if what it
contained were seeking escape. Mordrek made no move to stand. He looked up as Valtens shadow fell
over him.
I never had a chance, Count Mordrek said. He sounded happy.
No, Valten said.
Mordrek began to laugh. The eerie sound slithered through the air, and even the most slaughter-drunk
warrior fell silent at its approach. Mordrek bowed his head again. The hammer rose. When it fell, the
mountain shuddered. The sky twisted, and the wind howled. An empty suit of armour rattled to the
ground. Thus passed Count Mordrek the Damned, wanderer of the Wastes and exile of the Forbidden
City.
Lord of the End Times
===LOADOUT===
Offensive: Sword of Change: This sword has the ability to warp those it hits into Chaos Spawn, which
then attacks nearby Chaos Foes. Only the tough and the durable can resist the change- at least initially.
Defensive: Chaos Rune shield: The Chaos Runeshield negates magical weapons used directly against
him, making them factor in as normal un-magical.
Mordreks stats are random, and depending on the whims of the gods might arrive stronger or weaker
than normal to a battle. These characteristics then fluctuate randomly in battle. He is capable of
resurrecting himself after battle regardless of win or loss, and barring extreme magical means
probably cannot be permanently killed.
Mobility: 4
Role : Tactical Commander/Scourge of the Undead
In the tales of the Norse and the Kurgan, there is a legend that
concerns one of the greatest feats of arms ever seen in the
northlands. It tells of the great warrior Harald Hammerstorm,
known fondly to his followers as Harry the Hammer. Harald
was famed for killing the Daemon Mathrag Brainmangler during the Battle of Khorsvold, having smashed
the Daemon Princes head from his body with a single blow of his hammer. On a cold midwinter day, as
he led his Warband across the Chaos Wastes, Harry came across the outcrop of an old ruin jutting from
beneath the snows. Upon investigation, he located an ancient gateway leading into a dark tunnel.
Thinking that there might be treasure within, Harald and his warriors descended into the crumbling
Vaults.
Their intrusion awoke something long dead in the darkness beneath the snow. Ancient warriors sworn
to protect the secrets of the tomb-city were roused from their eternal slumber; with rusted blades, bony
fingers and eyes aglow with witchfires, they fell upon the northmen. Stumbling out of the depths, Harald
and his men were horrified to see the Skeletons pursuing them still. The tumbledown ruins now glowed
with power and the melting snow revealed forbidding stones burning with magical energy. The Chaos
Warband found themselves in the middle of a great settlement from the dawn of time. Knowing that he
had to fight his way free, Harald turned and faced the advancing legion.
The favor of the gods fueled Harry as he fought; his hammer rose and fell with monotonous destruction,
smashing skulls and ribcages to powder. Haralds followers pressed in behind their leader and Harry
formed the point of a wedge driving through the skeletal warriors. After a day and a night of fighting,
as dawn rose the next day, the Undead were all but destroyed, piles of bones a story high left in the
wake of the Chaos Warriors.
Since that day, Harald has held a special loathing for the Undead. So efficient and determined is Harry
at slaying the Undead that even their mindless spirits regard him with horror he is an elemental force
who hurls back the Undead with his steely will. The dead do not rest easy in the Chaos wastes, and
Harald has no shortage of foes upon which to vent his anger.
In the End Times Harald Hammerstorm- already known as difficult to control by the Chaos leadershipwandered the world killing undead. He met his match in a duel with the vampire Vlad von Carstein.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Harrys Hammer: Harrys hammer is blessed by the gods to banish the souls of those he
strikes, and is powerful enough to send back the raised spirits of the Undead.
Defensive: Armor of Damnation: This ornate suit of Chaos armor shimmers with the eldritch energies of
the Chaos Wastes, distorting the wearer's outline and clouding its foes' minds. He also carries a bane
shield that can reflect some attacks right back at the enemy.
Harry the Hammer is going to be mainly useful and active against the Undead and limited against
everyone else.
Mobility: 7
Max Range: 300 meters
Role : Combatant, Tactical Commander
I feel the heartbeat of your world even as I slumber! bellowed Kholek, his voice louder even than
the thunder. I feel the scum of your kind spreading! I hear their cities fall and their graveyards spill over!
And I have heard the same happen to the elves of Ulthuan, and the sorcerer-lords of Nehekhara; the
dwarfish holds and the god kings of the lizardfolk. All grow, all wane, and all die. And there has not yet
been an empire that is anything more to Kholek than the scrabbling of vermin underfoot!
--The Second Sun
Kholek Suneater is one of the oldest dragon ogres in existence, being the son of the one who originally
made the deal. His role in that alleged deal that damned their entire race was apparently so terrible that
it was rumored that the sun hid its face from him and never looked back. Regardless of the truth to the
detail its known that Kholeks appearance is always heralded by thunderstorms.
Kholek doesnt waken but once every eight generations, but when he does his return is always heralded
by some calamity. The last time he awoke, in the times of Magnus, he single-handily smashed down
the gates of Praag allowing for Chaos to massacre the city. Then he went about the town meticulously
destroying every temple he could find before retreating.
Now he marches to war once more In his shadows march the various mountain tribes that worship the
great god-king, as well as hordes of other Dragon Ogres. It is his belief, however false, that the endtimes will usher in a second chance for his race, one that will see the Dragon Ogres rule the world once
more.
In the End Times Kholek Suneater was killed by Settra, as a test to prove his worth to Archaon--the
dragon ogre was uncontrollable, and thus of no use to Archaon. The battle lasted for four days, and
flattened most of the forest around Middenheim, before Settra managed to remove the Mountain
Lord's head with his khopesh, and drag it to the temple of Ulric and deposit it at Archaon's feet.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Kholek is a powerful, probably 30 feet tall dragon ogre armed with the massive Starcrusher
hammer. Forged in the heart of a mountain, this hammer is adept at felling monstrous foes or
scattering numerous lesser foes with one blow. In fact in the Great War of Chaos he smashed apart a
steel city gate with the weapon. He can command lightning bolts to strike singular targets. Finally he is
big enough to just stomp foes underneath, powerful enough to rip ogre sized beasts in two easily, and
large enough to eat enemies. That said, courtesy of all his sleep, Kholek is a bit sluggish in combat and
has horrible reaction time.
Defensive: Kholek is the mightiest dragon ogre who may call upon lightning strikes to heal him. He is
covered in brass armor and scaly skin, and monstrous enough to where one extremely large/powerful
strikes are going to take him down.
Mobility: 8 (Flying, ethereal spirit)

Training: 6 (Amnesia) ; 10 (Memory restored)
Max Range: Dozens of Kilometers
Role: A commander, of sorts
'I am like that girl in many ways. I need to take from others to continue. But she can merely take a
little new blood. Her kind are short-lived. A few thousand years, and they grow brittle. I can renew
myself eternally, taking the stuff of life from those I conquer. You are privileged, boy. I'm going to let
you look at my face.'
He took off his mask. Oswald forced himself to look. The prince screamed at the top of his lungs,
disturbing the dead and the dying of the fortress, and the Great Enchanter laughed.
'Not so pretty, eh? It's just another lump of rotten meat. It is I, Drachenfels, who am eternal. I who am
Constant. Do you recognize your own nose, my prince? The hooked, noble nose of the von
Konigswalds. I took it from your ancestor, the loathsomely honorable Schlichter. It's worn through.
This whole carcass is nearly at its end. You must understand all this, my prince, because you must
understand why I intend to let you kill me.'
Of all the Motrarchs the Nameless may be both the most mysterious and the most powerful. Its name
and its identity are a mystery to it, forgotten thanks to a recent defeat. Out of desperation to be
remembered it has joined Nagash on the sole condition its identity is restored.
Yet, although it has no knowledge of its identity, others (and the reader) do. Known as the Great
Enchanter of the Misty Mountains, the being known as Drachenfels was born 15,000 years ago in the
midst of a great Ice Age. It was the Warhammer equivalent of a Neanderthal and lived its first
incarnation as a primitive nomad in the days before either the Old Ones or Chaos had come to the
planet. However after becoming sick while in old age he was left out in the wilderness to die by his
tribe. He feigned death by exposure, and when one of his tribe came close him somehow (unknown
even to himself) managed to kill the man and absorbed his life energy. Ever since then Drachenfel has
found that when his physical body decays he can regenerate by absorbing the life of another.
Drachenfels has lived now for 15,000 years. His goals seem to be motivated by boredom rather than
anything else . Each time he attacks the outside world, he does so merely out of boredom. He usually
takes plenty of captives back, which he tortures or otherwise "plays with" in abominable ways before
consuming their souls and using their flesh to keep himself spry. Cities, nations and countless lives have
perished to his whims. Since he tends to completely destroy anything he attacks, the only recorded
incidents involving him in history are times that he was beaten or for some reason chose to spare the
conquered. Indeed, so far it seems Sigmar is the only being who has beaten his armies in combat thus
far. It took Drachenfels 1000 years to regenerate from this defeat.
When he came back he continued his dickish shenanigans, sacking cities such as Parravon and then
faking his repentance. He put on an elaborate PR campaign of using the wealth from Parravon to pay
reparations to the victims that had escaped his castle, and plead for forgiveness at the graves of those
whose bodies had been recovered. After the dimwitted public accepted that he'd turned to good he
invited the entire court of the Emperor to a feast at his castle. He served them wine laced with
paralyzing poison, then laid an elaborate feast out in front of them which he ate very slowly to the
sounds of their children as they were tortured to death just below.
Oswald glanced at the central panels of the hanging and slashed out with his sword. The entire dusty
tapestry fell and lay on the floor like a fen-worm's cast-off skin. Menesh touched his torch to it and in
an instant the fire spread along its length. The next tapestry, a group portrait of the certain dreaded
gods, caught too.
'Very clever, stunted lackwit,' spat Veidt. 'Burning us up now, is it? That makes a change from the
traditional dwarfish knife in the small of the back.'
The dwarf pulled his knife and held it up. Veidt had his dart pistol out. There were fires all around
them.
'A traitor, eh? Like dead-and-damned Ueli?'
'I'll give you dead-and-damned, scavenger!'
Menesh stabbed up, but Veidt stepped out of the way. Flames reflected in the bounty hunter's dark
eyes. He took careful aim.
'Enough!' Oswald cried. 'We've not come this far to fall out now.'
'Veidt cries traitor' too much,' Rudi said sourly. 'I trust no one who can be bought as easily.'
The outlaw heaved his sword up and Veidt turned again.
'Ethics from a bandit, that's rich-'
'Better a bandit than a trader of corpses!'
'Your corpse is hardly worth the seventy-five gold crowns the Empire has offered for it.'
The pistol came up. The sword wavered in the air.
'Kill him and be done with it,' said Menesh.
This was like Veidt, and like the hot-tempered Rudi. But Menesh had been quiet until now, dodging
Veidt's taunts with good humor. Something was working on them. Something unnatural. Genevieve
staggered forward as someone landed on her back, pushing her face to the floor.
'Hah! Dead bitch!'
Erzbet's noose was about her neck and drawing in. She had taken her by surprise. Genevieve had to
struggle to brace her hands against the flagstones, to give herself the leverage to heave Erzbet off her.
The wire constricted. The assassin knew her business: beheading would work, all right. Immortality is
so fragile: beheading, the hawthorn, silver, and too much sun
Genevieve got her hand under her, palm flat against the stone and pushed herself up. Erzbet tried to
ride her like an unbroken pony, her knees digging into the ribs. Genevieve corded her neck muscles
and forced breath down her windpipe.
She heard the wire snap and felt Erzbet tumble from her seat. She stood and struck out. The other
woman took the blow heavily and fell. Erzbet rolled on the floor and came up, a knife in her hand. Did
it gleam silver like Ueli's?
'The dead can die, leech woman!'
Genevieve felt the urge to kill. Kill the stinking living slut! Kill all these warmblood bastard vermin! Kill,
kill, KILL!
'Fight it,' shouted Oswald. 'It's an attack, an enchantment!'
She turned to the prince. Whoreson noble! Sister-raping, wealth-besotted scum! Drenched in perfume
to cover the stench of his own ordure!
Oswald held her, shaking her by the shoulders.
Blood! Royal blood! Rich, spiced, hot-on-the-tongue, youthfully-gushing blood!
The vein throbbed in his throat. She took his wrists in her strong hands, feeling their pulses. She heard
his heart beating like a steady drum and saw him as a student of anatomy might a dissected corpse.
Veins and arteries laid through flesh and over bone. The blood called to her.
How long since she had fed? Properly? Drachenfels illusions
A descendent of one of these children let go to spread the news would later hire a bunch of mercenaries
to kill him. This failed, with most members dying cruel and spectacular deaths. Eventually only Oswald,
the descendent, and the Vampire Genvieve remained. Genve was knocked out and the terrified
Oswald was led into a deal with Drachenfels, who had decided he wanted to screw over the entire
Empire. Drachenfels would allow Oswald to kill him, and in return Oswald would become a hero and put
on a play a couple decades later, inviting every elector count to it.
The most important individuals in the Empire attended, as well as the newly crowned Karl Franz and his
son Luitpold II. The production was hindered by many spooky incidents, not the least of which was the
eccentric behavior of the actors. As would be expected, Drachenfels returned to life during the play and
slaughtered a fair number of the audience and cast. Genevieve and the director of the play, Detlef
Sierck, were blessed by Sigmar and dealt a killing blow to Drachenfels . They thought they killed him for
good, however, as it turned out, Drachenfels identy was lost and he was reduced to a bodiless spirit
known as the Nameless. When Nagash made a deal, Drachenfels was desperate enough to accept.
In combat the Nameless specializes in mind controlling large groups of living people. However unlike
other, traditional forms of mind control Drachenfels only seizes the physical aspects of the brainmentally, the victims are fully aware of what is going on only unable to stop it. Given that Drachenfels
still has the same personality as before, he then precedes to do horrible things to them. One day he
might decide he wants his army to march under flesh banners, and thus skins alive dozens to create
enough. The next day he decides he wants bone banners, and thus has his men pull out their own bones
to create one. Other acts of dickery include forcing troops to fight to the death for his amusement and
having them cannibalize themselves because Drachenfels wanted to experience the sensation.
Eventually the Nameless grew tired of Nagash. When the Auric Bastion fell he went around the
remnants of the Empire randomly torturing things, only for the priest hero Luthor Huss to try and stop
him. The power difference between the two was astronomical but to his credit, with the power of
SIgmar, Huss hurt the Nameless more than any had in an age. As punishment the Nameless possessed
him, subsumed his will to the spirits own, and used the priests body as a puppet to carry out his most
torturous acts. Yet within his formless mind, resentment stirred.
The Plaguefather had won the spirit to his cause by the simplest of methods. Like Vlad, the Nameless
resented Nagashs failure to keep his side of the bargain; unlike Vlad, he had been prepared to change
allegiance in order to repay that affront. The Nameless doubted that Nurgle had any intention of
granting the knowledge he sought, but the Plaguefather had at least bestowed sufficient power upon
him to make a formless and pastless existence more tolerable.
Together with Isabella and a huge Nurgle daemon force the spirit assaulted the realm of Nagash. In the
battle of Henns Moor the Nameless seized control of an anywhere between 10,000-15,000 zombies at
once, turning the tide of the battle in a single battle. Mannfred and Harkon, leaders of the Nagash
force, only barely managed to retreat in time.
The Nameless lacked the sweeping breadth of Mannfreds sorcerous knowledge, but in his own field of
obsession there were few who could have matched his will. Ever had the spirit sought control over those
around him, be they living, daemon or undead, and in that he surrendered expertise to no one. The
Nameless reached out from his mortal vessel, his spirit surging and roiling as it sought new hosts. He
could not touch the wights in Mannfreds army. They possessed enough rudimentary awareness of their
own to raise a challenge, however pitiful. The Nameless could have won one such contest without effort,
his own dark will easily crushing the speck of black that was a Wights. To win the hundreds and
thousands of such struggles required would have stretched the Nameless thin. He had no appetite for
that risk, not when there were better options. Zombies had no will of their own, and any contest there
would be fought purely between the Nameless and Mannfred von Carstein.
Unsettled and distracted as he was by Isabellas presence upon the Winds of Magic, Mannfred did not
feel the Nameless intrusion until it was too late: ten thousand dark sparks bursting across his
consciousness as control of the zombie horde was wrenched from him. Mannfred fought back, but the
black cloud of the Nameless will was dense and suffocating, growing stronger with each body he
dominated.
Submit. The ragged whisper echoed across the moor, croaked from ten thousand ragged throats at the
direction of a single terrible mind.
Submit. Not satisfied with stealing Mannfreds minions, the Nameless swept on, extinguishing Harkons
mad will, and seizing control of the pirates forces also.
Submit. Mannfred clutched at his skull as the Nameless, gorged with success, chanced his will against
the vampires. Flies swarmed about Mannfred, drawn to a feast to come.
Submit. Grasping fingers tore at the wights armour. Verdigrised plates were wrenched away from
ancient bones, and then the bones were ripped free in turn. Banners fell as zombies and daemons ground
mercilessly through the undying ranks, the tallymens drone swelling as the count grew higher.
Submit. Vargheists, too lost to beasthood to properly resist the Nameless will, reeled and roared as his
mind pressed against theirs. Disoriented and agonized, the creatures were easy prey for the
Plagueswords that came to claim their undead lives.
Submit. Across the moor, Mannfreds lieutenants struggled to hack their way clear of the turncoat
undead. Most were dragged down by the horde and torn apart, hacking wildly and desperately as
mindless fingers tore open their bellies and throats. However, some succeeded, breaking southwards to
the Eisigfurt road to the deceptive shelter of the Dead and Buried. Luthor Harkon escaped with them, his
pirate finery slicked with daemon blood and pestilent fluid, daemons trudging after him in disinterested
pursuit.
Submit. This time the voice was Isabellas, slender and precise where the others were raucous. The
zombies and plaguebearers parted before her as she strode across a field of shattered bone and mangled
armour, the gorse mutating and writhing with her passing.
Submit. The countess stepped closer, her outstretched fingers reaching for Mannfreds undead flesh.
Thunderous laughter shook the sky as Nurgle looked down upon the mortal world, well-pleased by his
emissarys work.
Summoning his last reserves, Mannfred drove the Nameless from his mind, the effort almost more than
he could bear. As the pressure vanished from his thoughts, Mannfred veered away from Isabellas grasp,
her fingers instead brushing against one of Ashigaroths forelimbs. Withering light blazed once more
from Mannfreds staff. The nearby daemons were snatched to dust and Mannfred, at last, realized that
his arrogance had cost him the battle.- ET Archaon
Seeking to conquer three mortarchs (Harkon, Vlad & Mannfred) and add their power to his own in order
to challenge Nagash, the Nameless followed the retreating vampires to an old abandoned church.
However there, despite killing many vampires, the Nameless had trouble. First Mannfred , noticing that
the Nameless had stretched his control thin in wresting with willpower of the zombies, seized control of
roughly half of the zombies back from the Nameless . Though the Nameless could seize it back without
too much hardship when he focused, this eventually gave Mannfred a reprieve to escape. The Second is
when Vlad tricked the Nameless into expending more energy sizing control over yet more zombies,
stretching himself thin and finally allowing the priest Huss to break free. The Namelesss soul, much of
it concentrated in the priest and with it acting as a center point, was incinerated beyond all recognition.
Offensive: The Nameless is a mass puppeteer capable of controlling truly humungous numbers of his
foes. He can control somewhere around an estimated 15,000 zombies or even hundreds to thousands
of humans. This is based on will; with the more willpower a target possesses the more effort the
Nameless has to expend to smother it beneath its own. As the Nameless is a powerful 10k year old
spirit well versed in magical lore this is easy and his willpower is vast, enough to potentially smother
strong-willed foes like Mannfred von Carstein or Luthor Huss.
However the Nameless experiences different limits by both design and by choice on the possession
technique. He could exhaust himself and spread his spirit thin (making control more difficult) far more
quickly for humans than zombies, as humans have far greater willpower than a basic, instinctual
zombie. Against foes with stronger willpower than humans this would exhaust itself even further.
Furthermore the Nameless is lazy and is mentioned as hating a challenge completely to the point he
always avoids it if there is an easier possession available. For example he avoided possessing more
formidable wrights (which still arent as willful as humans) for zombies before he didnt want to spend
as much energy doing so. The only time he is shown willingly attacking the more powerful will is either
when he gets overconfident with success (Like against Mannfred) or when the enemy wounds him and
thus makes him very angry (against Huss).
Captain Driest staggered to his feet. He made no conscious effort to do so, for his thoughts were still
frozen in terror, but he rose all the same, jerky and uncoordinated. All around him he could see other
men rising and through his haze of panic noted their confused expressions matched his own. He heard
whispers in his mind, the commands of a sonorous voice whose will would not be denied. Unbidden
Driests legs stumbled forward, carrying him back to Auric Bastion. Others came with him, their
movements as clumsy as his own, their actions guided by a creature no longer used to the limitations of
physical form.
Prior to his memory loss he was a master daemonologist (capable of rivaling even Greater Daemons
with his mastery of control), master necromancer, and enchanter. He specialized in driving enemies
insane and getting them to kill each other, and in addition his enchantments lasted after death, ensuring
he could torture his foes for hundreds of years. Any he consumes he can gain knowledge from.
Defense: Is an ethereal spirit of immense power and has defensive spells.
The Nameless looked out upon the moor through Luthor Huss borrowed eyes. The crest of the far hill
was blotted out by rotting bodies and tattered banners, but the Nameless felt no concern. Indeed, it was
gratifying that his enemies still feared him enough to assemble such a force. More puppets to dance to
his tune, if only he could find the strings.
Are you prepared? asked the nearby countess, guttural tones running through her soft voice.
The Nameless could not tell if it was truly she who spoke, or the daemon wedded to her soul. It hardly
mattered for the moment, but he had promised himself that he would unpick their binding, when the
time came. The daemon was of no interest he had bested hundreds of such creatures in the past. But
the countess? She stank of self-hatred and desire, of vengeance and regret. She would make for a
delicious toy.
For a moment, Huss face twisted into a most uncharacteristic leer as the Nameless considered pleasures
to come. He entertained thoughts of teasing apart his companions contradictions, of weaving them into
new and interesting patterns. Her tortured spirit would be his first new familiar, he decided, her torments
the music that would accompany every victory to come.
I asked if you were prepared? The countess voice, more guttural now than soft, brought the Nameless
out of his reverie.
The leer faded from Huss face as the Nameless fought to contain his wrath. Patience, he chided himself.
His current body was able to contain only of portion of his full might. He would need another, stronger
vessel, and soon. Perhaps one of the vampires arrayed against him? The Nameless loathed inhabiting
dead flesh, but he hated subservience even more.
Indeed, countess, the spirit replied. Let us begin.- ET:Archaon

Drachenfels is a bored sadist who believes the Chaos Gods are insufficiently evil for his tastes. He is a
wildcard interested in his own gain, content to torture anything that gets in his path.
Mobility: 7
Max & Effective Range: Several meters
Role : Assassin
Shadowblade, master of assassins, is greatest of the Temple of

Khaine's assassins. At only 150 years of age, the prodigy's
legendary exploits are often the subject of fireside tales. He
famously slaughtered the crew of a High Elf Hawkship one by
one, singlehandedly, over the period of several days. Each was killed in a unique fashion save the
horribly mutilated captain, who was left alive to tell the tale. Earlier he
had previously assassinated his own master after learning all that he
knew.
Once Shadowblade poisoned many of the rivers of Ulthuan, leading to
great daemonic plagues from which no cure could easily be found.
In the End Times Shadowblade was initially mind-controlled by
Morathi, forced to use his skill against Malaketh to prevent the Witch
King from stopping Tyrion from pulling the Widowmaker. Towards the
end of the fight Shadowblade broke free and hastily beat a retreat
before an enraged Witch King, all the while vowing revenge against
his mother. Eventually he saw an opportunity. Using stealth and guile
he convinced Korhil, captain of Tyrions army, to attempt to defect
with the Widowmaker which in turn forced Morathi to come looking for it. Shadowblade marred her
face before letting her go to live in fear.
After Hellebrons defection Shadowblade would join her and launch an assassination attempt on
Maleketh. However the Eternity King had secretly been preparing for the assassins coming since the
moment he ordered Hellebrons cult outlawed, and took preparations for it. He ingested small amounts
of toxins the assassin was known to favor and was watching through the lore of shadows for
shadowblades presence during the whole battle. It was a
brief, bitter duel and Maleketh was wounded several times by
the most skilled Druichi assassin. However the Incarnate of
Shadow prevailed , impaled Shadowblade through the chest
before kicking him down a several story fall.
Offensive: Deadly daggers with many poisons attached to
them. He carries a magical potion of such potency that, upon
drinking it, his strength quadruples (enough to physically
overpower trolls). Also he has a crystal attached to his neck,
the Heart of Woe, which will explode into a thousand pieces
if he is ever slain.
Defensive: Incredible dodging ability and the ability to travel
in disguise freely among Druichi units. Excellent stealth
master.
Mobility: 5
Training: 9
Hellebron was born many millennia ago, in the ancient time before the great elven civil war of the
Sundering. Originally a proud daughter of the Elven city prince in charge of the Athel Tolarien, Hellebron
longed for increased status. To that end she used her fathers influence to set up a meeting with the
woman she idolized, Morathi. The meeting was a disaster, as Morathi haughtily turned down
Hellebrons pleas for tutelage, called Hellebron weak and worthless, and said that she would forget
about this encounter in but a few days. According to the recollections of Malaketh later on, these
statements were actually made out of jealousy on Morathis part, for Hellebrons beauty rivaled her
own, but nevertheless such words left an incredible impression on Hellebron, who vowed revenge for
this slight.
It was not long after that Hellebron became involved in the hidden cults of Khaine, taking part in
sacrifices of Beastmen to the god. For two decades after she traveled the world along with her sister,
fighting armies of Beastmen and greenskin in order to build up her battlefield skill and reputation.
Eventually, she killed her Khainite tutor and took charge of the cult. When she returned to Athel
Tolarien she butchered the other cults, murdered her peace-loving mother when she protested and
made the Cult of Khaine preeminent.
In the Sundering, she fought for Maleketh and the Dark Elves, terrorizing the province of Cothique and
sacrificing thousands to Khaine, all the while continuing to plot to do away with Morathi. Ultimately she,
with the rest of the Witch Kings force, was driven out when the Druichi are defeated by Caledor.
For the next thousands of years she would rule over the Druichi city of Hag Ganeth, known for her
extremely heavy handed dictatorship. The punishment for any crime, no matter how minor, was
sacrifice on the altar of Khaine. At least once a year all rules would be deliberately cancelled so the
city could engage in an orgy of violence, with all the blood collected the following day to empower
Hellebron and keep her young. This was in between her ongoing feud and attempts to kill Morathi of
course.
That said she and her Khainites did, at times, go afield to fight quite often, for it is the way of Khaine to
seek war, murder and bloodshed. Once she even led a crusade against the Old World, leading tens of
thousands of Khainites to rampage across the lands all the way down to Nekehara where the Tomb
Kings finally crushed it.
In the End Times she initially refused the orders of Maleketh to assault Ulthuan, opting instead to
weather the endless chaos onslaught in Hag Ganeth. For perhaps a year, if not more, she and her cult
fought a constant battle against the men and beasts of the north, the constant bloodletting serving to
invigorate fully both sides. It was during this period that Hellebron began to turn to Khorne worship,
though not knowingly at first.
The sorceress kneels in front of me and pulls a short knife from her belt. It is inscribed with runes that
dance along the blade. She looks me in the eye.
Everything is changing, and Morathi needs you disposed of. Your enmity no longer amuses her. She did
bid me deliver a message before this knife slips into your heart, queen of hags.
Oh, please just kill me and spare me her witless prattlings, I say.
Enraged, she punches me and knocks me sprawling. I reach out to push myself back up and my hand
touches something cold. Something metal. Khaine has delivered me once more.
A great change is coming. The sorceress yammers on. My mistress has seen it. Darkness is rising and
the gods walk. Khaine will be made manifest and it will be Morathi, not Hellebron, who stands at his
side. She grips the ritual dagger in both hands and plunges it downwards.
I roll, though it causes agony to course through my body, and stab upwards with the long knife that my
witch elf once carried. I am rewarded with a pained scream. She slashes out wildly and cuts my leg, a
long and deep gash. I stab again and blood splatters my face. I swallow and taste it, feel the power in it. I
am invigorated and I surge upwards. The pain leaves me and a red mist descends. For a moment, I
consider what some murmur, that Khaine and the bloody god the northerners worship are one and the
same. I dismiss the thought as unworthy. We are not howling savages seeking skulls and gore. Though to
see me now, you would not know it.
When the bloodlust lifts, I am atop a ruined mess that was once a sorceress.
I briefly regret that I did not have time to consecrate her death to Khaine.
The strength passes, and I fall. One-armed, blood streaming from a leg that is rapidly numbing around
the cut the knife was poisoned, I assume I begin to pull myself towards my apotheosis.- Bride of
Khaine
Eventually her vast city was whittled down to a fraction of what it was, and her spies from afar told her
that Morathi was coming close to success in the war. Enraged at the prospect and, with the High Elven
champion named Korhil fleeing with the Widowmaker in a vain attempt to save the Khaine-possessed
Tyrion, Hellebron saw a chance to steal the Widowmaker, subvert Tyrion and kill Morathi at the same
time!
However Hellebron failed to take into account the impact that a years worth of constant fighting
without replenishment could have on her forces . Empowered by Khaines magic her forces initially
gave a good account of themselves yet, in the end, this was not enough to offset the vast numerical
superiority Morathi had. Hellebron was dragged kicking from the battlefield by her servants to prevent
her death.
After the Elven Civil War was won Hellebron moved with the rest of the elven race to Athel Loren, where
she zealously participated in its defense. Perhaps a bit too zealously, for elven lords began complaining
about a startling number of friendly fire incidents

when she was around. This got so bad that it forced
an extremely reluctant Maleketh to publically
censure her, strip her of her titles, and outlaw the
Cult of Blood.
Furious and by now already corrupt Hellebron
acceded to Belakors plan to destroy the Tree of
Ages and kill the Everqueen (who persuaded
Maleketh to censor her). Together with Drycha,
Coedill, and a horde of Slaaneshi Daemons the
dissipate alliance assaulted the Elven stronghold
around the Tree of Ages. Uncaring of the losses of
her followers, Hellebron threw them without
reservation into the enemy ranks as her servant
Shadowblade sought out Maleketh. Due to difficulty
in this alliance in coordinating and fighting together
the more unified elves beat them back.
Shadowblade was slain in the attempt and Hellebron had to flee.
Now serving Archaon directly, Hellebron was given one more chance to kill the Everqueen. In the final
battle of Middenheim she led her remaining cultists and the Skaramor- which had come to revere her as
a chief servant of Khorne- directed their efforts against the Wood Elves of the Everqueen and the
Dwarfs. Now fully consumed by Khornes blood-rage, Hellebron paid little attention as her forces were
cut off and surrounded, intent only on killing Alarielle . Her hatred towards the Everqueen had become a
force of nature and despite being outnumbered and with her witch elves falling all about her she and a
cadre of elites tore through enemy defenses. In melee combat she tore the Everqueen and her guards
apart. However, at the last second, Alarielle turned her powers of nature to the arts of healing,
temporarily curing Hellebron of the insanity she had suffered from for thousands of years. For
precious few moments the Hag Queen saw herself, her actions and deeds clearly . She hesitated.
Alarielle did not, and drove her blade through Hellebrons heart.
Offensive: Hellebron has the magical blades Deathsword and Cursed Blade, which are said to almost
move on their own accord. These blades hit with massive force, enough to even affect giant, monstrous
creatures. In combat skill she has several thousand years of experience and can run through some of the
best combat swordsmen the Elves have to offer. Hellebron furthermore has the Rune of Khaine, the
ability to inflict supernatural fear, and takes copious amounts of Witchbrew in battle, which drives her
into a frenzy of bloodletting.
Defensive: Can move fast enough to knock arrows out of the air with her blades.
===X-FACTORS===
Adaptive Creativity: 40/100: Hellebrons tactics are rather simplistic hack and slash until you break
through to the other side. She is not spectacularly creative and anything creative she comes up with is
probably accidental.
Tactics: 49/100: Hellebron can win battles through sheer bloodlust and brutal, massed assaults of her
cohorts however this uncreative approach does cause her to lose just as much as win.
Strategy: 43/100: Though Hellebron was once clever and still possess elements of cleverness, her
madness and bloodlust often override key strategic caution. She treats her Dark Elves- never a common
race to begin with- as deeply expendable and thus her army has been dwindling constantly throughout
the End Times. When available she will deploy human followers as more expendable than her elves
though, showing some sense.
Intuition: 53/100:
Audacity: 93/100: She is relatively fearless for the most part, but does not run out to die if she can help
it. She is perfectly willing to sacrifice absolutely everything in her stead though.
Inspiration: 81/100: Worshipped by both her cult and, eventually, by many Khornate worshippers as an
embodiment of their god, Hellebrons very presence has been known to drive people to great acts of
bloodletting.
Experience: 92/100: Several thousand years against the diverse foes of the Warhammer world.
Discipline: 35/100:
Corruption: 97/100:
Hellebron is most often seen on top of a
cauldron of blood.
Mobility: 5
Max & Effective Range: Several meters

Everyone, even the most ignorant child, knows that trolls are bywords for stupidity. Yet among them
exists one troll who is different, one troll whose mutations were not of the body, but of the mind.
Throgg the troll king sits on his cold, lonely throne in Troll country, attended by his drooling subjects. For
many years rumors of a super intelligent troll led many would-be champions to attempt to slay him.
Every attempt merely gave Throgg some dinner.
Yet eventually Throgg grew tired of this near constant assassination attempts. Looking at the lands of
men with malice in his eyes he declared that if the race of man wanted to fight him so badly, Throgg
would let them. He would fight them with every creature in Troll County at his back.
That night Throgg vowed the destruction of the race of men. Marching southward as an aspect of the
coming Storm of Chaos, Throgg now controls a vast army of trolls, mutants, madmen, and other horrific
Chaos creatures. The Dark Gods are pleased by Throggs intent, and have gifted him the ability to
command these bestial creatures.
The novel Kinslayer has Throgg as a powerful and ambitious warlord, one who wants to rule his own
kingdom of Beasts and usher in a new age. He drove Aekold Hellbrass out of Praag after the Chaos
warlord conquered it, and for a while fended off all attacks by various Chaos warlords. Though
devoted to the Chaos Gods, his hatred of men prevented an Alliance with the Chaos human followers of
those gods, and he was only really willing to consider an alliance with the Empire after his own kingdom
finally started coming apart. In addition he kidnapped mages of all races in an attempt to create a race
of intelligent trolls that would rule the world after man.
This effort failed when the adventuring duo Gotrek and Felix strode into his realm, looking for one of the
kidnapped mages. Though he set events in motion that resulted in the deaths of two of the duos oldest
companions he was eventually defeated by the adventuring pair of Gotrek and Felix after a pitched
battle, and was thrown off a cliff.
But Throgg survived. Recognizing the destruction of his dreams Throgg devoted himself wholeheartedly
to the Chaos Gods and fought in the final battle of Middenheim. There he was paired with Sigvald, the
Geld Prince, by an amused Archaon who clearly wanted a beauty and the beast matchup. The Chaos
warlord directed them to fight Nagash. Instead, as soon as they were out of Archaons sight, Sigvald
attempted to murder Throgg.
Once again the troll survived and was furious. The troll king finished off Sigvald after the latter had just
killed Krell, albeit at the cost of his good looks. Shortly after Throgg was himself beaten by Nagash and
offered his life in exchange for servitude. The troll king spurned this offer and was soon after blown
apart by the Great Necromancer.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: Throgg wields a massive hammer in battle, as well as his extreme troll-strength. For range he
can project acidic, short-ranged vomit at a foe, quickly eating through armor.
The half-wit, growled the Troll King, pointing a massive claw to the door behind Snorri. I do not care
enough to wish you harm. Take this one chance to leave. I have no patience left for fools.
Snorri scowled. Sometimes he didnt realize that hed been insulted until well after the event, but that
one he got. Fortunately, Snorri wasnt in the habit of listening to trolls, even if they could talk, and
instead strode under the Troll Kings hands while he was still talking and cracked the teeth from a dozen
gnashing mouths with a blow from his hammer. Snorri grinned at the Troll Kings indignant roar and
drew back his arm for another blow. Who was stupid now?
The Troll Kings fist hit like a cannonball.
We will return to Karak Kadrin, said Borek firmly. I expect there is an oath there that you will wish to
make.
After, said Snorri, sadly. After Snorri tells Gotreks family what he did.
Snorri came to with arms and legs flapping, just a second before he slammed into the cage behind. The
bars caved around him as though a big, clawed hand had just risen out of the floor and caught him.
Snorris mouth worked in pain he couldnt find the breath for. Bent metal trapped his limbs. Something
screamed that wasnt him and Snorri shifted his head around to see a gaunt human in threadbare black
robes holding out clasped hands and yammering while he backed further into his cage.
My thoughts are gifts from the gods, you moronic, dirt-chewing oaf. They will not be broken by the likes
of you.
The Troll King readied a fist and this time Snorri saw it coming in good time. It was a club of overlapping
crystal edges and was almost as large as Snorri was. He heaved on his mace-leg but couldnt free it in
time, then turned his face aside as the blow landed.
Snorri let the body drop, then slumped down onto his backside beside it. Injured dwarfs groaning and
whimpering all around, he took a sip from his liberated ale skin. What had that ranger been trying to say
about towns and goblins?
Sharp, glittering debris tinkled from Snorris shoulders as he wobbled upright. For a second his jumbled
memories couldnt place where he was, but then the swirling in front of his eyes slotted together. It
looked as though hed been punched right through the bars and into the pale humans cage. The human
lay unconscious amidst a pile of glass and metallic debris that lay between Snorri and the mangled
remnants of the cages front wall. The Troll King glared at him from the other side.
Why are you smiling?

Was Snorri smiling?
With a roar of fury, the Troll King wrenched the breach in the cage wider and pushed through a rugged
shoulder. You are infuriating, dwarf. An insult to every beast that stares in stupidity at the stars and
cannot wish to comprehend.
Blinking away the last of his daze, Snorri kicked aside a sheet of corrugated metal and threw himself
forward with axe and hammer held high. The Troll King blocked Snorris hammer on the craggy
crystalline stuff that covered its wrist in the same way an adult would fend off a child. Breathing hard,
Snorri ducked under the return blow, bashing his mace-leg into the Troll Kings shin in a hail of dark
green shards, and then hammered his axe into the trolls waist where it stuck with an unsatisfactory flat
thump. With a rumble of laughter, the Troll King brought his elbow crashing down on Snorris bald head.
Smoke hung over the western hills and Snorri nearly choked with worry as he fumbled drunkenly for his
hammer and ran the last miles home. The village burned. Dwarfs floated face up in the Skull River with
goblin arrows in them. Their livestock lay butchered on hillsides that had since been torched.
Who? How?
Snorri tottered back minus his axe, metal leg stepping awkwardly on the uneven carpet of detritus. He
looked up to see a knee the size of a black orcs spike-bossed shield driving towards his face. Oh yes,
Snorri thought with a grin that hurt his neck, Snorri had forgotten.
Dwarfs floated face up in the Skull River with goblin arrows in them. Their livestock lay butchered on
hillsides that had since been torched.
Your skull has grown thick from too many beatings, came a deep gravel-pit voice that jarred Snorri from
his memories. He was still here, he concluded with disappointment, so probably couldnt have been out
for more than a few seconds. The Troll King stood a few feet away, hunched like an ape under the cages
roof, arms spread so that they hung off the left and right walls. A joyous, self-hating, animal gleam
shone from its eyes. Perhaps that is why your brain is so slow.
No. Snorri has always been this way.
Then for a dwarf you are very stupid.
Youre pretty clever for a troll. Does that make Snorri more smart or less? Hes confused.
You
Whatever the Troll King had intended to say sank into a volcanic pit of rage as, with a roar that caused
stonework to shake and glassware to shatter, he hauled down on one shoulder without letting go of the
bars. Pitted against the Troll Kings strength, the entire cage wall bent inwards and came away from the
bolts connecting it to the ceiling bar and the floor. The unsupported roof tipped down onto the Troll
Kings head, but he shrugged it off, ripping out the opposite wall as well and wielding both as improvised
weapons. Snorri hefted his hammer.
The Spider Lady had been right. This would be a mighty
The two squares of iron smacked together around Snorri like cymbals.
The sweet smell of well roasted meat filled the air. It disturbed the ale sloshing in his otherwise empty
belly and he threw up over the bloodstained flagstones.
He swayed for a few seconds before a hand like a wall scooped him up and in the same motion thrust
him into the stone wall at the back of the cage.
He dropped to his knees to vomit, crunching the charred ribcage of a goblin raider that had been hidden
under the layer of soot. A high-pitched war cry stopped his heart and he turned to one of the burning
buildings.
He was hauled back, bits of rock cascading over his shoulders. Crying an oath to Grimnir, he kicked out,
chipped the trolls chin and bellowed as he was driven into the wall again.
A horribly burned fighter charged from the house towards Snorri. It was Gotreks house, Snorri realized,
fury souring the ale still in his belly as he rose, a blow from his hammer dropping the goblin in its tracks.
The goblin fell onto its face and was still.
Snorri couldnt feel his hands. His eyes were going dark and it felt like some other dwarf being drawn out
of the wall in the Troll Kings tightening grip. This was what death felt like. Snorri was glad. There were
times when hed thought it would never happen and it wasnt nearly as terrible as the Spider Lady had
said. He saw the old crone now over the Troll Kings shoulder. She was smiling, pleased. Except it wasnt
her at all, it was Ulrika. Only that made no sense. Ulrika would never stand by and watch even if Snorri
had asked her, and he couldnt imagine her ever looking so hungry to watch someone die. Then it hit him
with a blow to the heart.
It was surely the dwarf

woman from his dreams!
The Troll King bellowed in
annoyance at finding him still
alive and Snorri felt himself
flung forward again.
It was big for a goblin, and
with long braids like a
dwarfs. Snorris anger turned
cold.
What?
Snorri turned the body over.
It was a dwarf woman with a
golden chain.
No!
The old lady had promised
Snorri that his doom would
bring nothing but pain, and
here it was. A new kind of
determination welled up
inside of him for the first
time in a hundred years he
felt a powerful resolve to live.
He had to confess. He had to make amends. Gotrek had to know who was responsible for his shame!
With every bone, tooth and nail that Snorri could lay onto the Troll Kings fingers he fought, even as the
blows kept coming and his struggles grew ever weaker.
The last impact he didnt even feel.
And then Snorri Nosebiter closed his eyes.- Kinslayer
Defensive: Throgg is a troll, meaning in addition to his size he can regenerate very easily even surviving
a several hundred foot fall. However like all trolls, he is weak to fire.
==X-FACTORS==
Adaptive Creativity: 69/100: Throgg has shown himself to be a rather excellent ambusher, utilizing
midnight raids and his frost-like environment to his advantage. This is often surprising to his enemies
that know of the trolls, for no other troll is clever enough to possess any sort of tactical acumen or
creativity.
Tactics: 62/100: In part thanks to the nature of his army, with powerful trolls serving as the core of it,
and in part thanks to his own intelligence Throgg is shown to be a creative and skilled tactician, and even
beat the armies of the Conqueror of Kislev (Aekold Hellbrass).
Strategy: 43/100: His strategic prowess is somewhat lacking, thanks to his megalomania, which
prevented necessary strategic alliances. Indeed his end plan, to create an Age of the Beast, appears
limited to the capture of wizards everywhere to try and make his beasts smarter.
Intuition: 55/100:
Audacity: 77/100: Has no qualms sacrificing large quantities of troops in most situations.
Psychological Warfare: 66/100: Throgg is good at breaking beasts and beast-like foes, and did manage
to convince hundreds of wizards (of all WF races) to work for him after he traveled the world capturing
them through threats, beatings, and guile.
Experience: 90/100 : Alleged to be near immortal and remembers the days before Chaos arrived,
though only began leading a host relatively recently.
Discipline: 49/100: This is rather high for any Beast of Chaos, however he frequently loses his temper or
gets afraid in combat, resorting and alternating between threats, boasts, insults, and bribes.
Inspiration: 83/100: Throgg is one of the few who can achieve almost unchallenged supremacy from
Beasts of Chaos, even binding the fiercely independent Chimera to his cause.
Corruption: 91/100: Wants to completely destroy men and create a "Age of the Beast" in its place.
Throgg hates men, and his alliance with the Man-Dominated Chaos armies is only of convenience and
because they serve the same power. In campaign his army is entirely composed of trolls, Beastmen, and
other beasts of chaos. In addition it is said that as he moves his legions of monsters the land warps
behind him into a more wintry landscape that trolls thrive on.
Mobility: 8 (flyer)
Max & Effective
Range: Spell
Preferred Range: Neutral
Role: Advisor/Tactical
Commander
The grand inquisitori wailed
as his knees gave way,
causing him to fall back into his interrogators throne.

The interloper moved towards the throne like an ancient evil. It pulled back its hood, revealing the full,
unspeakable horror of its daemonic visage to the chamber. The robes fell like a fearful whisper from its
barbed unflesh. It grew with each flagstone-pulverizing step of its taloned feet, twisted bones blooming
with muscle that ruptured into existence about them, lending the beast a glorious brawn and sinew. It
dragged a serpentine tail, shot through with spikes, behind its infernal form, while both the daemoncrown of horns warping their way out of its head and the thumb-claws erupting from the dreadful
magnificence of its wings, scraped the dungeon ceiling.
Like a nightmare, it lowered its sight-curdling skull and moved up behind the interrogators throne.
Necrodomo, still clamped between the bar and crown-cap of the torture device, had no eyes with which
to behold the beast. The grand inquisitori found, with his heart in the grasp of terror, cold, dark and
despair, which he could not move. As the daemon brought its unseen face forward, both the venerable
priest and the prognosticator found their cheeks bathed in the radiance of infernal royalty. A princely
power of hellish birthright; a creature of unimaginable darkness; horror incarnate.
The grand inquisitori felt the thing touch him. At once all that had remained pure and noble in the man
shriveled within his soul. Darkness blossomed within the priest. Every ill-deed committed in the service of
selfish weakness and temptation grew through his being like a rampant cancer. His eyes turned to inky
twilight as his face became a cadaverous mask of ghoulish anticipation. The daemon clasped the grand
inquisitoris head in its claws.
You search for darkness in wretched madmen, the daemon prince whispered to the venerable priest
every word falling on the afflicted ancient with the force of a furnace, when you should have been
searching for it within your own ranks. No matter You are mine now and have no need for this vessel of
flesh. Before I take your soul, there is something you should know, priest. A gift for the journey you are
about to take. The daemon leant in closer. Your. God. Is. A. Lie. With that, the daemon prince crushed
the grand inquisitoris skull between its claws with effortless ease.- Archaon Everchosen:
It was Great Grungni told us of his coming. A calamity come of calamities. Daemons born of the landshaking storm. A prince among daemons risen of their dread number. A doom of horn, wing and terror,
walking tall among the darklings, causing mountains to quake and hearts to thump at his passing. He
claims the tainted land as his own but Grungni taught us that it was the land itself that would save us.
That the depths would be our salvation. That to dig was to dig for ones life. Some say we did not dig
deep enough. Some that we dug too far. That the stone of Karak Zhul was cursed long before any dwarf
set foot here or desecrated the darkness with pick and shovel. He has found us. The Dark One comes with
his legions to reclaim what is his. I write this in my blood, before it is spilt. So that the sons of Grungni,
the underkin of Karak Zhul, might be avenged. For our doom has come and visits his darkness upon our
own
Dammaz Kron, The Great Book of Grudges
Belakor holds the distinction of being the very first mortal ever raised to daemonhood by the Chaos
Gods. Not only that but he was raised by all four gods at once, who each gave him a portion of their
godly power. The exact story of how he rose is still unknown; however it is known the he was once
human, and that his rise has something to do with the gruesome fate of the lost Dwarf hold Karak Zhul.
There he formed the first and possibly greatest kingdom of Chaos to ever exist. It was he who brought
the primitive tribes of the North into the influence of Chaos. Leading enormous armies he fought against
the Elves and Dwarves, and crushed many races whose names are now forgotten. Statues of ever shape
and size were built to commemorate him, and at his height he may have even aspired to become the
5th god of Chaos.
Yet just as Belakor had first united the gods into giving him gifts, now he united them in hatred of him.
The Chaos Gods made many champions into Daemon Princes, weakening Belakors power, and then
these princes sought to challenge the Firsts domain. So many wars were fought between these various
Daemon Princes that Chaoss overall cause was weakened, for whole armies were unable to be
mustered to attack Ulthuan at the time the Elves were siphoning magic from the world in a bid to stop
them. Belakor was sent screaming back to the Realm of Chaos, where vengeful gods awaited.
He was punished, denied the opportunity to leave the Realm of Chaos except when the Chaos Gods
wished it. Even at the best of times he could only manifest as a shadow. This was a boon they granted
sparingly, and then only to crown a mortal as the Everchosen of Chaos a ceremony which served to
assure the celebrant of his Gods favor, and torment Belakor with his fall from grace. Each time the
coronation was concluded, Belakor was compelled to visit his rage upon the world as advisor to the
Everchosen. Infused with unwanted subservience, Belakor led daemonic armies at the command of this
Everchosen, only to be banished once more when his unwanted mortal liege was defeated.
Yet once again, Belakor proved his guile, and found ways to stretch forth his will upon the mortal
world. In his times of formlessness, he whispered through the dreams of madmen and warlords,
offering his service if only they would summon him into the mortal realm. Too often, such men
accepted Belakors promises, foolishly believing that they could control the Daemon Prince for their
own ends. Once given a gateway to the mortal world, invariably Belakor slew his liberator, seized the
fools followers as his own and set them to rebuilding the glories of his halcyon days. Yet such freedom
seldom lasted long. Belakors power was but a fraction of that which he had commanded in ancient
days, and his ambition ever outstripped his ability. Thus, time after time, a mortal champion laid
Belakor low and sent the Daemon Princes wounded spirit back to the Realm of Chaos, there to plot
another escape, or await the rise of the next Everchosen.
Yet Belakor was crafty and continually schemed to find new ways to be free of the curse. In one
instance he succeeded in possessing the body of an Everchosen, but before he completed his last trial.
The Chaos Gods intervened and then barred him from completing it, laughing amongst themselves as
Belakor roared in rage and hatred. However Belakor eventually got more cunning and sponsored
several different schemes at once.
In Mordheim Belakor first helped influence the corruption and then destruction of the city, then
attempted to use its magic to fully regain corporal form while sponsoring a potential Everchosen there.
He kidnapped Necrodurmo ages earlier and helped prophesize the arrival of Archaon . Then he
proceeded to ensure the prophecy would be enacted as best as possible, guiding Archaon towards
corruption via clever proxy and sometimes direct (but often unseen) intervention). His manipulations
and that of his Dark Emissaries instituted the conflict of Albion, again siphoning the magics there.
All of these were only half-successful. In Mordheim he did indeed gain power but was foiled by
machinations of the heroic adventuring pair Gotrek and Felix, who slew his potential Everchosen and
helped kill his army. In Albion the forces of good ultimately won, but Belakors siphoned still more
power and freed him from the insanity that had been inflicted upon him periodically by the gods.
In the case of Archaon the chaos warrior did manage to become Everchosen, however he proved willful
enough that Belakor couldnt possess him. The pair of them fought a gruesome series of battles. The
first of which Belakor was actually winning, though he could not kill the Everchosen before he
completed his tasks, or else the Daemon Prince would lose his only chance to become Everchosen. The
second opportunity was after Archaon became Everchosen, and though the battle was brutal the
Daemon Prince ultimately lost. Belakor only barely escaped with his life.
Yet Belakor had numerous backup schemes at his disposal. At first he aimed high, seeking to become
nothing less than the 5th Chaos God .To do so he gathered disillusioned servants of the Four Gods and
sought to kill the Dwarf god Grimmir, seeking to absorb his divine power and that of his minions to
become the god of Chaos Undivided. He was
foiled here once again by the adventuring duo
Gotrek and Felix, though Belakor managed to
escape destruction once again.
Upset beyond measure that two of his End

Times plans had failed, Belakor tried once
more, this time to preempt Archaons attempt
to destroy the world by doing so first! His plan
called for the unwinding of the Oak of Ages,
which would unravel the fabric of time and
reality for the planet. Belakor spent months
manipulating behind the scenes in Athel
Loren, making pacts and deals with
everything from the stranded daemons to
upset forest spirits. It was he who tricked
Dychra and Coedrill into an alliance, he who sought out and converted Hellebron.
Finally this alliance of traitors and fiends made its move, striking the Oak of Ages even as an invading
Khornate force distracted many of its defenders elsewhere. In the midst of the Chaotic battle Belakor
let his minions do the dirty work, sneaking past the battle in an attempt to gain access to the Oak of
Ages. He succeeded in doing so however just as Belakor spat out the dread syllables to unmake the
world Teclis managed to resurrect his brother Tyrion, now the Incarnate of Light. Using his new power
Tyrion drove off a cursing Belakor.
Once more Belakor would try one last scheme in the End Times, freeing the vampire Mannfred von
Carstein in return for the identity of the goddess Lileath, currently housed within Athel Loren. It was his
hope to sacrifice this goddess- the last in the world- to the Chaos Gods in exchange for favor and power,
along with the location of her safe haven on another world. This failed, due to the heroics of a
Brettonian knight holding off the daemon until Maleketh and Tyrion arrived, who subdued Belakor.
With all options exhausted Belakor spoiled Archaons plan out of spite and hate, telling them that the
world would soon be unmade at Middenheim. Out of hatred for Belakor, and out of a desire to
prevent him from interfering any more, the incarnates would trap his spirit in a magical gem where he
would remain for the rest of the End Times.
==LOADOUT==
Offensive: The Blade of Shadows: Belakor wields an esoteric, daemonic blade, its ghostly form in
eternal transience between shape and shadow; solidity and silhouette. Mastery of this weapon enables
Belakor to scythe through armor, scale, flesh and bone without resistance, its essence changing in an
instant from formless shadow to murderous edge at its masters whim. Whether the weapon is a part of
the Daemon itself, or perhaps an ancient gift bestowed upon him by the Dark Gods that Belakor
somehow retained in spite of his fall from favor, none can truly say.
Belakor knows every single spell in the Lore of Shadows in existence, being a loremaster as well as the
Lore of the Dark Master (see Dark Emissaries)
Defensive: Belakor is a being of shadows, able to go incorporeal or corporeal at will. In the incorporeal
state only the most powerful of magics can hurt him, however he must resume corporality to hurt
anyone else.
This one found its mark and the tip of Terminus slid straight into the darkness of the daemons midriff.
Archaon felt no resistance through the shaft of the blade. The weapon had hit nothing but silky shadow.
As Belakor stomped to one side the thunder of his footsteps feeling real enough through the floor he
brought his blade down on Archaon. As the weight of the weapon crashed off the surface of his shield,
Archaon decided that the monstrosity was once more flesh and bad blood.
Denied permanent form by the Great Changer, the daemon prince had found a way to turn his curse into
a gift. Every time Archaons blessed blade nicked, stabbed or sliced through the abominations flesh it
was the emptiness of shadow. Whenever Belakors huge blade came down at the Chaos warrior,
however, the daemon prince momentarily assumed all the monstrous brawn and infernal ire of his
physical form.
()
You will not destroy me! Archaon roared at his father-in-shadow. You need me He spat as his rabid
steps took him surging through the demolished architecture of the chamber on towards the twisted
creature that was the bane of his molested existence. I, however, have no need for you!
Indeed, the Chaos warrior had stoked the fires of his fathers daemonic fury. More than he could know
for seconds later the colossal shadow sword passed straight through him in a murderous arc of darkness
and gore. The armour of the Everchosen remained untouched by the blade that had simply solidified as it
had cut Archaon in two within his plate. The Chaos warriors legs took two more stumbling steps before
collapsing beneath him. In a cacophonous clatter, Archaon reached the floor, coming to a stop on his
side. With his final, dust-choked breaths he watched the hulking abomination that was Belakor tower
over him, the muscular black flesh of his chest rising and falling with effort and a fathers regret.Archaon: lord of Chaos
===Additional Factors==
Belakor can actually gain power from
torment and terror like a Dark Eldar,
causing him to get magical energy upon
enemy routs. He is a schemer whose
servants (mainly the still active Dark
Emissaries) are perfectly willing to work
with enemies of Chaos in order to
achieve his goals which seems to be
either becoming the Everchosen,
revenge on the gods, becoming the
5th Chaos god, or some combination
thereof.
Enormous muscles straining, Gotrek
drove through the lightning field to hack
at the daemon prince. Belakors blade met his, shards of darkness breaking off, misting around the two
fighters as their battle swirled through it. Belakor chuckled, fading into the darkness just as Gotreks axe
swept through the emptiness he had that moment abandoned. Gotrek growled murderously, axes
tearing up the mist even as it flowed away from him, reforming before the portal into the shape of
Belakor, hand outstretched and an incantation of power on his lips. A withering volley of black arrows
burst from the daemon princes claws and battered away at the protective barrier afforded by the Rune
of Unbinding. It glowed golden-red, projecting a shield of the same hue around Gotrek. It looked thinner
than that which Max had previously conjured for himself. It flickered alarmingly under the barrage and,
much like a mail shirt deflecting and absorbing a blow but leaving a horrible bruise beneath, left Gotrek
struggling to get up off his knees.
Felix couldnt believe his senses.
After everything they had been through, everything they had lost and every edge they had paid for in
blood, Gotrek was losing.- Slayer. Note Belakor only lost because of a shocking intervention by Felix.
===X-Factors===
Adaptive Creativity: 72/100: Belakor utilizes a number of schemes and plans that, while usually halfsuccessful, are very creative and audacious in goals.
Tactics: 67/100: A skilled commander who relies heavily on subtle machinations and guile, along with
various pawns.
Strategy: 64/100: Belakor is an enigma to allies and enemies, a being whose manipulations have been
omnipresent throughout millennia. That said most of his plans are half-successes at best or failures at
worse, in part because of his own personality flaws but also due to the extreme hatred Tzeentch has for
Belakor.
Intuition: 62/100:
Audacity: 72/100:
Psychological Warfare: 81/100: Probably his greatest trait, Belakor has outwitted and cheated the gods
before, tricking each of them to granting him ever more powers. This was after persuading all of them
to turn him into the brand new position of daemon prince. Even after his fall he has tricked and
manipulated countless mortals into servitude, even convincing mortal enemies to make deals with him,
as shown in City of the Damned. In the War in Albion his Dark Emissaries, at his direction, allied and
manipulated all world factions, even sometimes the good factions, in order to try and ensure his
goals were met. He did the same throughout the Everchosen process, manipulating hundreds of
individuals who sought the title and having his servants infiltrate silently in the ranks of the various
Chaos Gods.
Experience: 88/100: Definitely 100s of years, however though he is several thousand years old his
experience is limited to what it should be thanks to the curse of the Chaos Gods.
Discipline: 68/100:
Inspiration: 66/100: The Dark Master is able to inspire awe in many mortals.
Corruption: 100/100:
The Dwarf line met that of the northlanders with a clamor that shook the valley. At once, the booming
war-song of the Dwarfs melded with the harsh cries of the plate-clad Chaos Warriors. The clash of steel
upon gromril and the first cries of the wounded sounded soon after.
Belakor watched it all from the top of the Magewrath Throne, and hissed with amusement. Of all mortal
creatures, Dwarfs were amongst his favorite to torment. Few creatures had such brittle pride as the
Children of Grungni, who refused to acknowledge the terror Belakor evoked even as it consumed their
will to fight.
The Daemon Prince did not know how the Dwarfs had learned he sought to raise the throne, to release
the magics bound to his former glories, but he was glad they had come, nonetheless. Belakor knew that
Archaon would soon demand his presence once more, and relished the opportunity for a malevolence of
his own choosing.
With a guttural laugh, the Daemon Prince drew upon the magic buried in his skull-borne eyrie. At once,
the shadows of the valley floor came to life. Some crawled across the withered grassland as flickering
tendrils, grasping at dwarfen legs, and holding the stocky creatures fast as northlander axes hacked
down. Others became vaporous clouds that forced their way through close-set helms and smothered
their victims. Dwarfs dropped their weapons and clawed uselessly at their throats, ravaged lungs gasping
for air that would not come.
As the shadows struck home, the trickle of terror became a flood, and Belakor drank it in like the
headiest of wines. He could feel the panic rising in the minds of his foes, could sense limbs growing numb
and reactions slowing as fear set in. Yet Belakor saw a defiant soul spark brightly amongst the growing
darkness. Consumed by indignant wrath, the Daemon Prince took wing, resolving to slay the wretch
himself.
A crack of handguns sounded as Belakor sped across the battlefield, but the heavy bullets passed
harmlessly through his intangible form, skeins of smoke-like essence spiraling in their wake. In response,
the Daemon Prince called forth a great shadowy scythe and sent it arcing through the Thunderers ranks.
A dozen Dwarfs fell dead as the blade passed through them, their bodies unmarked, but each face frozen
in a rictus of terror.
With a sweep of wings, Belakor landed behind his chosen prey, a red-bearded fool who strode to battle
naked save for his tattoos. There was no sound to herald his coming, but the Dwarf knew it all the same.
Wrenching his axe free from the bloody ruin of a Chaos Warriors skull, he spun on his heel and swung at
the Daemon Prince. The runes upon the axehead glowed blue as the blade touched Belakors billowing
form, and the Daemon Prince snarled in sudden pain. His return blow would have disemboweled the
Dwarf, had only it connected, but the Slayer had foreseen the attack, and stepped out of the blades
swing.
The Dwarf was laughing now, making unlikely claims about the Daemon Princes parentage, and
besmirching his prowess in other endeavors. The insults mattered little to Belakor, but the Dwarfs
continued defiance was another matter. The Daemon Prince could sense the nearby warriors taking
heart from their fellows courage a malaise that could not be permitted.
As the Slayer swung his axe once again, Belakor caught the Dwarfs strike on his own blade and willed
the shadows within his own daemonsword to life. They came at once, oozing from the sword to entwine
the axe-blade, locking it in an unbreakable grip. Thus, when Belakor swept his sword away, the axe was
torn from the Slayers hands, leaving him defenseless before the Daemon.
Even then, the Dwarf did not lose his velour, but came forward with meaty hands balled into fists. A
moment later, he died as defiantly as he had lived, the point of Belakors sword lancing through his
belly. Steaming, blood-slicked innards slid across the ground.
The Slayer made one involuntary mewling noise, and then fell still. At once, the courage awakened by the
Slayers defiance was smothered like a candle flame beneath an ocean. Belakor gave a savage smile,
and took wing in search of fresh prey. There was time for a little more torment yet, before the
Everchosen summoned him.
--Belakor, the Data slate

Lords of Chaos

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Lords of Chaos

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Mobility: (Variable: can move at a sloth's pace or as fast as a horse)

Offensive: Can use lances, flails,

Chaos Sorcerers is a catch all phrase that

Heralds are minor Daemons who are either

A Tzeentch herald might come with

Mobility: 8 (can fly)

Supremely skilled warriors all, the Bloodthirster of

Even by the standards of

There is no finesse in the

Mobility: 8 (can fly)

Note the size shown here

Offensive: Its claws. The Keeper of Secrets is a master melee

The highest ranks of the greater daemons are the

Since ages past the Truthsayers of Albion have been the

The Fimir are a race of

Cruel beyond measure, the Dreadspears

Found in the most treacherous regions of

*note: Archaons profile is located elsewhere

Mobility: 5 (slow flyer)

Adaptive Creativity: 52/100:

Discipline: 40/100:Valkia has more discipline then the vast

Max Range: Melee

With his ennui destroyed Sigvald now went off

Ghurk, show them your gifts, said Otto.

However, if Nurgle was

Vilitch once lived terribly at the hands of his tribesmen. One of

Do they even matter? Archaon said.

Dont test me, sorcerer

Where am I? the sorcerer hissed aloud.

What prayer? Vilitch demanded of the voices. I made no supplication.

Scyla hungers, Freya finally

Defensive: Chaos Armor and blessings. Is durable enough to survive disembowelment.

Of all the warrior heroes of Khorne the Blood

Festus locked himself away

Festus wagged his fat finger like a school teacher.

I dont know Blacklegge. The ghoulpox. Gnashing fever, perhaps, he replied.

Still Festus paid his suffering no mind.

Why are you telling me this?

Because you arent dead, Festus replied.

By the gods, you really are insane!

Perfect? I dont understand, he wheezed. Do you mean to heal me after all?

Nearby, Orghotts Daemonspew and his

The ninefold boom of a misfiring

Mobility: 9 (can scale mountains and walls)

Bloab Rotspawn was once a cruel sadist, a person who

Mutilated at birth by a childhood fire, Mordibex blamed

Standing thirty feet tall Galrauch, the first of the Chaos

Role: Tactical Commander/Adviser

ADAPTIVE CREATIVITY: 63/100

Psychological Warfare: 77/100: Horstmann and the followers of

Kalros Fateweaver is the closest thing Tzeentch has to a

Good artwork from 40k

Once the Masque of Slaanesh was the most favored of the

Dechala is a spiteful creature, forever denied the opportunity

Ghorros is an immensely ancient and powerful Centigor, one that

The creature known as Moonclaw was not born of mortal

Offensive: Scourge: This

Mobility: 4 Slavelord, 7 Ironskin

Ghark Ironskin was once beaten on the head as a child

Max Range: Melee

*This page can be considered representative of the Chaos Dwarves.

Let Mordrek be a warning to all those who would seek fame

Mobility: 8 (Flying, ethereal spirit)

Indeed, countess, the spirit replied. Let us begin.- ET:Archaon