Blades of Khorne – Warscrolls

At the foot of Khorne’s throne prowls a canine shadow, three heads gnawing upon the bones of the unworthy. In mortal tongues, he is Karanak, the Hound of Vengeance. This alpha Flesh Hound is unleashed when an enemy has earned Khorne’s personal displeasure. Each of Karanak’s heads tracks its quarry in a different fashion. The first senses across space, following the spoor of the target no matter where they hide. The second follows through time, seeing both those who try to hide in the recesses of history as well as those who will incite Khorne’s rage in the future. The third head is the most dangerous, for it tracks its prey from within their own mind. Karanak has little inclination to lead armies; his only goal is to drag his quarry back to the base of the Skull Throne, where they will be torn apart under Khorne’s glowering gaze. Even so, where he lopes, other warriors of Khorne follow – for Karanak’s hunts take him through the most furious of battles. Accompanied by packs of slavering Flesh Hounds compelled to join the pursuit, Karanak chases down his prey without remorse or relent, as indefatigable as a falling axe.

Ferocity made flesh and blood, Scyla Anfingrimm is a terrifying foe who knows nothing of fear or mercy. His monstrous strength is such that he can tear a Dracoth in two, and sorcery can gain no purchase upon his form, for his collar radiates Khorne’s hatred.

The Lords of Khorne are the Blood God’s chosen champions, his butchermonarchs and paragons of slaughter. It is they who drive the warhordes of the Bloodbound to battle, both through a warlike charisma and devotion to their deity’s furious creed. Each has earned their position through acts of carnage; they have levelled cities, eviscerated their rivals and piled skulls to the sky in reverence. A Lord of Khorne can inevitably be found in the thickest of melees, cleaving and hewing through the foe with wanton abandon. Their red-handed example stokes the fury of their followers to new heights, for where a Lord of Khorne fights, the Blood God’s eye is never far away. The most unsubtle Lords of Khorne draw the attention of the Juggernauts – clanking and bestial daemons akin to sentient battering rams. Should the champion succeed in breaking one of these ironshod entities to their will, they will become a true force of destruction. Many style themselves as the grand masters of knightly orders sworn to Khorne’s tenets, but there is nothing chivalric about them; their one desire, and that of the Skullcrushers they lead in great Brass Stampedes, is to trample entire armies into oblivion.

It takes Bloodletters of particular might and battle-craft to serve as captains in the infernal legions. These are the Heralds of Khorne, empowered daemons second in rank and murderous ability only to the Bloodthirsters. Heralds have earned their position in the only manner Khorne acknowledges: they have passed every martial trial set before them and cut down any who thought to challenge them. Wielding Blades of Blood forged by infernal artificers, Heralds of Khorne are conduits of their god’s fury, enacting his will through their furious commands. Those Heralds designated as Skullmasters display an impulsive aggression above and beyond the manic standard of Khorne’s daemons. Such is necessary to master one of the snorting daemon-beasts known as Juggernauts. It is the Skullmasters who lead cavalry charges of Bloodcrushers, attempting to direct these unsubtle brass stampedes with something approaching tactical nous. As their title implies, Skullmasters have a particular fascination with the taking of heads. As their Juggernaut mounts thunder towards the foe at surprising speed, the Heralds are wont to angle their blades like the edge of a scythe, trusting in murderous momentum to hew a harvest of skulls from necks.

Aspiring Deathbringers rise from a warhorde’s most promising and deadly killers. They have performed such deeds as to earn a place amongst their master’s Gorechosen, yet they have not excelled enough to count amongst the inner circle. Favour and prestige are everything to these warriors, and their life is a constant struggle to garner both in abundance. An Aspiring Deathbringer marches at the forefront of the Bloodbound advance, followed by baying packs of warriors who have thrown in their lot with these rising champions. No fear or doubt drags at their steps; offering their lives in Khorne’s service is a thousand times preferable to ignominy. An Aspiring Deathbringer’s every waking thought is consumed by the need to advance along the crimson path. They have given themselves to Khorne body and soul, and there can be no turning back; glory, oblivion or mutation into something less than human are their only remaining fates. Canny lords of Khorne sharpen this mania by carefully balancing slights against the Deathbringer’s pride with opportunities to earn renown. There are few foes more ferocious, after all, than an Aspiring Deathbringer who sees a chance to ascend another rung of the blood-stained ladder of glory.

It takes Bloodletters of particular might and battle-craft to serve as captains in the infernal legions. These are the Heralds of Khorne, empowered daemons second in rank and murderous ability only to the Bloodthirsters. Heralds have earned their position in the only manner Khorne acknowledges: they have passed every martial trial set before them and cut down any who thought to challenge them. Wielding Blades of Blood forged by infernal artificers, Heralds of Khorne are conduits of their god’s fury, enacting his will through their furious commands. Bloodmasters lead the daemonic cohorts from the front, commanding through setting a brutal example. Their talents lie in the cut and thrust of combat, and though they have an innate sense for battle’s flow, they primarily harness this to know when to set upon a reeling foe. A Bloodmaster’s rage is tectonic even for one of Khorne’s daemons. They are never still, forever pacing and hissing even in the scant moments between conflicts, talons flexing restlessly around the grip of their blades. Battle offers an outlet for their volcanic wrath, but it is hardly a reprieve; blood constantly drips from the prongs of their swords, soon causing their rage and battle-hunger to flare once more.

Bloodsecrators are more than mere icon bearers. They are sacred templars of Khorne, whose devotion has seen them entrusted with monumental icons of the War God. These relics are knives driven into reality, dense red stars that drag in the fury that inundates a battlefield. When the Bloodsecrator slams their icon against the earth and roars in praise, that wrath is released like a terrible solar flare. The servants of the Blood God are filled with a killing fury so total that their limbs move as blurs, blades and axes falling without relent. This is a state of holy rapture to the Bloodbound, and a Bloodsecrator’s role as the conduit earns them respect beyond measure. Bloodsecrators typically stand apart from the power struggles that define the Gorechosen. Their battle-lust is so profound that it borders on the elemental, and though they acknowledge that Khorne relishes all forms of conflict, they see personal advancement as a distraction from the business of righteous slaughter. This aloofness, however, does not mean that a Lord of Khorne can trust their Bloodsecrator. If they believe another champion to be more favoured by the god, these icon bearers will not hesitate to depose their former master.

Bloodstokers are the taskmasters and overseers of the Bloodbound throngs, charged with keeping a savage form of order amongst a warhorde’s ranks. They do so not through encouragement or chastisement but through blood and pain; each is a master with their cruel barbed whip, and the lashes they inflict direct their warriors onwards while raising their anger to incandescent levels. As befitting a member of their lord’s Gorechosen elite, a Bloodstoker is themselves a potent warrior, but they like to boast that rather than fighting with a hammer or axe, they wield the warhorde itself as a weapon. In doing so, they amass harvests of skulls far in excess of even the most ferocious personal combatant. Bloodstokers are habitually sadistic, sending warriors and beasts to their death without hesitation and revelling as their whips flay flesh from bone. Worshippers of Khorne who have known the bite of a Bloodstoker’s lash often mutter that these champions would find equal acclaim amongst the pain-cultists of decadent, despised Slaanesh. Yet a Bloodstoker acts solely to intensify the slaughter, and the boon they offer to a champion of Khorne renders them invaluable, granting them licence to inflict agony without restraint.

Every Lord of Khorne has at least one Exalted Deathbringer to serve as their strong right hand amongst the warhorde. They are the sworn swords of their barbarous chieftains, the favoured lieutenants of their warrior monarchs. Brutality has solidified their vaunted positions and seen them rewarded with dark gifts – be it a mutation into a more violent form or a daemonic resilience that turns aside even the most determined of blows. Exalted Deathbringers are viewed by their lords as both favoured champions and dangerous rivals. They are relied upon to oversee key portions of the battlefield, but the Deathbringers make no secret of their hunger for glory and know that it is best earned within sight of the mighty. Wherever possible, they will fight at their master’s side, pushing themselves to new extremes of bloodshed. Khorne’s faithful are firm advocates for keeping one’s worthiest enemies close. Should the lord of the warhorde fall, it is the Exalted Deathbringers who are best placed to seize control. If their master endures, the Deathbringer must eventually challenge them for rulership in a fight to the death. Better to have had a chance to observe the tactics of their foe up close beforehand…

The Lords of Khorne are the Blood God’s chosen champions, his butcher-monarchs and paragons of slaughter. It is they who drive the warhordes of the Bloodbound to battle, both through a warlike charisma and devotion to their deity’s furious creed. Each has earned their position through acts of carnage; they have levelled cities, eviscerated their rivals and piled skulls to the sky in reverence. A Lord of Khorne can inevitably be found in the thickest of melees, cleaving and hewing through the foe with wanton abandon. Their red-handed example stokes the fury of their followers to new heights, for where a Lord of Khorne fights, the Blood God’s eye is never far away. Many are the gifts that Khorne’s champions may receive for carrying out worthy massacres in his name. Their scarred bodies bulge with muscle, onto which is fused armour that hungrily drinks the sprayed blood of the slain. In claw-like hands, they carry axes forged in the fires of Khorne’s own infernal citadel. Should they truly excel, they may find a Flesh Hound coming to slink at their side – daemons that are a mark of the Blood God’s favour and hunger to devour wizards alive.

Khorne despises magic, believing that to slay a foe with sorcery is an insult to the warrior’s creed. Yet bloody ritual is central to the culture of his mortal worshippers, who believe that through such acts they draw his favour. The Realmgore Ritualists stand at the heart of this contradiction. Though as lethally capable as any Bloodbound marauder, they see the taking of lives as tedious. Rather, they would cut the throat of the realms and see geysers of liquid earthblood gush forth. A Realmgore Ritualist knows the runes of desecration that will develop into splintering world-wounds and the invocations that will call forth waves of gore. As ichor flows in rivers and rains from the sky, a murder-trance seizes nearby Bloodbound, seeing them abandon their last vestiges of restraint. A Ritualist’s ceremonies can only be performed with a blade thoroughly wetted in mortal blood. Prisoners will be sacrificed without pause to provide this sacred libation, but blood taken in honest battle is more pleasing to Khorne. The sacrificial daggers wielded by the Realmgore Ritualists are relics anointed in atrocity, and merely a single cut from such a weapon can see a foe rapidly and violently exsanguinated.

From youth, the warrior who would become Skarr Bloodwrath was marked by the daemonic. As he grew in stature and infamy, his flesh turned an arterial crimson and the mark of Khorne was scored across his hide. Wielding the Bloodstorm Blades, the so-called Slaughterborn cut through all that stood before him while heedless of his own life. When finally he was vanquished by some nameless adversary, not even death could stay the ultimate berserker. On some forlorn battlefield, the Slaughterborn rose from a pool of heroes’ blood, his rebirth consecrated in an explosion of gore – and his hunger for carnage undiminished. Skarr’s immortality through battle has seen him become a blight on the realms. There is no set period in which his crimson resurrection occurs. Sometimes the Slaughterborn vanishes for years after falling; sometimes he returns in mere moments. Yet, eventually, return he always does. Skarr’s psychotic fury is a beacon to fellow Bloodbound, who travel for leagues to fight alongside him. Wrathmongers in particular feel a kinship with Skarr, often acting as an impromptu retinue – though the Slaughterborn pays them less than no mind as he kills and kills again.

Khorne is a god of rage, yet there are ways to earn his esteem beyond killing. Those who forge tools of war are favoured by the Blood God, and the Skullgrinders are masters of their craft. No simple blacksmiths are these. Muscle ripples as they labour at their brazen anvils, ever-burning relics that are both implements of dark metalworking and sacrificial altars. Upon them, a Skullgrinder hammers the essence of rage into steel. When battle calls, Skullgrinders will bind these anvils in huge chains, swinging them with enough monstrous strength to shatter a gargant’s leg in one blow. To wield a weapon forged by a Skullgrinder is a mighty boon, for they channel their fury into crafting weapons of singular potency. Wars have been fought by champions seeking to impress such a smith into their service. There are whispers that many Skullgrinders were trained in the forges of the Brass Citadel or have walked those halls in their dream-quests. Undeniably, there is something otherworldly about the Skullgrinders, for all their immense physicality. In the flames that engulf their anvils, they see visions of the dread armaments they will craft – weapons to carve the realms apart one piece at a time.

Amidst battle’s madness, the finest of warriors find the daemon waiting for them. Unlike most Bloodletters, when not in combat, Skulltaker’s bearing is restrained, hands crossed over the pommel of a gore-dripping blade driven into the earth. Those who accept his challenge see that accursed sword raised in salute – before Skulltaker summarily eviscerates them. He is Khorne’s eternal champion, rage channelled as lethal precision, every strike calculated to sever the foe’s head. When battle is done, Skulltaker returns to the Brass Citadel, offering his new trophy to his god in supplication. On occasion, Khorne will allow his executioner to keep the heads of especially noteworthy foes. These are flensed fastidiously by Skulltaker, before being added to the cloak that marks his grim purpose. In his hunt for the most formidable enemies, Skulltaker has fought across reality and beyond, from atop perilous ice floes to the ramparts of impossible fortresses. He often travels alone, finding the constant raging of his fellows a tedious distraction. Even Bloodthirsters cannot command Khorne’s champion; those who try are fixed with a volcanic glower and a warning twitch of the Slayer Sword. For Skulltaker, only his next ordained kill matters. Anyone who would slow him – ally or adversary – is cut down without hesitation.

Bodies swollen with wrathful energies, the Slaughterpriests are Khorne’s chosen demagogues. Their spittle-flecked proclamations are, the Bloodbound say, the words of the War God himself – and the hellish miracles that follow lend credence to this belief. A Slaughterpriest’s raging and ritualistic invectives can boil the blood within an enemy’s veins, before compelling it to burst from their bodies in burning sanguine clouds. Through their chanting, they wreathe their flock’s weapons in infernal fires, render their flesh as living and inviolate bronze, and call forth manifestations of the Lord of Battle’s anger directly from the Realm of Chaos. To conflate a Slaughterpriest with a wizard would soon see the offender hacked apart in a frenzy. These champions do not manipulate aetheric energies in the manner of some craven mage; rather, they open their souls to the Blood God, becoming a conduit for his world-warping rage. Such contact with the furious divine would soon consume even the most fervent of worshippers. To bolster themselves, Slaughterpriests draw upon the power inherent in sacrifice; they will drink the blood of their victims and carve great wounds upon their own flesh. With such offerings do they gird their souls to bear Khorne’s touch.

To incur Valkia’s wrath is to invite death. She streaks down from the skies like a bolt of crimson lightning, driving her spear with such force that she impales multiple foes in a spectacularly gruesome fashion. With her comes the Blood God’s judgement, for wherever Valkia goes, the eye of Khorne follows.

A Bloodthirster is a harbinger of the apocalypse. They are the mightiest of Khorne’s daemons, warlords of his hosts and embodiments of his battle-frenzy. Few have faced these bat-winged slaughterers and lived. Those who have recall a terrible charnel reek and the insane hate that fills the creature’s gaze. So potent is this ire that it twists the world around a Bloodthirster. Jagged spires of brass erupt from the ground at their passing, and lakes of blood bubble in the craters left by their hooves. Each of these greater daemons belongs to one of eight hosts, with its own preferred methods of murder-making. Brutal competition exists between Bloodthirsters to ascend through these hosts, just as Khorne desires. Only the most mindlessly inchoate of daemons are mustered as part of the Sixth Host. These are the Bloodthirsters of Insensate Rage, bringers and disciples of the most atrocious forms of violence. With sinews bulging, they heft their Great Axes of Khorne – weapons tall as a fortress gate and forged with such fury that they can bisect a Stegadon in one terrible swing. What these weapons, wielded by such utterly battle-mad daemons, can do to ranks of lesser warriors is best left unconsidered…

A Bloodthirster is a harbinger of the apocalypse. They are the mightiest of Khorne’s daemons, warlords of his hosts and embodiments of his battle-frenzy. Few have faced these bat-winged slaughterers and lived. Those who have recall a terrible charnel reek and the insane hate that fills the creature’s gaze. So potent is this ire that it twists the world around a Bloodthirster. Jagged spires of brass erupt from the ground at their passing, and lakes of blood bubble in the craters left by their hooves. Each of these greater daemons belongs to one of eight hosts, with its own preferred methods of murder-making. Brutal competition exists between Bloodthirsters to ascend through these hosts, just as Khorne desires. Bloodthirsters of Unfettered Fury belong to the Eighth Host. Though the most numerous of Khorne’s greater daemons, they remain profoundly deadly; their axes have ended many a hero, while their cruel lashes stoke the fury of the Blood God’s worshippers. Beyond rejoicing in slaughter, the Eighth Host are tasked with expanding the Skull Lands and marshalling the hosts of Khorne’s lesser daemons. With bellows of fury and lashes of their spike-studded whips, they drive the Blood Legions onwards to new atrocities.

There was a time in which no daemon sat higher in the favour of Khorne than Skarbrand, marshal of the War God’s hosts. Victories beyond measure he laid before his master’s throne, for the Bloodthirster’s battle prowess was unmatched. Yet it was this very pride that allowed Tzeentch to plant worms of treachery in Skarbrand’s mind, taunting him until – in a moment of arrogant fury – he struck Khorne himself. In a rage, the Lord of Battles snatched Skarbrand and hurled him across the Realm of Chaos as a blazing comet. After eight days and nights, Skarbrand finally arose, his wings shredded and his mind locked in a furious madness. Exiled from Khorne’s realm, Skarbrand crashes across the Mortal Realms as a force of unmatched devastation. Wielding Slaughter and Carnage, twin axes each bound with the essence of a Bloodthirster, he tears through armies, heedless of any who are drawn to fight around him. Injury only spurs his rage to new heights, and his bellows of matchless fury can burst the hearts of those who hear them. In his matchless zeal, Skarbrand serves Khorne more completely than ever, and foes from the Stormcast Eternals to the celestial Seraphon have known the bite of his axes.

A Bloodthirster is a harbinger of the apocalypse. They are the mightiest of Khorne’s daemons, warlords of his hosts and embodiments of his battle-frenzy. Few have faced these bat-winged slaughterers and lived. Those who have recall a terrible charnel reek and the insane hate that fills the creature’s gaze. So potent is this ire that it twists the world around a Bloodthirster. Jagged spires of brass erupt from the ground at their passing, and lakes of blood bubble in the craters left by their hooves. Each of these greater daemons belongs to one of eight hosts, with its own preferred methods of murder-making. Brutal competition exists between Bloodthirsters to ascend through these hosts, just as Khorne desires. Bloodthirsters of the Third Host are permitted to dub themselves the Wrath of Khorne. They are hurled into the choicest engagements, driving the god’s hosts to red victory through their own displays of slaughter. Bloodthirsters of a less favoured host often find themselves subordinate to a Wrath of Khorne, however much it rankles. With axe and flail swinging, hellfire spilling from its maw with each bellow, a Wrath of Khorne Bloodthirster is a tyrannical marshal indeed, but one who will make any sacrifice to excel under its master’s gaze.

It takes Bloodletters of particular might and battle-craft to serve as captains in the infernal legions. These are the Heralds of Khorne, empowered daemons second in rank and murderous ability only to the Bloodthirsters. Heralds have earned their position in the only manner Khorne acknowledges: they have passed every martial trial set before them and cut down any who thought to challenge them. Wielding Blades of Blood forged by infernal artificers, Heralds of Khorne are conduits of their god’s fury, enacting his will through their furious commands. Only the Rendmasters, the most fervent of Khorne’s Heralds, are permitted to make war from atop a Blood Throne. These smoke-belching daemon engines are fashioned in the image of the Lord of Battle’s own dais; they grind across the field with hungry snarls of bloodlust, pulverising meat and bones beneath their wheels. As a Blood Throne devours the bodies of the slain, an infernal power pulses through its brass superstructure, feeding into the Herald that has chained itself to its apex. The daemon’s wrathful proselytising seems to carve apart the very substance of reality, summoning more of the Blood God’s legions in bursts of boiling ichor.

When a Flesh Hound has the scent of its prey, nowhere is safe. Known as the Inevitable Hunters, these rapacious daemons are dire blends of hunting dog and monstrous lizard. They prowl the wastes of the Skull Lands and lurk in the darkness of their cavernous lairs, waiting for the call to hunt. Those marked for the Flesh Hounds’ attention have infringed upon Khorne’s unremitting creed in some fashion, whether through cowardice or displays of mercy. Over fen, mountain and moor, the Flesh Hounds bound after their quarry, eager to sink their fangs into mortal flesh and tear their souls into aetheric scraps. It is said that those marked by the Flesh Hounds can eternally hear their baying in the back of their minds, growing more and more cacophonous as the daemons draw close. It is a phenomenon that has driven many to madness, a primal fear that reaches deep into the soul. Ritual and rite are little defence, owing to their blessed brass collars and claws that excel in shredding the flesh of wizards, and the daemons are utterly tireless. Even Bloodthisters can do little to control a Flesh Hound pack; they hunt as they will, consumed by Khorne’s raging vengeance.

Resolute shieldwalls are trampled by the coming of the Bloodcrushers, Khorne’s daemonic shock cavalry. It takes an especially murderous Bloodletter to master one of the ironclad daemons known as a Juggernaut. After a pleasing slaughter, the Bloodletter will be brought to an enclosed steppe deep within Khorne’s fortress – a land stamped flat by the Juggernauts that charge across the plains and slam into one another, sparks flying with each collision. The daemon must outwit or outfight the beast so that it ends up on the Juggernaut’s back – or else be gored into oblivion. Those who succeed crash free from the Brass Citadel in possession of a formidable new mount. Bloodcrushers are amongst the most unsubtle of Khorne’s warriors, which renders them truly a sight to behold. The fact that Juggernauts cannot truly be broken, and that it is they rather than their riders who decide where to charge into battle, is largely immaterial to the Bloodletters; after all, Juggernauts hunger for battle no less than any other of the War God’s servants. Protected by the Juggernaut’s metal hide, a Bloodcrusher uses its own mass as a profound weapon, smashing those foolish enough to stand in its path into flinders.

It matters not how brave a warrior claims to be; when the Brass Stampede thunders close, they shiver with fear. This clanking cavalcade of death is populated by the Skullcrushers, Khorne’s chosen knights. Each rides to war upon a daemon of iron, blood and brass known as a Juggernaut. These creatures are drawn to the most destructive of those warriors – those who crush and dismember as a matter of course. Smashing clear of their stockades in Khorne’s realm, they will charge across the cosmos until they locate the object of their fixation. The warrior then has eight heartbeats to form an accord with and mount the daemon. If they hesitate, they will be gored to death. Skullcrusher warbands often style themselves as vagabond warriors, nomadic slayers forever crossing the realms in search of new challenges. Their daemonic steeds need neither rest nor sustenance, crunching tirelessly through deep snow or over endless deserts to find new battlefields. A Skullcrusher may fight alongside numerous warhordes in their long lives, for the armour of both man and daemon is nigh invulnerable to conventional weapons – all the better to add mass to their lethal momentum.

Armed with brutalising axes, monstrous cleavers and spiked gauntlets, the Blood Warriors hack and hew without mercy. They are the iron heart of a Bloodbound warhorde, killers chosen by their god and commanded to commit great slaughter in his name. Relentlessness is their hallmark, for each knows full well that Khorne cares not from where the blood flows and that their deaths are welcomed as eagerly as any other. A Blood Warrior’s every moment is spent in service to the Lord of Battles. Even when they fall, they will spend the last of their strength attempting to drag the foe with them as one final sacrifice for their god. A Blood Warrior’s armour is not forged conventionally. Rather, a soul chosen by Khorne will undergo the harrowing Red Baptism. The god’s favour will manifest as their skin becomes coated in scalding blood. This then scabs over and hardens into plate, and for the remainder of their days, a boundless battle fury will seize the wearer. Blood Warriors typically emerge from a Bloodbound tribe, but not always. Even one who has fought against a Khornate army may on rare occasion be subjected to the Red Baptism if Khorne looks on them approvingly.

The furious heart of the Blood Legions, Bloodletters are the most numerous of Khorne’s daemons. It speaks to the War God’s battle-madness that even these lesser shards of his will are warriors of formidable skill. Combat is their driving obsession, consuming their every thought; anger boils constantly through their veins, and they find fleeting satisfaction only in the moment of the decapitating strike. This total devotion to war is made manifest in each Bloodletter’s hellblade – a jagged sword tied with their very essence that blazes hotter as the daemon’s outrage grows. When first seen on the march, Bloodletters may appear to be the most martially organised of daemons. They stomp forwards in recognisable ranks, marshalling to the clarion of brazen horns and beneath banners that drip with gore. Long tongues flicking at the air, as if tasting the impending massacre, they can be entrusted to heed the growled commands of their overlords – at least, until the blood begins to flow. When that happens, the Bloodletters become nigh-on uncontrollable. All semblance of cohesion breaks as they lope forwards in a howling mob, tearing at one another to be first to plunge their blades deep into the flesh of mortal prey.

Bloodreavers form the howling masses of the Bloodbound warhordes. Though they cannot rival the War God’s most exalted champions for sheer stature, they are more than capable of punching a Freeguilder to death – though they much prefer to kill with axe, dagger and cleaver. They stab and hack until they are covered in the gore of both friend and foe, heedless of danger and determined to win Khorne’s favour or die trying. When the Bloodreavers mass in great numbers and crash against the foe, shieldwalls crumble and armies collapse. Many Bloodreavers were once tribesfolk who went down darker paths of battle and bloodshed; others were former Sigmarites lured into the Lord of Battle’s service by their own war-hunger. Yet there is another, more infamous way that they recruit new warriors: the Dark Feast. In the aftermath of battle, captives who have fought well will be offered a choice by the Bloodbound – brutal death or to consume the flesh of their own butchered comrades. Those who choose the latter are damned. With each bite, their disgust fades as Khorne claims more of their soul. Soon they are one more frothing Bloodreaver, lost in a cannibalistic furore.

Those who trespass in lands claimed by the Bloodbound learn to fear the echo of wordless growls. Such is the only warning they will receive of ambush by the Claws of Karanak, warbands devoted to the role of the savage pack-hunter. The Claws of Karanak venerate Khorne as the apex predator of reality and Flesh Hounds as his truest manifestations. They emulate these daemons by chasing down any who offend the War God with displays of cowardice. The Packmasters of the cult are said to be able to smell a craven from miles away, and they wear the hides of magically gifted foes as prized trophies. Though they will respond to a worthy lord, the Claws’ desire to hunt is overwhelming, seeing them range far ahead of the horde. The carnage they wreak is such that many champions permit them the honour of first blood. The greatest honour for any such cultist is to battle alongside a Flesh Hound – or else to slay such a daemon after beating them to their quarry. Those who achieve this latter feat are transformed into slavering daemonkin known as Hounds of Wrath, loping forward on all fours to tear foes apart with their bare hands.

Skullreapers strike the foe like the scything blade of Khorne himself, cutting down ranks of warriors in a handful of blood-drenched seconds. Only the most insane Bloodreavers will dare seek admission to this warrior cult, for even the followers of Khorne view it with an awe verging on dread. To attain the might of the Skullreapers, an aspirant must embark on the Trial of Skulls. Few better examples of Khorne’s unstinting creed exist. While the specific rituals of the Trial vary across the realms, the meat of the matter is always the same; each day they must take eight skulls in open conflict, without fail, or be struck by their god’s displeasure. Skullreapers are offered great strength for their commitment and fervour. Even those who should fail to make their quota may at first only be ‘blessed’ with mutations that render them even more lethal. In the back of their minds, however, forever lurks the fear of being devolved into some mewling hellspawn – a fate without honour in Khorne’s eyes. Skullreapers target the largest concentrations of enemy that they can find, ploughing into the fray without hesitation. With each furious, decapitating swing, they move a step closer to Khorne’s favour.

Raving, insensate, consumed by battle-lust – Wrathmongers are perhaps the purest expression of Khorne’s nature amongst the Bloodbound hordes. Not for them the allure of lordship, nor even the rough camaraderie of warriors. They have given themselves to the daemonic, enduring the ritual of the Brass Cage so that they might be swollen with infernal power. A Wrathmonger’s blood boils with that forbidden strength, lending them might enough to swing their bludgeoning flails as if they weighed nothing, and from them exudes an aura of fury so overwhelming that it seizes both friend and foe. Homicidal madness is a Wrathmonger’s constant companion – one that they embrace wholeheartedly. Wrathmongers cannot be truly commanded, even by the most vaunted of champions. Khorne is their only true master, and the spreading of his allconsuming fury is their driving goal. A hot arterial stink surrounds them at all times, for blood oozes from their pores as a crimson mist. It is this vapour that drives sane warriors out of their minds with outrage and funnels new souls into Khorne’s grasp. It also renders the skin of the Wrathmongers perpetually ruddy, until they more closely resemble the daemons of the Blood Legions than their fellow mortals.

Even amongst the pitiless hordes of the Goretide, the Bloodreavers led by Garrek Gorebeard are known for their cruelty and deranged ferocity. It is said that Garrek personally guts and skins any of his warriors who fail to take a worthy trophy in battle.

Dromm, Wounder of Worlds, Slaughterpriest of Great Khorne, seeks to commit the ultimate act of violence in the name of his murderous god. With his cursed axe he would carve open the realms themselves, causing the lands to shudder and writhe in agony. Together known as the Gorechosen of Dromm, the Skullgrinder Herax and the muscle- bound Gorehulk accompany the self-proclaimed Wounder of Worlds on his deranged quest to mutilate the realms, slaughtering anything that gets in their way.

Magore Redhand leads his band of killers on an endless hunt for worthy skulls. In return for his prodigious offerings, Khorne has blessed the Blood Warrior with profane gifts, including a daemonic maw in his gut that can bite through even sigmarite.

The abominations known as Khorgoraths were once creatures native to the Mortal Realms. They were seized by the Blood God’s followers and dragged before his altars, where they were melded together and twisted into predatory forms more pleasing to his gaze. Khorgoraths are lumpen misbegots whose every moment is torment. Their bodies spasm with overwrought musculature, and their innards twist with endless hunger – a hunger not for flesh but for skulls. With an ear-rending howl, Khorgoraths leap upon their prey in ungainly fashion, tentaclelike appendages whipping out to twist and rip off heads before stuffing them into gnashing fanged maws. Any unfortunate enough to witness one of these beasts in a frenzy of consumption is marked by the experience for evermore. Khorgoraths prowl the territories of the Bloodbound in a mindless state of hunger, salivating and heaving with the need to consume. When battle calls, it is the Bloodstokers who will typically direct them to the front, the lashing of their whips speaking to the animal instincts still buried within the poor creatures. Other lords keep Khorgoraths far closer, using them as guardian beasts that will rip apart petitioners and rivals with but a word from their master.

Though Khorne favours close combat, he also approves of mechanised death. The Skull Cannons are the manifestation of this belief. Crafted in the forges that burn within the god’s Brass Citadel, these sentient artillery pieces are as thirsty for carnage as any of their fellow daemons. Skull Cannons rumble forwards while revving and snarling, protruding jaws snapping wildly. Bloodletters – often those who forged the abomination – cling to the weapon’s spiked ridges, helping to direct the long brass barrel that emerges from its ‘neck’. From here is shot the cannon’s payload: the skulls of the foe, covered in pitch of boiling blood before being set alight. Upon striking their target, they explode with terrible force, reducing foes to smears of gore. Typical of Khorne’s single-minded fixation, Skull Cannons reload by inflicting death. As their spiked wheels crush enemies and their mouths tear flesh apart, the foe’s skulls are sucked into the device’s innards, ready to be fired. Each impact from such a projectile echoes like the roar of the Blood God, and when massed in cohorts, Skull Cannons have the power to level fortress walls, the engines roaring through the breach to join the slaughter.

It is often remarked that Khorne’s only true temple is the battlefield. Nevertheless, the Skull Altars are nexuses where his wrathful powers can be harnessed by the faithful. Though they are clad in iron and brass, these are no natural constructs; they are spars of the Brass Citadel and the Skull Lands that lie beyond the veil, dragged into reality through acts of war and sacrifice. Skulls erupt from the ground to mass around their base, and anger chokes the air around them like a heat haze. Skull Altars often form the heart of Bloodbound warcamps, and to claim such a structure is a worthy ambition for any mortal champion. Even daemons covet the Skull Altars, for they are a tangible link to the realm of their master. As shards of the Realm of Chaos made manifest, Skull Altars are laden with ritualistic energy. Through the offering of blood and the speaking of slaughterous invocations, a disciple of Khorne can harness this power with greater ease than ever. The chants of one stood atop a Skull Altar echo across the battlefield, filling all who hear them with mounting fury.

The ichor of the slaughtered dead drips ceaselessly from the prongs of a Bleeding Icon. It is the tally of lives measured and ended, for this manifestation of the infernal realms – called forth by the War God’s psychopathic priesthood – looms in judgement over the field of murder. Those who stand in its presence find themselves seized by its silent imperatives: more carnage, more screams, more blood for the Blood God and skulls for the Skull Throne. It is said that if one walked the Skull Lands that form Khorne’s domain, they would see many Bleeding Icons glaring in judgement from the blood-stained skies above. A Bleeding Icon displays little of the outright aggression of Khorne’s creations, but its influence stretches far. Any tactical order collapses in the presence of a Bleeding Icon, as the Blood God’s demands fill the battle-wearied minds of warriors. Should a mortal gaze into the reflective brass surface of the Icon for too long, they will glimpse themselves at their most bestial and base, a vision of what they could become through service to Khorne. For some, it is a scene of horror. For others, the strength on display is a profound temptation…

Priests of Khorne who utter vows of vengeance against wizards may call forth Hexgorger Skulls from the Realm of Chaos. These manifestations take the form of a pair of giant flayed skulls, blood pouring from their eye sockets. They drift with a predatory menace, seeking the tang of sorcery. When spellcraft is detected, the Skulls disgorge blood in a ferocious torrent. In their presence, even the mightiest incantations gutter out. The sight of these bleeding death’s heads has seen many mages reduced to gibbering terror as Khorne’s chosen hack them apart. Amongst the most infamous tales regarding the Hexgorger Skulls was the case of Ghyrrus Thrin. A skilled interpreter of astral confluences, Thrin’s arcane predictions had seen the garrison of Gram’s Redoubt – a vital strongpoint in the southern Brimstone Peninsula – repel Khornate warbands on numerous occasions. Yet when the moon known as Orb Infernia reached its apex that year, Thrin’s predictions grew unnerving, fixating on floating skulls watching him from afar. One night, Thrin was found missing from his tower. His corpse was discovered a mile or two from the walls, lungs pumped full of clotted blood. Gram’s Redoubt was overrun soon after, and Sigmarite control in the local region collapsed.

Wrath-axes are embodiments of Khorne’s otherworldly anger. The god’s fury sharpens these manifestations to a razor-edge. If a priest should be daring enough to summon such an entity, they must be sure they possess the strength of will to direct it; otherwise, they may find their own body and soul carved in two by the blade. Once a Wrath-axe is unleashed, it is nigh-on impossible to stop. The blade carves a furrow through space and time as it travels onwards. Even once it has passed, a Wrath-axe leaves scars upon a region: rents torn open to the Realm of Chaos, through which all manner of strange and unnatural phenomena pour. Some Khorne warbands follow the world wounds carved by the Wrath-axes, believing that the lines they carve contain some secret command from their god – though if any such message exists, it is no doubt a simple imperative to kill and kill again. Other worshippers of the Blood God establish camps around holy sites created by these manifestations. Mountains split down the middle, horrifically disfigured ancient statues, the bones of decapitated titans: all these are seen as stark proof that Khorne’s incarnate fury can slay any foe.

It does not matter to the Warstompers who is fighting or why; all they care about is finding a vicious scrap to lose themselves in. The charge of a Warstomper is akin to being hit by a roaring Chamonic steam-engine, and then the titan begins swinging their huge club, ploughing through enemy ranks with howls of battle‑joy. One-eyed Grunnock is truly infamous. Gargants far and wide tell of how he terrorised Ghurish Necrosia, battling the Ossiarch Bonereapers. To the Warstomper, the undead are perfect enemies that constantly attract new foes. He has violently thwarted the Bonereapers’ negotiations with other races on several occasions, most notably interrupting the signing of a treaty with a duardin fleet. Being pitched off the side of a mountain and forever burdened with a splitting headache was, admittedly, not part of Grunnock’s plan, but the chance to ensure that the fighting between the two forces would never end was worth it. For a time, Grunnock relentlessly hunted Kragnos, fearing that the Drogrukh deity would drive his undead prey from Ghur. Yet now Kragnos rampages in Ghyran, leaving Grunnock free to crush his favoured enemies once more.