Hedonites of Slaanesh – Warscrolls

Unlike most of Slaanesh’s servants, whose sense of superiority makes them disinclined towards cooperation, Contorted Epitomes are magically skilled Daemonettes who share a close bond. Their willingness to collaborate has seen them entrusted with a Mirror of Absorption; taken from the depths of Slaanesh’s palace, this daemonic entity reflects the most unpalatable desires of any who look upon it. One who gazes into a Mirror of Absorption finds it truly agonising to pull away, while magics cast against the construct are greedily swallowed down, their energies perverted to Slaanesh’s service. It is said that the first Mirrors of Absorption were fashioned long ago by the master artisan Vennatan. Trapped within a lair of illusions by the Dark Prince, Vennatan intended his creations to drain Slaanesh’s power, but they proved unable to contain the god’s vanity. Amused nevertheless, Slaanesh forced Vennatan to make more mirrors, fusing them with daemon-stuff so that they could move of their own will. Some believe the artisan, or whatever scraps are left of his soul, still labours in the depths of the Palace of Pleasure, consumed by his craft and unaware that Slaanesh no longer sits the sinful throne.

The Infernal Enrapturesses consider themselves virtuosos, delighting in fine music and art. Yet these daemons’ truest desire is to plant seeds of selfdestruction within talented mortal artists and lead them to ruin. Many are the tales of struggling composers who have been visited by what they perceive to be angelic muses, driving them to craft the symphony that will define them. This obsession soon becomes all-consuming. The artist grows to reject all kinship and self-preservation, crumbling beneath what they see as a divinely ordained endeavour. In the end, they give themselves to Slaanesh, desperate for the inspiration needed to become one with their craft. The Enrapturess acquiesces – by tearing the mortal apart in body and spirit, transforming them into a macabre living instrument that, when plucked, plays notes of purest torment. As the legions of Slaanesh indulge their warlike excesses, the Enrapturesses serenade them with compositions of reality-shaking agony. These notes of discord can overpower even the stuff of sorcery, blunting the aether in a wave of spiritual pain. Yet an Enrapturess can never remain fascinated with their instrument for long; they are always on the lookout for new and talented supplicants, those whose unmaking might produce sweeter melodies still…

Those Slaaneshi champions known as Lords of Hubris have turned pride into a mantle – and what a radiant mantle it is. These swaggering savants of the sword are convinced that there is no being that can truly challenge their martial prowess. Vainglorious though this belief might be, it is rooted in genuine skill, for scarcely can more devilish duellists be found. Eschewing armour, Lords of Hubris lead their hand-picked entourages in search of a worthy contest: a bout that will see them immortalised in gleaming statuary within Slaanesh’s domain. Amongst the Lords of Hubris, it is considered the height of gaucheness to launch the first blow in a duel. Indeed, these champions will spread their arms wide and outright invite an intriguing foe to land a strike – if they can. Rarely does this blow ever connect, for the wicked blade carried by a Lord of Hubris is as a serpent of pouncing steel. As it swings, it lets out the faint but palpable sound of derisive laughter, prickling the foe’s humiliated fury. The clumsy strikes that follow are, of course, neatly deflected by the Lord of Hubris, before the warrior launches the lethal coup de grâce.

Agony has come to define the Lords of Pain. Whatever fixations first led these champions into Slaanesh’s embrace has been buried beneath an obsession with torment. Only the most excruciating sensations can intoxicate these sadomasochists, for they have scoured their body and soul repeatedly in pursuit of ever more gloriously grotesque sensations. Despite their flesh being pierced by cruel hooks and barbs, by Slaanesh’s dubious graces, a Lord of Pain remains a formidable physical specimen. In combat, they fight not to slay but to inflict the most torment possible, using their spiked maces and the sharpened curves of their armour to lacerate and puncture enemies by the score. The hosts ruled by a Lord of Pain are amongst the most discomfiting to look upon of all Slaanesh’s worshippers. No violation of the flesh is forbidden amongst their ranks, as long as it elongates the sensation of pain. The fact that the Hedonites perform these mutilations on the canvas of their own bodies only renders the sight more horrific. The Lords of Pain stand at the apex of the torturer’s art, and their ability to endure hurt – whether in riotous worship or fighting at the most contested point of the battlefield – is awe-inspiring to their devotees.

Shardspeakers are the enigmatic mages, seers and soothsayers of the Hedonite carnivals. It is said that their hypnotic gaze can enthral even the most resolute heroes – but better this fate than to stare into the enchanted mirrors carried by these perfumed sorcerers. Relics from Slaanesh’s palace, these arcane foci allow a Shardspeaker to channel their power into reflecting a target’s innermost fears or desires, conjuring phantasmal visions that seem indistinguishable from reality. It is an assault that only the strongest of wills can hope to resist, and should a warrior fail this test, they are overcome by the urge to indulge their worst excesses. The virtuous side of their psyche is forced to watch, powerless, as their destructive compulsions are unleashed against their comrades. Shardspeakers have other powers besides, of course: arcane means of overloading the senses and burning out sanity in a wave of punishing sensation. As they work their spells, mist-daemons swirl around them, claws and needle-fangs flashing. These entities relish any opportunity to set upon mortals who draw too close – be they friend or foe – and string out their torment for as long as possible.

The salacious saga of Sigvald the Magnificent, Slaanesh’s supreme scion, stokes sordid sensations amongst his sinful supplicants. Though he appears clean-limbed and in the prime of health, Sigvald’s misdeeds pre-date the realms themselves: it is said that he was sired through unnatural acts and that he would put cities to the torch for offending him with their odour. It is undeniable that he is a bladesman par excellence, striking faster than the eye can follow and leaving a carpet of bisected dead with each lightning-fast flurry of the sword Shardslash. However, legend also claims that Sigvald once suffered a humiliating defeat and, as punishment, had his soul sealed in an enchanted mirror. Only through great cunning did he escape and return to the Dark Prince’s favour. Sigvald is determined to reassert his status as the Dark Prince’s favoured champion. At his approach, a mirror-curse washes over the land; those who spy their reflection in glass see themselves as monstrously warped and deformed, for all beauty is reserved for the Geld-Prince alone. To offend Sigvald is to meet with death – though this most prideful of champions considers falling by his hand to be a singular honour.

The tale of Syll’Esske is strange indeed. Once, this conjoined entity was two distinct beings: Syll, a daemonic Herald scorned by her fellows for obsessing too greatly over her mortal muses, and Esske, a lowly war-thrall in the pits of the Palace of Pleasure. Syll selected Esske as the focus of her patronage, overseeing his meteoric rise. Esske, in turn, showed a loyalty well beyond expectation, going so far as to sacrifice his own soul to aid Syll after she was brought low by a jealous rival. Through the Herald’s latter deeds, he was not only saved but fused with her very being, the two becoming a single entity that fights in perfect synchronicity. The Vengeful Allegiance marches at the head of a warhost comprising both mortals and daemons, all of whom have been spurned by their betters and seek symbiosis as a means of realising their depraved ambitions. Should Syll or Esske block a blow, their other half will take cruel advantage, striking with lash or greataxe to slip inside the foe’s guard. Having known well the scorn of the highhanded, Syll’Esske delights in subverting heroes and champions, undermining their will and replacing certainty with unclean desires.

The Masque was once the most favoured of the Dark Prince’s attendants, for their breathtaking dances never failed to bolster the mercurial god when his mood turned foul. In the aftermath of a disastrous war against the forces of both Nurgle and Khorne, the Masque sought to soothe their master through their most ambitious performance yet. Yet where once Slaanesh had marvelled at their agility and grace, now he brooded upon imagined slights in every motion. In a spiteful rage, the Dark Prince banished the Masque, and laid a curse upon them: if they wished to dance, they would do so forever. The Masque has continued their performance across the realms. They appear unbidden, often amongst the ranks of the enemy, for they are ever eager to find new audiences for their art. As the Masque enacts the tales of Slaanesh’s glories, their face flickers to match the characters they embody; their stance changes too, sometimes wild and aggressive, other times so graceful that it is all but impossible to land a blow upon them. Those whom the Masque does not slay with their eviscerating claws are nevertheless dragged into the performance, compelled to dance themselves to death as they try to keep pace with the daemon’s twirls and somersaults.

The Viceleader is a masterful artiste in the grand theatre of war. To look upon these surreal, quicksilver Heralds is to feel a yearning for forbidden arts and excesses that addles the mind. Woe betide those who acquiesce to their strange allure.

No daemon can claim a closer connection to Slaanesh than Dexcessa, known as the Talon – no daemon except for their sibling Synessa, a fact that infuriates them both. These twin-entities are shards of the Dark Prince’s truest essence, formed through the ritual that saw the aelf Morathi ascend to godhood. Dexcessa represents the elements of Slaanesh’s psyche that favours unthinking indulgence above all, scornful of those who break under the strain. Battle is the apex of the sensations Dexcessa craves, every spray of blood and howl of the dying sweet beyond words. They cavort across the field as a rapturous cyclone of murder, bladed claws sending heads and limbs spiralling in stately arcs. To watch Dexcessa at war is to witness an artist of the most brutal temperament: a painter who channels turmoil through canvas-lashing strokes, a sculptor who hacks stone into submission. It is a sight that enraptures fellow Hedonites, compelling them to fight with greater orgiastic abandon. Each hopes to catch the attention of Slaanesh’s Talon, but such is a futile endeavour. Dexcessa has no concern for anything but the indulgence of their own desires – that and the appallingly artistic ruin they leave in their wake.

Draped in the richest silks and wielding silvered weapons, the Keepers of Secrets stride across the battlefield like living gods. Foes stare agog at these paragons of perversion, their minds aflame with kaleidoscopes of debauchery and ears filled with whispers of the glories that await them in the embrace of lordly Slaanesh. Those few individuals of greater mettle who resist a Keeper’s allure soon find their clumsy blows thwarted with shield or sinuous whip even as they are dispatched with graceful sweeps of sword or bladed limb. When even this onesided slaughter no longer satisfies, the Keeper will flick out a claw and mutter an arcane command, sending its minions forwards in a rapturous frenzy. Keepers of Secrets are no less driven to vile whimsy than any of Slaanesh’s lesser servants. They may go to battle surrounded by the blare of discordant harpsichords, perfume themselves with the ripe corpse-stench of cities they have butchered, or pierce their supple daemonflesh with gemstones containing the screaming souls of mortals led to destruction. There is constant competition amongst the Keepers to become first in Slaanesh’s gaze – and the Mortal Realms are the canvas upon which these arch-libertines create masterworks of horror for the Dark Prince’s consideration.

Shalaxi Helbane’s skill in the arts of combat is so immense that only the most proud and jealous of their fellow greater daemons will contest their martial superiority. This most bellicose of Slaanesh’s champions indulges only a single obsession: the utter humbling of the Dark Prince’s enemies. Few can rival Shalaxi in the skills of the hunter and the tracker. Fewer still can match them in single combat. Legendary warrior kings, proud draconic behemoths and the most favoured spawn of the Dark Gods have all met their end on the tip of Soulpiercer, Shalaxi’s infamous spear, after finding their most deliberate attacks effortlessly dodged or parried by the daemon champion. Of all the prey Shalaxi has hunted, only two have managed to evade the daemon – and, in doing so, come close to representing the ultimate duel they so crave. The first was Skarbrand, most wrathful of Bloodthirsters, who Shalaxi fought to a bitter standstill on the corpse-choked fields of Rantula Sigmaris. The second was the Shadow Queen, bestial aspect of the goddess Morathi-Khaine, whom Shalaxi put to flight. Yet Slaanesh’s champion does not rest upon their laurels, believing that their perfect quarry still awaits them.

Synessa is a shard of Slaanesh’s truest essence, formed through the ritual that saw the ascension of the goddess Morathi-Khaine. No daemon can claim a more profound connection to the Dark Prince – no daemon, that is, save Dexcessa, a fact that infuriates both twin-beings. Synessa is that aspect of Slaanesh that beguiles the senses and unmakes the will. They are the honeyed word, the lingering temptation, the promise of ever-sweeter indulgences. With deft oratory, Synessa can inspire foolhardy courage and induce crippling paranoia. Nothing pleases them more than twisting noble causes into unclean obsession, considering the greatest victories to be those that never require them to lift a claw. This is not to say that Synessa is incapable of defending themselves. A flick of their enchanted staff can so completely twist a victim’s mind that they tear themselves apart in a paroxysm of misguided righteousness, while a single whisper can plant a seed of doubt that can hamstring an enemy at a critical moment. Still, this pavonine daemon far prefers to leave the uncouth business of battle to their brute sibling or their flocks of adoring worshippers; to be a voyeur witnessing bloody carnage is a thrill in itself.

The epithet of Bladebringer is offered to any Herald of Slaanesh who excels at high-speed chariot warfare. Yet in the glorious years of the Age of Chaos, the first of their kind were not slaughterers but messengers, charged to deliver enchanted blades to rulers who might be tempted into Slaanesh’s service. Alas, the Dark Prince’s artisans had infused temptation into the swords too well. The Bladebringers became consumed by a covetous desire for the gifts they carried; even as they handed over the swords, they nursed a deep-seated bitterness that blossomed into obsession. If they could not wield these weapons, they would compensate by affixing as many threshing wheel-blades as possible to their stately chariots. The havoc that the Bladebringers wreak as a result is immense, but it can never ease their deep longing for the swords they gave away. Bladebringers ride atop imperious constructs known as Exalted Chariots, pulled by several hooting Steeds and pursued by throngs of lesser charioteers. Yet for all the murderous majesty of their war-conveyances, it has done little to allay their anger at surrendering their coveted weapons. Bladebringers vent their frustration on the most formidable enemies, directing their squadrons to crash into them at high speed and shred them to ribbons.

Glutos Orscollion is Slaanesh’s Grand Gourmand, his Scrumptious Sinner. This repugnant sorcerer epitomises overindulgence and is entirely in thrall to his gluttony. Nevertheless, Glutos considers himself to possess a refined palate. The spiced flesh of mages, the bodies of daemonkin, even the realmstone hearts of Incarnates: these are the taboo flavours he craves. Atop his opulent palanquin, surrounded by his favoured courtiers, Glutos leads his host in search of ever more depraved feasts. As the incense that billows around him stokes a ravenous mania in nearby Hedonites, a single languid gesture from the sorcerer can leave an enemy emaciated and withered or swelling until they burst in a shower of gore. Glutos was once a famished youth from a family of failing Hyshian merchants. Upon breaking into the Temple of the Cornucopian Rite and devouring its sacred grains, he was cursed by the daemon Loth’shar, the patron of the temple’s cult. Loth’shar bade Glutos indulge the most appalling hungers to survive, culminating in eating the flesh of wizards – and, to the daemon’s delight, Orscollion soon developed a taste for depravity. Loth’shar’s visage still leers from Glutos’s arcane stave, whispering about where his favoured champion might find more indulgent feasts.

Slaaneshi Heralds who wish to glut themselves on as much sensation as possible ride to war on Hellflayer chariots, great threshing contraptions that release an intoxicating scent distilled from the souls of those sliced apart by their axle blades.

Heralds of Slaanesh who value the thrill of speed above all else will take to battle mounted on a Seeker Chariot. These machines of war smash into the foe in a blur of whirring, slashing blades, mutilating all those who stand their ground.

Fiends are perhaps the strangest of all Slaanesh’s daemonspawn, unholy fusions of beast and lurid nightmare. Their two sets of lower limbs are vaguely humanoid, yet their arms end in enormous pincers. Uncannily prehensile tongues flick from their elongated faces, and their whipping tails are tipped with spikes coated in arcane venoms. Unsurprisingly, Fiends cannot inspire deep-seated desire through their appearance alone; rather, they emit a soporific musk that both attracts and immobilises their prey, filling their minds with rapturous hallucinations and allowing the Fiends to tear them apart at their leisure. Packs of Fiends skitter throughout the Six Circles of Seduction, crooning discordant songs wherever they travel. Daemons consider these tunes to be lays of the utmost sweetness, each recalling the greatest atrocities ever to grace the innermost cloisters of the Palace of Pleasure. To those mortals not in Slaanesh’s favour, a Fiend’s song is nigh-on unbearable, rolling through the meat of their minds like a ball of wicked knives. Only through repeated exposure and deep inhalations of the daemon’s musk do they begin to grasp the beauty of a Fiend’s chorus, whereupon the ‘enlightened’ mortal becomes a creature of the Dark Prince through and through.

The death dealt by a Blissbarb Seeker comes at a blistering pace. These mounted archers fight atop daemons known as Exalted Steeds, creatures so swift of limb that they seem to defy rationality. It should be all but impossible to aim arrows while riding an entity that appears to outrun the very wind itself, but the gifts of Slaanesh provide. The Seekers’ sensory perception is fiendishly enhanced, allowing them to pick out the slightest chink in a defensive formation even while travelling at great speed. Yet a price must be paid, for any moment in which they are not riding at full pace sees them struck with crippling ennui. To master an Exalted Steed, a Hedonite must pursue the creature across the realms, proving their devotion by discarding all other temptations as they cross wastelands twisted by the Dark Prince’s power. An Exalted Steed may remain in reality far longer than most daemons – but only if it is bound to its rider through strange and uncanny blood-mingling rites. The tongues of these creatures drip with an array of potent toxins, capable of inducing bone-shuddering convulsions at a touch.

There are few conceits Slaanesh finds more entertaining than a mortal supplicant who strives for greatness yet is too limited in ability or wit to seize it. To these contemptible souls, the Dark Prince offers a daemonic Steed to bear them into battle and surely carry them to glorious victory. In exchange, Slaanesh desires only that the souls they reap while mounted be dedicated in his name. In a heady lust for power, the mortals leap atop the proffered steed – only to find that they can never dismount. These unfortunates are now cursed to forever ride alongside the Hedonite carnivals, offering a banquet of souls to their gluttonous god. The weapons wielded by the Hellstriders are intended to flay and shred in the moment gruesome fashion, especially when the momentum of a charge is behind them. Each death these cursed cavaliers inflict sees the released soul-energies briefly energise them – but only briefly, for Slaanesh soon takes his due. A hollowness lingers in the core of every Hellstrider, a hunger that cannot be sated and that drives out every other desire that they once possessed.

Across the pain-gardens of Slaanesh’s realm charge infernal beasts known as Steeds of Slaanesh. These serpentine bipeds are said to be swift as impulse. A Steed’s hide shifts through a dazzling array of colours, and its narrow head contains a poisonous tongue and deep-set eyes. Many Daemonettes covet a Steed to carry them to new debaucheries, but to catch one of these creatures is near impossible. Instead, they must be lured in through the grisly sacrifice of prisoners or the scattering of jewels and scented oils; Steeds have swollen sensoriums and cannot help but investigate such appetising temptations, allowing the Daemonette to leap atop the beast and bind it to their will. Seekers of Slaanesh form the daemonic light cavalry of Slaanesh’s hosts and are capable of such bursts of speed that none can hope to outrun them. Many prey do not even see the lashing tongue or barbed claw that kills them. The Steeds of Slaanesh are tireless, allowing the Seekers to hunt their quarry over great distances. Often, the greatest difficulty for the Daemonette rider is not in giving chase to fleeing foes but rather in pulling their Steed’s attention away from the pursuit and rejoining the greater host.

Slickblade Seekers are the chosen speed-knights of Slaanesh. With whoops and shrieks of glee, they direct their Exalted Steeds into the fray of combat, all while spinning their polearms in great, whistling arcs. They cut a striking figure on the battlefield, clad in silvered armour and sporting great fin-like crests atop their helms, while their Exalted Steeds are studded with gems and glittering chains. All this decoration, however, does nothing to detract from the Slickblades’ lethality. They revel in the decapitating cut, for they consider it the finest expression of the lethal arts to sever a foe’s head without slowing their blistering pace, making so fine a slice that there is not even a spray of blood for Khorne’s brutish warriors. To master an Exalted Steed, a Hedonite must pursue the creature across the realms, proving their devotion by discarding all other temptations as they cross wastelands twisted by the Dark Prince’s power. An Exalted Steed may remain in reality far longer than most daemons – but only if it is bound to its rider through strange and uncanny blood-mingling rites. The tongues of these creatures drip with an array of potent toxins, capable of inducing bone-shuddering convulsions at a touch.

With sighs of sordid glee, the Blissbarb Archers rain sense-twisting death upon an enemy. These are the lowliest of Slaanesh’s mortal servants – those who have most recently come into the Dark Prince’s service or who lack the debauched imagination to rise. Nevertheless, they are utterly the Prince of Pleasure’s creatures. Having abandoned all sense of propriety, the Blissbarbs pierce their flesh in a deliberately painful fashion and wrap themselves in luxuriant silks. Their days are spent in mind-blasting revels, but when battle beckons, they take up their bows and dart forth to do Slaanesh’s work. Blissbarb Archers do not fight at range out of choice. Slaanesh’s champions have no desire for their close-quarters ‘entertainment’ to be disturbed by such lowly acolytes and instead bid the archers attack from afar. Still, the Blissbarb may partake in some of Slaanesh’s gifts. The shuffling Homonculi that follow them carry censers filled with blissbrew, a highly hallucinogenic substance. Not only do the fumes delight the Blissbarb, but by coating their arrow tips with the concoction, they also bring unravelling glee to their enemies. Foes who dutifully hold positions of tedious strategic import are the favoured prey of the Blissbarb, who hunger to drag these souls into their phantasmagoria.

Handmaidens of Desire, Bringers of Joyous Degradation: by these titles – and more grotesque examples still – are Daemonettes known across the realms. The most numerous of Slaanesh’s daemons, they are both his epicurean courtesans and the core of his infernal hosts. Lithe and swift of form, Daemonettes spin, twirl and flit across the battlefield with musical peals of laughter, their crustacean claws severing tendons and slitting arteries to leave enemies immobilised and bleeding upon the floor. Only then do the Daemonettes pause and perform their horrendous ministrations on the fallen – but never for long, as new and more tantalising opportunities for depravity soon draw their attention. To mortal eyes, Daemonettes appear as the very image of temptation, promising an unimaginable degree of luxury and excess. They appear to the onlooker as whatever they most fervently desire, every detail designed to enrapture their senses and lower their guard. Only at the last moment does this glamour fall, and the horrific truth of the Daemonettes is revealed. It is this moment above all that Slaanesh’s lesser daemons crave; after all, what sensation could be sweeter than utmost joy turning to matchless terror?

Clad in immaculately polished armour and wielding elegant scimitars, the warriors of the Myrmidesh embody the martial pride of Slaanesh. Each member of this warlike sect is trained in the Dance of the Wailing Blade, a sword-form that enshrines killing in the most artful and agonising fashion. Myrmidesh view themselves as paragons of the battlefield, far more sophisticated than their fellow Hedonites. Such is their monomaniacal focus that they claim even to surrender self-aggrandisement, concealing their visage behind full helms. Yet this pride in their own warrior purity is a vice in itself. On the rare occasion that a killing blow is thwarted, the Painbringers emit a wail of spiteful fury, descending into a frenzy of hacking strikes. To join the Myrmidesh, an aspirant must seek out their crystalline monasteries and temples of serrated glass. Six harrowing trials, assaults on sense and form, must then be overcome – the last of which is always to ingest a concoction of hallucinogenic potions that expose them to every temptation imaginable. Only those capable of looking past all other distractions and embracing the cut and thrust of combat are permitted to name themselves as true Myrmidesh.

Violence at its most excessive: that is the obsession of the Slaangor Fiendbloods. These gor-kin know nothing of restraint when there is flesh to flense and throats to slit. They lope forwards with frightening speed, heedless of any sort of danger. This wildness extends into combat. Slaangors do not burden themselves with selfdefence or anything that might distract them from wreaking havoc. The storm of pincers they unleash can overwhelm the most towering prey – for what can resist a warrior who cares for carnage more than even their own life? Many are the legends surrounding the origins of the Fiendbloods. Some say they were gor-kin who drank the vitae of daemons in primitive bacchanals, others that a knightly order was corrupted through lust and pride to create the first of their kind. The Slaangors think nothing of it; indeed, outside of battle, they think of little at all, staggering through the Hedonite warcamps in a glassy-eyed stupor. This numbness fades only when prey is scented on the wind. Wise Slaaneshi champions know that the Slaangors cannot be commanded in any meaningful sense. Some even attempt to play the haruspex with their rampages, divining in the Slaangors’ seemingly random atrocities messages from absent Slaanesh.

Symbaresh are egomaniacal warriors who have made truly dire bargains in their quest for primacy. Once a faceless blade amongst the Myrmidesh order, they grew to chafe at being but one amongst many. Marking themselves with runes of conjugation and offering up the souls of six aelves in sacrifice, they forged a pact with one of Slaanesh’s daemons, allowing the entity to inhabit their soul in exchange for strength and alacrity. Now far beyond a mere mortal, these daemonkin discard their helmets and take up highly bespoke weapons, shrieking rhapsodies of self-praise while slaying with frenzied showmanship. Symbaresh are strong enough to slice an orruk’s head from their neck in one motion and swift enough to unnaturally contort away from what seemed like a sure blow. The daemon within them, however, is no idle passenger. Little by little, it begins to take over the Symbaresh, stripping away their sense of self and hollowing them out ready to be fully possessed. Only the most insanely self-assured of Twinsouls can hope to subordinate this lurking presence. Known as Egopomps, these figures strut with the exaggerated swagger of warrior kings, drawing flocks of lesser Symbaresh to them through their arrogant magnetism.

Led by Vasillac the Gifted, a former warrior of the Myrmidesh who now seeks his own glory, the Dread Pageant have brought terrible suffering to the living mountain of Beastgrave. In battle, their manifold skills combine into one blinding storm of blades.

Travelling together, the Thricefold Discord serve the toughest of punishments: each other’s company. A sorceress, an assassin and an indolent leader, these three daemons are constantly at odds – yet their rivalry destroys everything around them with surprising effectiveness.

Hellflayers are designed to cause as much mutilation as possible as they carve into enemy lines. The bladed wheels affixed to the axle of these chariots are imbued with wicked sorceries that transmute the sliced victims into an exhilarating incense. Hellflayers were originally designed not for warfare but to cultivate the flesh-orchards on the outskirts of Slaanesh’s palace. Here, out from the fleshy sediment, protrude the limbs and faces of those who have offended Slaanesh. Cackling Daemonettes would ride Hellflayers to slice off fingers, toes and other appendages, all to a chorus of agonising screams. To further the victims’ torment, Slaanesh had laid a curse of regrowth upon all prisoners in his gardens, so that every day the harvesting could begin anew. Eventually, those Daemonettes assigned to this macabre task grew bored. Abandoning their duties, they joined one of Slaanesh’s Hedonite hosts and were delighted to discover that a Hellflayer was the perfect contraption for shattering tight enemy formations – both in body and spirit, since the diced remnants of comrades-in-arms fell as a gory rain upon the survivors. Use of the Hellflayer soon spread throughout the Hedonite warhosts and has proven a formidable weapon in their arsenal ever since.

Slaanesh has always possessed a fondness for chariot warfare. There is an elegance to these conveyances as they glide across the earth at great pace, their regal daemon crew spared the indignity of having to walk, which contrasts most delightfully with the gore-spraying carnage that follows their impact with an enemy line, as whirring blades send mangled flesh and limbs flying. There are daemonic artisans who specialise in the construction of war engines known as Seeker Chariots. Though these lightweight devices appear fragile, they possess remarkable agility, and their spinning scythe-wheels can eviscerate an armoured warrior in moments. Pulled by Steeds of Slaanesh, a Seeker Chariot lets out a disharmonious wailing as it streaks across the battlefield, a cacophony that delights Slaanesh’s worshippers and torments all others. Those Daemonettes who ride a Seeker Chariot wield long and semi-sentient whips, the better to strike at enemies from the high vantage point of their conveyance. These daemons consider it great sport to tangle their whip round a foe’s neck, dragging their writhing body behind the chariot and dashing them against the ground – that is, until they grow bored of the diversion, whereupon they break their prey’s neck with the twitch of a wrist.

The massive chariots ridden by Allurers of the highest rank are machines that embody excess. Their purpose is to bring to bear the most number of blades in the shortest time and, in doing so, fill the air with the scent of carnage.

In the hidden pleasure-dens where Slaanesh’s faithful congregate stand monuments of silver. Wrought in the image of the Dark Prince’s rune, their mirrored surface ripples, showing glimpses of Slaanesh’s Six Circles and the pleasures that await therein. These are the Fanes of Slaanesh, cultic altars that bear the touch of the daemonic in the form of a base sentience. As unnatural creations, Fanes may be coaxed into reality upon a battlefield by supplicants, if they provide worthy tribute. Through a Fane, the Hedonites, be they mortal or daemonic, have a conduit to their master’s domain amongst the realms, a conduit that can offer ecstatic power – though always at a price. To gain such a boon, a supplicant must present a suitable offering at the foot of the Fane. Sometimes, this takes the form of sacrifice and pain, the shrine vibrating faintly as spiced blood splatters to the earth. Yet every Fane of Slaanesh possesses an avaricious side and will accept gifts of trinkets, both magical and gilded, to satiate themselves. This has led many weaker souls to destruction; desperate to bathe in favour once more, they are compelled to steal and murder to acquire worthy offerings, until eventually their greed outpaces their ability.

The tale of the Dreadful Visage is a favourite amongst Slaanesh’s faithful. Long ago, the Palace Grandiose was hailed as the nexus of debauchery, where no pleasure was forbidden. One night, its lord orchestrated a grand ball for his closest companions in sin. But a six hundred and sixty-sixth guest arrived also, their features hidden by a daemonic mask. So enthralling was their manner that, as the heinous festivities of the night intensified, the assembled libertines lathered them with attention. Infuriated, the master of the palace determined to slay all his sycophantic guests. Rallying his guard, he returned to find the revellers fused into an eidolon of screaming flesh, crowned by the mask’s cruel visage. The Palace Grandiose soon collapsed, and none know where its ruins lie. Whatever the truth of this grim fable, the Dreadful Visage is redolent with horror. It is an entity conjured from the Realm of Chaos whose lash-like tongues flail from its mouth. Those struck by these tongues are wracked by visions of the most atrocious acts imaginable. To most mortals, this is a form of torment that saps all of their will to fight. To the Hedonites, it is a divine gift that bolsters their vile souls.

Slaanesh is fascinated by mirrors and their ability to reflect the innermost truth of the soul. Many of his manors within the Realm of Chaos are hung with enchanted panes of glass, none more so than the Temple of Twisted Mirrors, a tortuous labyrinth in which the souls of his favoured playthings are trapped. The magical constructs known as the Mesmerising Mirrors are the essence of these daemonic looking-glasses clasped in giant, taloned hands. Those wise to Slaanesh’s wiles know to swiftly avert their gaze, no matter the tearing sensation that wracks their souls, for it is those who stare into the Mirror who suffer the more terrible fate. At first, these onlookers see visions of majesty in the Mirror: idealised reflections of themselves, with every battle won and every accolade laid before them. Pride and weakness compels the watcher to peer deeper, their desire a powerful intoxicant to nearby Hedonites. They cannot look away, even as the vision turns to one of mocking horror in which every ideal they possess is perverted. When their will finally breaks, their soul is sucked into the Mirror outright, drawn into the Dark Prince’s realm to be toyed with by his rapacious daemons.

The fabled Wheels of Excruciation are sorcerous flocks of living, bladed discuses that tear mortal creatures into slivers of bleeding flesh. Slaanesh and his scions relish torture in all its forms, but they retain an appreciation for less subtle methods of agonisation, such as wheels that rip and grind those caught amongst them, breaking the body little by little. Many such inventive devices can be found in the torment-boudoirs of the Palace of Pleasure, and the Wheels of Excruciation are magically crafted in their image. They spin across the battlefield at terrible speed, leaving shredded regiments in their wake. Some Slaaneshi sorcerers reserve the Wheels for foes whom they deem to be below their notice: massed mobs of grots, shrieking Clanrat swarms, the lowborn infantry of Sigmar’s cities. Tales are still told of the Laceration of Truth, one such spell-construct that hunted mendicant monk caravans across the deserts of Xintil at the behest of a Hedonite conjurer too indolent to pursue them herself. There are those devotees of the Dark Prince, however, who consider the pain-gift of the Wheels to be a mark of favour – indeed, these faithful summon smaller renditions of these spells to mortify their own flesh away from the battlefield.

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.