Flesh-eater Courts – Warscrolls

Whereas the majority of abhorrant royalty might command a single fiefdom of cannibal thralls, an Archregent rules over an entire nation. These vampiric sovereigns carry the full potency of Ushoran’s curse in their blood, granting them ferocious strength, magical talents and the dark charisma to enthral thousands of followers with a single, rasping word. Their talons are sharp as meteoric iron, their fangs capable of biting through a knight’s gorget to puncture the veins beneath. Where an Archregent walks, the air shimmers with madness as if caught in a heat haze, the line between what is real and imagined blurring to indistinction. Ghouls look upon Abhorrant Archregents as the pinnacle of courtly grandeur, seeing them as benevolent monarchs utterly devoted to peace and prosperity for their people. In truth, of course, they are nothing more than blood-starved maniacs who launch endless wars against mortalkind in the deluded belief that they are fighting some holy war. When an Archregent beckons, a flood of cannibal horrors comes scrabbling forward to serve their will, hurling themselves upon the enemy in a frenzied attempt to earn the vampire’s favour.

On rare occasions, a newly sired abhorrant will display some mark of divine favour, such as glowing red eyes or the propensity to speak in tongues. To prevent these vampires seizing power through the acclamation of devout serfs, their sires give them to the Cardinal order. Cardinals provide spiritual guidance to the monarchy but ultimately owe loyalty only to Ushoran. To join them, an abhorrant must make pilgrimage to the Mortarch’s court and sup the Summerking’s ichor and spittle from his sacred chalice. Only those of unshakeable faith can endure the resulting convulsions; in doing so, they gain an unconscious ability to shape the delusions of ghouls around them. They deliver bloody offerings to Nagash and perform miraculous feats that pitch their flocks into even greater frenzies. This ability to manipulate delusions sees the Cardinals leading missionary efforts into Sigmarite nations. They enter enemy territory through hidden catacombs and densely packed meat-wagons, drawing mortals who have been infected by Ushoran’s curse into their embrace. In forgotten crypts, forest clearings and abandoned strongpoints, Cardinals now lead cults that give praise to the Summerking, and not even the feared witch-hunters of Sigmar’s Order of Azyr can fully determine their spread.

At the heart of every cannibal court lurks an abhorrant monarch known as a Ghoul King or Queen. These vampires are tied by blood to their beloved Ushoran, and both his power and his madness flow thickly in their veins. As deranged as their dread master, Abhorrant Ghoul Kings see themselves as honourable lords in service to a benevolent liege, and they feel a patrician’s imperative to ensure that their loyal populace is well fed and happy. In reality, this means that they launch constant raids against the lands of the living, gorging themselves on fresh blood and meat while spreading madness and horror wherever they go. Like the noblest martial monarchs, many Ghoul Kings choose to fight at the vanguard of their army. Delusions of chivalric glory swirl in their fevered minds as they seek out and challenge the mightiest foes to single combat. Needless to say, there is little that is honourable about the resulting bloodshed. Pouncing upon their prey with terrifying speed, the Ghoul King will proceed to eat the luckless victim alive, ripping and tearing with filth-encrusted talons as their fangs sink deep into their prey’s flesh, drawing up great draughts of warm, vitalising ichor.

Gorewardens are the guardians of a charnel kingdom’s borders and marches. These winged vampires squat atop tumbled fortifications, forever alert for trespassers and salivating in anticipation of fresh meat. When a foolish foe passes some unspoken boundary, the vampire releases a soul-shredding shriek before taking flight upon leathery wings, soon joined by a hunting party of other airborne horrors. Gorewardens are natural predators, able to sniff out vulnerability at a glance before descending to rip their prey into shreds. Before long, whatever remains of the enemy retreats back over the border in disarray, leaving their wounded to be dragged to the Gorewarden’s lair and devoured. Gorewardens are drawn from the most loyal members of a sovereign’s extended family. They are rewarded for their faithful service not only through blood rites that see them sprout powerful wings but also by being granted the ‘keys to the kingdom’, rusted relics plundered from overrun castles that they regard as symbols of authority. Gorewardens are prone to fanaticism; after all, Ushoran himself entrusted them with their sacred duties, and to fail him would be a terrible crime. Many wear the bones of slain enemies as ruffs imitating a sunburst, marking themselves as holy warriors of the Summerking.

Crypt Haunter Courtiers are respected and, in many cases, feared by lower-ranking ghouls, for as the marshals of their kingdom’s knightly orders, they possess a brutal prowess. Twisted creatures of bulging muscles and protruding bone, they have been utterly transformed by necromantic energies and are now barely recognisable as the debased humans they once were. That same necrotic power also grants Crypt Haunters formidable regenerative abilities, allowing them to shrug off all but the most devastating blows. In battle, these warlike courtiers stampede to the front alongside other swollen ghoul-things, forming a terrifying wedge of ferocity that barrels right into the thickest concentration of enemy soldiers. Consumed by bloodlust and a need to distinguish themselves in their liege’s eyes, a Crypt Haunter Courtier seeks to outdo their kin with displays of blood-spraying savagery. They smash away with a gigantic bone club or simply rely upon their dagger-length talons to rend flesh and metal alike. As crimson ichor sprays from foes savaged by the Courtier, more ‘knights’ flock to their side, recognising that where these champions fight, the greatest feasts are found.

Crypt Infernal Courtiers are winged abominations whose hooked talons can shred steel and whose screeches can freeze a mortal heart. To become a Crypt Infernal, a ghoul must consume their sovereign’s blood mixed with drake-flesh. By doing so, they are granted a monstrous form, albeit one exalted by ghoulkind. In the eyes of fellow cannibals, they shine with a holy radiance, their purity further proven by the alabaster pinions that adorn their backs. Those who have not received Ushoran’s blessing are instead greeted by the sight of leather-winged fiends dropping from the sky to land amongst them, unleashing sonic shrieks that burst eardrums and eyeballs even as the rancid stench of rotting carrion fills their mouths. Crypt Infernal Courtiers command the Deadwatch, the winged bodyguards of the nobility. When an abhorrant takes to the skies upon a mighty beast from their menagerie, they are often accompanied by their most loyal Infernals, hand-picked and bearing their own noble epithets and titles. To be permitted to touch a Crypt Infernal’s wings is a rare honour amongst ghouls, though any who approach these champions without permission risk being messily devoured.

It is the duty of Grand Justice Gormayne to deliver the king’s justice to those who break his laws, sentencing the guilty to a brutal, messy execution. It matters not to Ushoran that Gormayne was once a criminal himself, for the abhorrant possesses an uncanny ability of great interest to the Mortarch: some quirk of the Grand Justice’s curse sees him afflicted by traumatic flashes of sanity. This grants him insight unique amongst the Carrion King’s flock, including the means to decipher the writings of mortalkind. Intrigued by – and suspicious of – his underling, Ushoran keeps a close eye on Gormayne, demanding that he prove his loyalty with ever more zealous displays of judicial excess. Despite his position of prestige, the Grand Justice exists in a constant state of torment. To reveal the truth of his condition or to grant undue clemency to those confused mortals who stumble into his gore-splattered court would see Gormayne condemned as a traitor. Thus, he must bury himself in madness, throwing himself completely into his monstrous role. Should an enemy transgress against Ushoran’s decrees. Gormayne’s snarling oratory is quick to condemn them to public dismemberment – a sentence that he and his ‘jury’ of jabbering ghouls are only too happy to carry out.

The Marrowscroll Heralds are the warrior diplomats of Ushoran’s empire. Though often found maintaining lines of communication between the cannibal nations and other strongholds of undeath, these chosen ghouls are loyal only to the Carrion King. Their fellows perceive the Heralds as dashing and selfless orators, bedecked in gifts from allied nations as they seek out and rouse oppressed peasants to join Ushoran’s kingdom. Yet the Herald’s message is one of pure madness. Where a mortal diplomat might carry a scroll within an elegant sealed case, the Marrowscroll Heralds instead bear bones ripped from Ushoran’s throne, relics suffused with insanity. When these are cracked and the ensorcelled marrow within unfurled like strips of vellum, arcane derangement bursts forth, crushing minds beneath the force of the Carrion King’s delusion. To resist requires a stern soul indeed, but to reject Ushoran’s benevolence incites the Heralds and their ghoulish throngs to a frothing rage. Having eviscerated any apostates with their osseous scythe, the Herald and their new disciples press on to bring the Carrion King’s message of love to pastures new.

In the minds of most ghouls, even the foulest foes are entitled to an honourable end. Certain cannibals, however, become fixated on the act of killing, even over the devouring of the dead. Other ghouls view such wretches as touched by the hand of Nagash, chosen to become deliverers of his pitiless justice. Far from refuting such claims, these foreboding figures embrace this stigma. Taking the title of Royal Decapitator, they don filthy patchwork hoods and take up rusted axes recovered from the midden heaps, weapons that have taken so many lives that they seem to hunger for death. Seen as dour and uncultured by their fellows, Decapitators are shunned figures, forced to dwell in isolated bone-strewn lairs. Yet they are nevertheless permitted to accompany the royal host to battle, and when these cannibals spy an enemy who excites their murderous impulses, a slavering mania seizes them. The Decapitator lopes forwards with a single minded focus, shrugging off arrows and lead shot, dragging their axe in a furrow through the mud. So occupied are their targets with fighting off hordes of rabid ghouls that few notice the heavy blade whistling towards them until it cleaves them in two.

Long-limbed and bestial in appearance, a Varghulf is a vampiric creature within whose cursed blood the Boon of Ushoran runs deep. While they often prowl low to the ground like some creeping sloggoth or bog-haunter, these are no mere carrion-feeders; they prefer fresh meat, especially if it fights back. Their jaws have strength enough to crush plate armour or tear out the throat of a rhinox in one powerful yank. When truly overcome by hunger, Varghulfs have been witnessed punching through the thick hulls of Ironweld steam-hulks, their disturbingly dexterous fingers dragging out the crew like a famished soldier scrabbling for their rations. So feral are Varghulfs that they rarely walk amongst a court, even on feast days; instead, they dwell in sacred cloisters deep beneath the earth. Only righteous battle can entice a Varghulf to quit their abode. Surrounded by swaying and howling ghouls, they are festooned by the Cardinals with garlands of slick sinew and organs before taking to the field. There, they enter a rabid frenzy that is terrible to behold, rampaging through the enemy ranks at will. Any wounds they suffer soon close again, for the Varghulf’s gory feast infuses its very being with necrotic power.

Amongst the lowliest of an abhorrant’s courtiers, Crypt Ghasts are nevertheless vicious and cunning creatures. They rally behind them great throngs of snarling cannibals, leading them into battle with howls of murderous fury.

At the heart of every cannibal court lurks an abhorrant monarch known as a Ghoul King or Queen. These vampires are tied by blood to their beloved Ushoran, and both his power and his madness flow thickly in their veins. As deranged as their dread master, Abhorrant Ghoul Kings see themselves as honourable lords in service to a benevolent liege, and they feel a patrician’s imperative to ensure that their loyal populace is well fed and happy. In reality, this means that they launch constant raids against the lands of the living, gorging themselves on fresh blood and meat while spreading madness and horror wherever they go. Possessing a vampire’s physical might and innate mastery over the magic of death, Abhorrant Ghoul Kings are able to animate and control the remains of long-dead titans. A favoured choice of royal mount is the Terrorgheist, a chiropterid nightmare of rotting wings and bone. These creatures are capable of unleashing a sonic cry so terrible that it can cause a mortal warrior’s heart to explode within their chest. Even should the Ghoul King be dismounted and his loyal steed slain, the enemy must still beware: inside a Terrorgheist’s foulsmelling innards lurks a swarm of corpse-bats, ready to burst free of their foetid cage and feast upon those close at hand.

At the heart of every cannibal court lurks an abhorrant monarch known as a Ghoul King or Queen. These vampires are tied by blood to their beloved Ushoran, and both his power and his madness flow thickly in their veins. As deranged as their dread master, Abhorrant Ghoul Kings see themselves as honourable lords in service to a benevolent liege, and they feel a patrician’s imperative to ensure that their loyal populace is well fed and happy. In reality, this means that they launch constant raids against the lands of the living, gorging themselves on fresh blood and meat while spreading madness and horror wherever they go. Possessing a vampire’s physical might and innate mastery over the magic of death, Abhorrant Ghoul Kings are able to animate and control the remains of long-dead titans. Greatly prized is the mighty cadaver of a great drake, for in death, the draconic beasts of the realms maintain a morbid majesty befitting a monarch. Almost immune to conventional attacks, the Zombie Dragon carries its master into the thick of the slaughter, raking with teeth and claws and belching gouts of pestilential fumes that cause flesh to bubble and run like hot wax.

All living beings dread the name of Nagash, the God of Undeath. Cruel and tyrannical, the overlord of Shyish intends to conquer the Mortal Realms and transform them into a lifeless Necrotopia, in which not a speck of dust moves unless it is by his will. Wielding Alakanash, the Staff of Power, the cursed blade Zefet-nebtar, and surrounded by the Nine Books of Nagash, the Great Necromancer commands the full, terrible power of Shyishan magic. With a contemptuous gesture, he tears the souls from the living, their last moments of agonising horror providing the fuel for his next arcane onslaught. Nagash despises the unpredictable madness of the Flesh-eater Courts, which he sees as entirely antithetical to his own desire for sterile domination. In ages past, Ushoran drew Nagash’s ire with some great transgression, for which the Mortarch was punished terribly. In spite of this, many Flesh‑eaters – in their own deranged way – worship the Great Necromancer with disturbing fervour, envisioning him as a benevolent master of the underworlds. In his presence, they fight with unrestrained ferocity, believing that they honour him with every foe they rip into pieces and messily devour.

Master of the abhorrants, progenitor of monsters and locus of a dreadful curse, Ushoran is nightmarish in the truest sense of the word. The Mortarch of Delusion towers above other vampires, his grotesquely swollen frame rippling with muscle and his mad–eyed visage shining with a terrible delight. So terrifying is he to look upon that it is easy to miss the fluctuating voices and inflections that spill from his gore-stained mouth – personas donned and discarded like so many masks, further proof of the Mortarch’s utter insanity. The only hint of Ushoran’s self-proclaimed regality is the crown that protrudes from his skull and the ‘royal sceptre’ he cradles in his taloned hands. At any moment, Ushoran might tremble with rasping laughter or fly into a bloodthirsty rage that sees him tear enemies and allies alike limb from limb. This unpredictable madness is not only a shield against those seeking to manipulate or control him but also a weapon with which the Mortarch might dominate his foes. When the sickly haze of Ushoran’s mania is channelled through his crown and unleashed upon the sane, they are pulled into his web of derangement, turning upon their former comrades in a violent frenzy.

Few ghouls have the presence of mind to ride beasts of war. Those who do possess such talents join the order of the Morbheg Knights, an august company who ride to battle atop the horrific, bat-like monstrosities known as nightshriekers. These aberrations are of the line of Morbheg, godbeast father to the great bats of yore. Though unable to truly fly, they echo their primogenitor’s infamous, realm-piercing scream with a screeching cry like insane laughter – a sound infused with madness that drives those who hear it to their knees. To ride such a fiend is a mark of honour amongst ghoulkind. The lesser thralls of Ushoran see the Morbheg Knights as shining paladins that epitomise their liege-lord’s chivalric code and the beasts they ride as glorious winged horses. For all that this image is another grotesque symptom of the Flesh-eater curse, the bond between rider and nightshrieker is undeniably strong. The chiropteran mounts favour any beings that guide them to a bloody feast, and they carry their riders faithfully into the churn of melee, smashing enemies to the ground and glutting themselves upon warm blood while their ghoul masters strike out with rusty lances.

On those nights when fell winds howl and the flesh of monsters passes across the feast tables, the Crypt Flayers emerge into unnatural half-life. Serfs who have distinguished themselves in battle are permitted to consume the flesh of Terrorgheists and other creatures of the chiropterid godbeast Morbheg’s line mixed with the blood of their sovereign. Bodies already convulsing and bloating, they slink away into the darkness of their vile fortresses, becoming enveloped by a fleshy cocoon of pulsating skin and muscle. Within this larval sac, a foul metamorphosis occurs – until, with a shriek and the flap of leathery wings, a Crypt Flayer tears free, crazed with hunger. To the ghouls, this is a marvellous blessing indeed, and the bloodslick Crypt Flayers soon become icons of religious veneration. As well as possessing shredding talons and the power of flight, Crypt Flayers are infamous for the sonic force of their screeches. Any subjected to this auditory onslaught find their blood turning to ice and their mind shattering. To ghouls, however, each utterance by a Flayer is a glorious battle-hymn or seraphic catechism, befitting of the winged saints that the delusion portrays them as.

On those nights when fell winds howl and the flesh of monsters passes across the feast tables, the Crypt Flayers emerge into unnatural half-life. Serfs who have distinguished themselves in battle are permitted to consume the flesh of Terrorgheists and other creatures of the chiropterid godbeast Morbheg’s line mixed with the blood of their sovereign. Bodies already convulsing and bloating, they slink away into the darkness of their vile fortresses, becoming enveloped by a fleshy cocoon of pulsating skin and muscle. Within this larval sac, a foul metamorphosis occurs – until, with a shriek and the flap of leathery wings, a Crypt Flayer tears free, crazed with hunger. To the ghouls, this is a marvellous blessing indeed, and the bloodslick Crypt Flayers soon become icons of religious veneration. As well as possessing shredding talons and the power of flight, Crypt Flayers are infamous for the sonic force of their screeches. Any subjected to this auditory onslaught find their blood turning to ice and their mind shattering. To ghouls, however, each utterance by a Flayer is a glorious battle-hymn or seraphic catechism, befitting of the winged saints that the delusion portrays them as.

Nests of Crypt Ghouls are found throughout the foul places of the realms. On the darkest nights, stooped cannibals spill from ruined castles and bonestrewn graveyards, drooling as they seek out trespassers. Some of their prey fall swiftly, throats clawed out or hearts torn free by long, grasping fingers. Those less fortunate are still alive as the cannibals devour them. Despite this, ghouls believe themselves to be bringing salvation to the realms, and in the presence of the Flesh-eater nobility, their ‘valour’ reaches a manic intensity. Part of this ferocity is born from genuine devotion to the vampiric monarchy, but also responsible is the charnel stench of the abhorrants, which incites a frantic hunger in their underlings. As lowly serfs, ghouls exist upon the edge of starvation. The scent of gore drives them wild with hunger, and when the odour mixes with that of their prey’s terror, the feeding frenzy that follows is horrific. Scrabbling across the earth on all fours, the Crypt Ghouls prove difficult targets to strike and close upon their prey with shocking swiftness. Though most are armed with nothing more than their claws and a few rancid bone clubs, ghouls attack in huge packs, bearing enemies down with their sheer weight of numbers and indulging their horrific cravings.

Though ghouls are vile cannibals, their appearance retains enough vestigial humanity to evoke some pity. The same cannot be said for Crypt Horrors. These are monstrous beasts, each as brawny as an ogor and equally eager for meat. Hideously strong, they rip organs right out of their victims, stuffing glistening handfuls of offal into their maws. While they wear no armour, neither do they feel pain; by the time a Crypt Horror is cut down, they will have bludgeoned a gory path through anything standing before them. Crypt Horrors are created when a ghoul performs a feat of arms so worthy of renown that they are permitted to sup from their vampiric liege’s blood, a substance charged with dark sorcery. As they swell in stature, becoming able to sprint as fast as a charging destrier, they begin to view themselves as a mounted elite under the command of the blessed courtiers. This delusion is deepened by the plaudits heaped upon them by the serfs, and this sense of their own majestic status perhaps spawns the compulsion to hoard remnants of past massacres like sacred relics.

Though ghouls are vile cannibals, their appearance retains enough vestigial humanity to evoke some pity. The same cannot be said for Crypt Horrors. These are monstrous beasts, each as brawny as an ogor and equally eager for meat. Hideously strong, they rip organs right out of their victims, stuffing glistening handfuls of offal into their maws. While they wear no armour, neither do they feel pain; by the time a Crypt Horror is cut down, they will have bludgeoned a gory path through anything standing before them. Crypt Horrors are created when a ghoul performs a feat of arms so worthy of renown that they are permitted to sup from their vampiric liege’s blood, a substance charged with dark sorcery. As they swell in stature, becoming able to sprint as fast as a charging destrier, they begin to view themselves as a mounted elite under the command of the blessed courtiers. This delusion is deepened by the plaudits heaped upon them by the serfs, and this sense of their own majestic status perhaps spawns the compulsion to hoard remnants of past massacres like sacred relics.

It is commonly held that for a ghoul to rise above the peasant masses, they must be invited to ‘drink from their lord’s table’ – that is, consume vampiric blood. Yet there are elite formations in which a serf may earn a place through worthy deeds alone. The Cryptguard numbers amongst these. They are the guardians of a monarch’s estates and, more vitally, the lifewards of a court’s elite, marked by a rabid tenacity in the face of danger. Advancing to the thump of human-hide drums beneath pennants of flayed flesh, they form a sallow-faced bulwark against the enemy, showing devotion to protecting their masters beyond that of any common serf. Eager to reward loyal service, their lieges afford the Cryptguard various privileges, including leftovers from their personal abattoirs and slightly more comfortable caves to serve as barracks. The most profound reward, however, is a chance for these ghouls to earn a weapon from their monarch’s private armoury. That these blades are often blunt is a deceptive weakness; they have spent years marinating in not only toxic corpse-juices but also the aetheric madness of the abhorrants. To suffer even a shallow wound can plunge even a perfectly rational warrior into the throes of insanity.

As in any mortal court, ghouls have their cliques and figures of roguish renown. So it is with the Royal Beastflayers. At the centre of these warbands strut the Flaymasters, vampires regarded as the most adroit monster hunters of a court, wearing the skins of their most memorable kills. Alongside these daring undead swarm all manner of hangers-on, including trackers drawn from the local peasantry, minor nobles wearing trophies seized during past hunts, and hunched ghouls grown brutish after consuming the flesh of slain beasts. Most dreadful of all are the macabre Offal Hounds – ghouls overwhelmed by bestial magic until they devolve into slavering abominations somewhere between a hunting hound, cave bat and monstrous simian. A lust for glory motivates even the lowliest squire of a Beastflayer party, yet all instinctively know their purpose: to prise open their prey’s defences through frenzied aggression, allowing their Flaymaster to strike a glorious coup de grâce. Following the keen scent of their Offal Hounds, these whooping hunters track their quarry across the chaos of the battlefield, surrounding them and cutting off every possible escape route before closing in to feast.

Duke Crakmarrow is the liege-lord of the Grymwatch. This cadaverous creature is seen as an example of glorious gallantry by his kin and a blood-spattered, carrion-devouring monstrosity by the foes he meets in battle. Believing themselves to be heroic paladins on a mission of the utmost import, the deluded cannibals of the Grymwatch scrabble forth to tear apart their foes in a flurry of fangs and grasping claws.

Foremost of the Summerking’s butchers are the Skinnerkin, who work to secure the most delicious viands for his feasts. These masters of the slaughter carry racks of meat hooks in their very flesh, intent on stringing up their prey upon these blades alive – for the sake of freshness, of course.

In ages past, colossal chiropteran predators haunted the skies of the Mortal Realms, preying upon their fellow megafauna and leeching them dry of blood. Many of these leather-winged titans were hunted to extinction or otherwise starved when the spread of civilisation robbed them of their favoured prey. They slunk away into dismal caves and echoing vaults to slowly die out, embittered and voracious. It was the carcasses of these beasts that were raised through necromancy and bound to the will of the abhorrant monarchs as Royal Terrorgheists. Filled with a vampiric thirst equal to that of their masters, they soar over the throng of combat, their otherworldly senses seeking foes to slay. Their teeth and claws are the length of Sigmarite greatswords and are capable of cleaving through armour with ease, but these monstrous creatures possess an even more fearsome weapon in their arsenal: their infamous killing shriek. The beast’s scream is as unmistakable as it is devastating. The high-pitched wail cuts across the battlefield, shattering the minds of nearby foes. Those not slain outright are reduced to gibbering wrecks, howling as blood runs freely from their ears and eyes, soon to be devoured by the bat-like monstrosity.

The sky shudders to the beat of leathery wings as a Royal Zombie Dragon descends to savage its prey. As the stench of the beast washes over the enemy, the air becomes chill, for the aura of death around the drake is potent. Raw amethyst magic emanates from this monster’s skull; though the Zombie Dragon’s eye sockets glimmer with what appears to be a ghostly intelligence, this is simply an illusion created by the vast quantities of dark energy used to animate it. Only the strongest wielders of necromantic power can command these undead drakes, and without their will, the beasts are swiftly rendered inert once more. The darkness that animates a Zombie Dragon is never more evident than when it expels its breath, spewing it forth as a coiling cloud of withering death magic. This killing miasma shrivels flesh and corrodes the soul, instantly sapping the life from living beings. Husks are left in its wake where once there were soldiers. These desiccated statues are soon torn to pieces by the rampaging Zombie Dragon, while those fortunate enough to avoid its hellish exhalation flee in abject terror.

Every monarch requires a seat worthy of their majesty, and for the Abhorrant Ghoul Kings and Archregents, only a Charnel Throne will suffice. These constructs are fashioned from the bones of those an abhorrant has devoured, fused together by necrotic sorcery and the craftsmanship of ghoul subjects. From its very creation, a Charnel Throne exudes an aura of death. This is only heightened through constant proximity to its abhorrant owner, whose madness and delusion seeps into the bones of the seat and transforms it into a pulsing nexus of insanity. Abhorrant lords often demand that their thralls drag their Charnel Throne into a commanding position on the battlefield, so that the vampire might oversee their surroundings from a regal vantage point before entering the slaughter personally. Sat atop such a mighty shrine to their own glory, the abhorrant cannot help but be convinced of their own grandeur – and it is this confidence that makes them even more dangerous. If they are forced to descend from their seat and enter the fray, an abhorrant ruler might select a steward from amongst their most trusted companions to sit the throne in their absence. This honour is only ever a temporary one, and those who abuse it are gruesomely punished for their hubris.

Those Flesh-eaters who believe themselves to be especially pious may call upon ancestral spirits to aid them in battle. By invoking oaths sworn many centuries ago by civilisations that bowed before Ushoran, an abhorrant gives life to the buried dead that served their sovereign in bygone times. From lands soaked in the blood and tragedy of war they rise, once more fighting for the cause of their beloved lord. In the eyes of an abhorrant, the dead manifest as mighty spectral warriors, clad in ornate armour and carrying broad shields. But these spectral defenders are an illusion seen only in the insane minds of the Flesh-eaters. It is not gleaming warriors that rise from the grave but mouldering corpses imbued with mindless hunger and rage. As they claw their way up through the ground, they drag with them twisted remnants of the ancient civilisation to which they once belonged – rusted palisades covered with gore and barbed fences that formerly surrounded mass graves. Blood spills forth from the wound in the earth, releasing a nauseating stench into the air, while cadaverous hands grasp at any foes foolish enough to stray within reach.

Before his corruption, Ushoran crafted an ensorcelled goblet with which he could bestow blessings upon his loyal subjects. Wrought from gold and silver and encrusted with realmstone from the lands he conquered, it was said that this goblet drew into itself the finest vintages from each liberated domain and, consequently, never ran dry. Those who supped this wine were imbued with a portion of their king’s majesty and could stay the hand of death with a mere command. Abhorrants who invoke the name of the Carrion King can summon a simulacrum of this famed chalice to the battlefield. When manifested, the Chalice of Ushoran appears as a colossal construction of polished bone. This oversized cup is filled not with wine but with the blood and viscera of those butchered on the battlefield. The screaming spirits of the slain bear the chalice aloft, and with every fresh kill, the gore rises higher inside the receptacle until it overflows and drenches nearby Flesh-eaters. Bathed in this necromantic harvest, wounds close and severed limbs regrow, and even those mordants who have been cut down may rise to fight once more.

With a mad bellow, an abhorrant vampire unleashes foul sorcery upon the earth, causing soil, roots and littered corpses to heave violently upwards. Bursting from below comes a host of rotting, cadaverous horses, whinnying and screeching in a rabid frenzy. Those in the path of the Corpsemare Stampede are dragged down underneath it, crushed and torn beneath gore-encrusted hooves as the steeds ride onwards across the battlefield, wheeling and charging in erratic patterns. Even the most stubborn shieldwall cannot stand in the face of this onslaught, and those who attempt to strike a blow against the rampaging beasts find their blades repulsed by raw arcane matter. The concept of a noble steed is a common one amongst the courts of delusion, reflecting their knightly roots. To the fiend that summons a Corpsemare Stampede, it appears as a herd of graceful beasts formed of purest light. The caster sees them surging forwards in radiant splendour, driven by inherent nobility to lay low all who are wicked of heart. Mordants who behold the stampede are overcome with a sense of awed humility, for they know that the beasts will deliver the king’s fury upon them if they are found wanting.

Of all of Behemat’s spawn, Gatebreakers are the most sinister, filled with the need to destroy. More specifically, these gargants harbour considerable ill will towards the metropolises raised by Sigmar’s folk. The sight of a glorious city, with its proud spires and resolute walls, awakens a bitter fury within these creatures. With a bellow of hate, a Gatebreaker advances on an enemy settlement without fear, shrugging off panicked arrows and cannon fire with little more than a malicious chuckle. Across the Prime Innerlands of Shyish, the name Big Drogg Fort-kicka is dreaded. Admittedly, this is as much for the Gatebreaker’s grievous halitosis – a side effect of eating decomposing corpses – as his skill at destroying cities. Drogg is known to many undead tyrants, who willingly offer him a portion of their servants to consume in return for his aid. Yet Drogg’s true goal has always been to get close enough to Nagash to clobber him in a show of strength. The Great Necromancer’s shattering at the hands of the Lumineth has set this plan back. Taking this as a personal insult, Drogg has vowed revenge. He eagerly hires his services out to any undead wishing to fight the aelves – and he has no shortage of clients.

As the Queen of Nulahmia and first of the vampires, Neferata can call on many servants to do her sinister work. Yet there are times when the Mortarch must personally attend to a battle in order to ensure some delicate manipulation reaches its desired outcome. She is accompanied by skeletal warriors bearing the livery of her city, a manifest display of Nulahmian might

Mannfred von Carstein is an often unlooked-for and unwelcome presence amongst his fellow undead, for his self-serving nature is infamous. Yet the Mortarch of Night can tip the balance of an engagement, both through personal might and by leading bloodthirsty Fell Bats and the wights of his own Castle Sternieste in devious ambushes. The only question is what ulterior motive Mannfred serves by offering aid...

Crypt-keepers dread the coming of Veremord. This student of necromancy is a master at breaking wards set around tombs and corpse-pits, pilfering the bodies within for his growing horde. Key to Veremord’s success is the arcane smoke that billows from his Corpse Cart, vapours that eat through magical defences.