Slaves to Darkness – Warscrolls

Centaurions are terrifying opponents. These towering, heavily muscled quadrupeds have four upper limbs, each clutching a deadly gladiatorial weapon. Enemies not cleaved, spitted or otherwise shredded by these implements are trampled by the creature’s iron-hard hooves. It would be easy to dismiss the Centaurions as base beasts, and it is true that they are often encountered in fighting pits dedicated to the Ruinous Power. Yet Centaurions possess surprising cunning and subtlety. Moreover, they are beings with a purpose – to cast down Archaon and, in his place, raise up Be’lakor, the Dark Master. How Be’lakor came to command the Centaurions is unclear. Some say he forged some deal with their ancestors; others say that the first Daemon Prince had some direct hand in their creation. Either way, the Centaurions serve him with brutal loyalty. Each Marshal can each call upon cells of Be’lakor’s agents to do their bidding, and warriors who catch their attention in the fighting pit are targeted for initiation into the Legion of the First Prince. Many would-be initiates are swayed by the Centaurions’ promises of power; those more truculent are violently compelled to stare into the eyes of an Icon of the Dark Master, hollowing them out and turning them into vessels of the daemon’s will for the Centaurions to direct.

The lords of Chaos have long walked the Path to Glory, leaving mountains of dead in their wake. Their towering frames are clad in hellforged armour; their eyes and their weapons blaze with the favour of the Dark Powers. Other champions must offer due respect to these dark-hearted monarchs, for they are warriors and conquerors of grim renown, their names omens of disaster. Whether ruling from a spiked Dreadhold or battling amidst the wastelands, a Chaos Lord eagerly embraces any test of their might. They are killers of the most terrible magnitude, burners of nations and eradicators of civilisations. Chaos Lords lead from the front. To do any less would see them stripped of divine favour. No normal steed will suffice for them; they ride daemonic beasts, creatures granted to them by their patrons as a reward. Daemonic Mounts often appear as mutated flame-snorting warhorses, but some are reptilian or avian in nature – or even stranger still. With such a mount, a Chaos Lord leads thundering charges into the enemy, trampling them beneath a stampede of ironshod hooves.

The lords of Chaos have long walked the Path to Glory, leaving mountains of dead in their wake. Their towering frames are clad in hellforged armour; their eyes and their weapons blaze with the favour of the Dark Powers. Other champions must offer due respect to these dark-hearted monarchs, for they are warriors and conquerors of grim renown, their names omens of disaster. Whether ruling from a spiked Dreadhold or battling amidst the wastelands, a Chaos Lord eagerly embraces any test of their might. They are killers of the most terrible magnitude, burners of nations and eradicators of civilisations. Exceptionally brutal Chaos Lords may seek to master a Karkadrak. These reptilian beasts possess scales as hard as duardin-forged steel, and the momentum of their charges can plough through a stone barricade. Only the rarely exposed underside of these beasts is vulnerable, and it is here a Chaos Lord must strike to subdue a Karkadrak. Most who try are crushed for their troubles; the few who are worthy gain a fearsome and nigh-on impervious steed to carry them into the bloodiest press of the melee.

To rise to leadership in a Darkoath tribe is no meagre feat. Only those who prove their strength by fulfilling the most deadly oaths can rise to the rank of Chieftain. They must often defeat the tribe’s current leader in combat, as well as earn the favour of the accursed Wilderfiend that shadows their clan. Even should they succeed in these martial trials, the Chieftain must hone their tactical cunning, wielding their tribal kin as a weapon with which to complete even bolder oaths. The gods do not look kindly on those who rest on their laurels, and the Chieftains are expected to win ever greater glories – or face the consequences. Darkoath Chieftains lead from the front, demonstrating their right to rule by ploughing headlong into enemies and setting about with hewing strokes from axe or blade. Their favoured steeds are the hulking warhorses that can survive in the wastes of the realms, which the Darkoath clad in bladed masks and hang with the remains of especially powerful foes. The presence of a Chieftain can lend the charge of Darkoath cavalry even greater impetus, for the eye of the gods falls upon these figures, and as a result, there are plenty of opportunities to catch divine attention.

Eternus was once Atarus, captain of the Varanguard’s Eighth Circle. Few were more loyal to the Everchosen. Yet as the Era of the Beast raged, Atarus’s faith in Archaon crumbled. The Everchosen’s obsessive hatred for all deities, even his own ruinous patrons, seemed to blind him to the perils his dark empire faced – the mark of an unworthy king. Atarus sought a new patron, one who truly bathed in the favour of Chaos. He found it in Be’lakor. Pledging himself to the first Daemon Prince, Atarus was carried into the Cursed Skies, bathed in the soul-energies trapped there. He was reborn as Eternus, a creature of dark lightning who would reform from the hellish storm if slain. Eternus commands the Legion of the First Prince on his new liege’s behalf, spitting opponents on his crackling glaive. He also oversees the networks of spies that serve the Dark Master; Eternus is both eloquent and merciless, and he has lured many into Be’lakor’s service. This commitment is born as much through dread as hatred for Archaon, for Eternus knows that Be’lakor could strip away his false immortality should he no longer prove useful, leaving him little more than a raving lightning-gheist.

The Gaunt Summoners are nine favoured daemons of Tzeentch, each a formidable sorcerer-monarch. They are masters of the Silver Towers, esoteric fortresses that drift beyond time and space and are filled to the brim with gibbering daemons. The Gaunt Summoners were once free to pursue their agendas how they saw fit, but Archaon the Everchosen coveted their service. Through great cunning, he managed to acquire the true names of each and, thus, was able to bind them to his will. Though they despise the Everchosen, the Gaunt Summoners have since proven an invaluable cabal of advisors, seers and agents. Gaunt Summoners are immensely proud beings who consider walking the crudely mundane earth of the realms to be an indignity. Often, they will summon a Disc of Tzeentch to serve as their mount – a fellow daemon they have bound and shaped through magic into a floating, bladed conveyance. Stood atop a Disc, the Gaunt Summoner hurtles across the battlefield, attending to critical elements of their schemes in person. When needs must, they summon torrents of mutative wyrdflame to overcome the foe or open portals to their Silver Towers in which to trap especially intriguing adversaries.

Singri is the daughter of Gunnar Brand, heir apparent to the Darkoath tribes of the Snow Peaks. Like that legendary chieftain, she is a warrior both courageous and merciless, as suspicious of the Dark Gods as she is contemptuous towards the Sigmarites. If anything, Singri is more outspoken than her father in her contempt for the divine – but though there is danger to bearing such views, it has a hard time catching her, for she is a horselord without equal in the Great Parch. Even the riders of the rival Takblood tribe concede that none are as capable of teasing out speed from a warhorse, nor as skilled in loosing pinpoint arrows while galloping at full tilt, as Singri. Singri charges into battle with a brash ferocity, one that often vexes her father. Yet though the pair argue frequently, a deep affection runs between them; they are all the family they have, since Singri’s mother was killed by Azyrites and her uncle Jorvik fell to the temptations of Chaos. No matter how far she rides, Singri always keeps an eye upon her father, and Gunnar has been saved more than once by her keen-eyed arrow fire.

The lords of Chaos have long walked the Path to Glory, leaving mountains of dead in their wake. Their towering frames are clad in hellforged armour; their eyes and their weapons blaze with the favour of the Dark Powers. Other champions must offer due respect to these dark-hearted monarchs, for they are warriors and conquerors of grim renown, their names omens of disaster. Whether ruling from a spiked Dreadhold or battling amidst the wastelands, a Chaos Lord eagerly embraces any test of their might. They are killers of the most terrible magnitude, burners of nations and eradicators of civilisations. Chaos Lords command hordes of murderous killers desperate to earn the favour of the Dark Gods. These warbands view their overlord as a tangible link to the power of ruin and will fight with unmatched fanaticism to impress them. From these supplicants, the champion will choose their retinue, the most skilled and merciless fighters amongst their number. When fighting alongside such favoured warriors, these champions can carve bloody furrows in even the most determined enemy formation.

Chaos Sorcerers wield the energies of magic unbound. Theirs are the old traditions of the soothsayer and the tribal shaman, empowered by eldritch gifts from their patron deities. Sorcerers are obsessed with increasing their arcane potential at any cost, and they do not shy away from shortcuts to power, be they wielding deadly artefacts or making pacts with the denizens of the Realm of Chaos. Though this may seem unwise, these magi consider such courses to be only prudent. After all, to develop their abilities through measured study risks being usurped by others not so reticent to grasp the power of the gods. Sorcerer Lords glut themselves on the esoteric energy of Chaos, channelling it to empower their servants or sending it blazing towards the enemy in coruscating storms of warpfire. They view such powers as theirs to wield by right, and they scorn those who believe that the gods favour only the clumsy arts of the blade. Many Sorcerers have profound oracular talents, scrying the paths of the future in exchange for service from other champions of Chaos. If so inclined, such a mage may share a portion of their knowledge with useful underlings, granting them uncanny insight that may well postpone their doom.

Daemon Princes are those champions who, through determination and countless atrocities, have surpassed the heights of the Path to Glory. Only the most vanishingly rare souls can hold the gods’ attention long enough to achieve this apotheosis, joining the infernal ranks of daemonkind. Daemon Princes are embodiments of Chaos itself. The earth rebels at their presence, for they are things that should not exist. Palls of shadow surround a Daemon Prince as the land cracks and vomits torrents of hellflame. With talon and cursed blade, the Daemon Prince brings ruin to the realms, assured that there are none who might challenge them. Many Daemon Princes spend most of their existence within the Realm of Chaos, fighting in the endless wars of the dark powers. The most egotistical and war-hungry, however, revel in the adulation of their mortal lessers – for they are as living gods to the hordes of ruin, proof that ascension is possible to achieve. Daemon Princes will look for any opportunity to bolster their magnificence, from sporting grisly trophy racks to sprouting vast wings. They are forces of obliteration that few can match, ruling over empires of Chaos dedicated to their glorification.

To rise to leadership in a Darkoath tribe is no meagre feat. Only those who prove their strength by fulfilling the most deadly oaths can rise to the rank of Chieftain. They must often defeat the tribe’s current leader in combat, as well as earn the favour of the accursed Wilderfiend that shadows their clan. Even should they succeed in these martial trials, the Chieftain must hone their tactical cunning, wielding their tribal kin as a weapon with which to complete even bolder oaths. The gods do not look kindly upon those who rest on their laurels, and the Chieftains are expected to win ever greater glories – or face the consequences. Darkoath Chieftains know that reputation is a powerful weapon. By gaining glory through bloodshed, they are able to bind even greater throngs of tribal warriors to their side – warriors who will fight and die without fear to share in their champion’s victories. The best way to accrue notoriety is to fell the greatest warriors one can find. Chieftains carve their oathstones with vows of profound ambition, promising to offer the strongest of souls to their gods in exchange for the will and power to rise above the masses.

Through a mix of personal magnetism, bloody-handed brutality and the favour of the Ruinous Powers, a Darkoath Warqueen rises to command a great horde of barbarians and killers. The sigils adorning her shield speak to the clans she has yoked to her will, as well as the oaths she has made and completed in the name of the gods. A Warqueen has succeeded in drawing the dark powers’ attention to such a degree that she no longer requires shamans or seers to interpret their will; they speak to her personally – or, at least, so the Warqueen believes – whispering of the lands they wish her to ravage and the deeds they want her to perform in their name. Warqueens are always seeking opportunities to accrue greater personal glory, but there is a simple and practical motive behind this. The gods are fickle entities, liable to shower favour on any upstart that catches their gaze. To hold their attention requires escalating acts of evil in their name. A Warqueen relishes any chance to lead her tribal hordes against the bastions of civilisations, casting down their proud banners and burning their places of sanctuary to ash.

Champions who have excelled on the Path to Glory are exalted amongst their fellows. Though not yet true lords of ruin, they have made a name for themselves through hewing down prestigious enemies through gore-spraying axe blows. An Exalted Hero cares only for accumulating greater glory beneath the gaze of the Ruinous Powers. To rest on their laurels is not in their nature; indeed, it would be fatal, for the gods lose interest in their pawns quickly. If they wish to rise higher and avoid the grim fate of Spawndom, these warriors must constantly present tribute to their patrons in the form of slain sovereigns, warpriests and other worthy adversaries, and they will hunt down such targets with a fanatical vigour on the battlefield. The armoury of an Exalted Hero is eclectic but formidable. The armour they wear has sprouted new bladed edges or gibbering daemon-marks, a sign of favour from the dark powers. In mailed fists, they will carry the tools of their murderous trade; some favour twin axes leaden with fell curses, while others may carry a runeshield on one arm, offering a measure of defence against hostile sorcery.

The Gaunt Summoners are nine favoured daemons of Tzeentch, each a formidable sorcerer-monarch. They are masters of the Silver Towers, esoteric fortresses that drift beyond time and space, and that are filled to the brim with gibbering daemons. The Gaunt Summoners were once free to pursue their agendas how they saw fit, but Archaon the Everchosen coveted their service. Through great cunning he managed to acquire the true names of each, and thus was able to bind them to his will. Though they despise the Everchosen, the Gaunt Summoners have since proven an invaluable cabal of advisors, seers and agents. With a flick of their multi-jointed limbs, a Gaunt Summoner can conjure gouts of wyrdflame to engulf a formation – fires that do not burn but instead induce unpredictable mutations, perhaps turning flesh to glass or ribs to flailing tentacles. Far more intriguing to a Gaunt Summoner, however, is to trap an adversary within a Silver Tower. With swift cuts of their dagger through the aether, these daemons can open a portal to their deranged fastness. Few who stumble within are ever seen again; fewer still manage to maintain their sanity.

Gunnar Brand is a legend amongst the Darkoath tribes of the eastern Great Parch. His warrior skills, coarse charisma and raw grit have seen him emerge triumphant against seemingly impossible odds time and again. Many whisper that Gunnar’s father made a deal with a daemon and that the gods have their gaze upon him. Gunnar himself accedes to this, but with an innate bitterness. Though he swears oaths in exchange for the power to protect his tribe, Gunnar privately despises the gods, believing that their influence over mortals amounts to nothing less than tyranny. Those who abandon their humanity to court their attention are foul to him – including his own brother, Jorvik, with whom he clashed after discovering the former chieftain offering sacrifices of their own tribal kin. It is not only the dark powers that Gunnar takes umbrage with. Sigmar is a false god also, and many times have the Brands and their allies fought the God-King’s people. Yet he reserves the greatest of his scorn for the Skaven, whose schemes destroyed much of his homeland. Gunnar now leads a swelling tribal horde against both ratmen and Dawners intent on reclamation, treading a perilous path along the edge of damnation.

The ogroids’ tale is a tragic one. The Goroans, as they were once known, were warriors in Gorkamorka’s armies, hunting monsters across Ghur. Yet unlike the greenskins and ogors, the Goroans valued civilisation; they studied metallurgy and masonry, developed crude philosophy and raised a proud city known as High Progrexia. When orruks ransacked their home, the Goroans were overcome with rage, fighting a doomed war against the clans of the wild. It was Archaon who promised the Goroans vengeance if they would serve. They became shock troops in his armies and marshals of his warpits, no longer able to deny the bestial rage within them. It was this animal fury that drew comparisons with ogorkind and saw the term ‘ogroid’ rise to prominence. Myrmidons are amongst the most formidable ogroids, the most skilled champions of their arenas. Having retained their people’s stubborn pride, they now strive to test themselves against opponents of an especially monstrous heft. With their honed skills, innate battle rage and ancestral weapons, the Myrmidons are far from outclassed in these titanic clashes. Should they truly be pushed, the runic tattoos inked across their flesh will ignite with power – driving a Myrmidon to even greater pitches of fury.

Once a whelp in the Varanspire’s fighting pits, Abraxia has risen to command the Swords of Chaos – the infamous First Circle of the Varanguard. She is a warrior of matchless willpower, convinced that there is no challenge she cannot best through bloody-minded grit. To Abraxia, Chaos represents a state of perpetual testing rather than being embodied in four insane gods. Such an anti-deific attitude pleases Archaon, who offers Abraxia that rarest of boons – a measure of his trust. In her conquest of the Sigmarite city of the Phoenicium, Abraxia consumed the sacred fire at the bastion’s heart. Cinder now flickers when she speaks, while in her eyes rages a tortured and captive flame. Abraxia rides to war atop a reptilian beast known as the Thanatorg. This ferocious creature once lurked in the depths of the Eightpoints, and its blood is highly corrosive. Her symbol of office, however, is undeniably the spear known as Gorbolga the Accurs’d. Wrought from Varanite, Gorbolga can induce rampant, flesh-twisting mutation in those nearby, much to Abraxia’s dark amusement. Yet it requires an unbending conviction to control the spear – and even the slightest lapse can see it rebel, as the Grand Marshal’s twin horns ably testify.

Archaon is the Everchosen, champion of the Ruinous Powers, anointed in the blood of butchered empires. Many worship him as a demigod of Chaos, the primordial ruin of the false god Sigmar. It is true that the Everchosen despises the God-King – but he reserves similar loathings for the Brothers in Darkness, and indeed all deities. Were Archaon’s ultimate goals to be realised, it would be his banners alone rising over the charred corpse of the realms. Archaon’s mastery as a warrior and general has been honed through truly apocalyptic warfare. Alongside these natural gifts, he wields the Seven Treasures of the Everchosen, the relics he claimed to earn his title. The soul-devouring Slayer of Kings, the unyielding Armour of Morkar and the future-scrying Eye of Sheerian are amongst the most favoured of these dread artefacts. Most infamous is Dorghar, Steed of the Apocalypse – a winged, chimerical titan that bears Archaon to war. Dorghar’s three heads each evoke a greater daemon once sent to test the Everchosen and that was subsequently devoured. Its Khornate head draws sustenance from consuming the strongest foes, its Tzeentchian head has the ability to devour magic, and its Nurglite head can spew torrents of highly corrosive vomit that reduce clusters of warriors to steaming puddles of gore.

Once, Be’lakor – first of the Daemon Princes – stood paramount before the Ruinous Powers. How he fell from these heights is not known; likely his ambitions played a part, for Be’lakor craves godhood. His punishment was to crown each Everchosen but be denied the mantle himself. Yet Be’lakor is a creature of matchless cunning; even as he raged at his predicament, nursing hatred for the ‘False King’ Archaon, he schemed to reclaim his place at the forefront of the hordes of Chaos. Be’lakor prefers to work in the shadows, orchestrating manipulations over decades. Most infamous of his schemes was the genesis of the Cursed Skies, clouds of corruption that spill across the heavens and can even prevent the souls of slain Stormcasts from returning to Azyr. When the Dark Master takes to the field in person, he is a force to be reckoned with. Through sorcery and guileful whispers, he leaves ordered battlelines in milling disarray, or he engineers events to ensure they never arrive at all. Those few who stand firm are swiftly bisected, body and soul, by the Blade of Shadows. The terror of mortals is as the sweetest nectar to Be’lakor, who takes it as proof of his own supremacy.

The lords of Chaos have long walked the Path to Glory, leaving mountains of dead in their wake. Their towering frames are clad in hellforged armour; their eyes and their weapons blaze with the favour of the Dark Powers. Other champions must offer due respect to these dark-hearted monarchs, for they are warriors and conquerors of grim renown, their names omens of disaster. Whether ruling from a spiked Dreadhold or battling amidst the wastelands, a Chaos Lord eagerly embraces any test of their might. They are killers of the most terrible magnitude, burners of nations and eradicators of civilisations. For those Chaos Lords who truly wish to display their dominance, only one form of mount will suffice: a Manticore, a terrible leonine beast from the wildest reaches of the realms. A Manticore is an apex predator of the battlefield, devoid of fear and filled with a berserk frenzy as it soars on great leathery wings. Only the most iron-willed of warlords can collar a Manticore’s bloodthirsty frenzy and compel the beast to serve their purpose. Those who do, however, gain a monstrous living weapon capable of shattering a battleline single-handedly.

Chaos Sorcerers wield the energies of magic unbound. Theirs are the old traditions of the soothsayer and the tribal shaman, empowered by eldritch gifts from their patron deities. Sorcerers are obsessed with increasing their arcane potential at any cost, and they do not shy away from shortcuts to power, be they wielding deadly artefacts or making pacts with the denizens of the Realm of Chaos. Though this may seem unwise, these magi consider such courses to be only prudent. After all, to develop their abilities through measured study risks being usurped by others not so reticent to grasp the power of the gods. The most aggressive Sorcerer Lords are not content to be whispering viziers to the champions of Chaos; they desire to command hordes, to see enemies terrified and broken before them. So do they seek out the winged alpha predators known as Manticores, arcanely forcing these beasts into service. Though these seers possess subtlety enough to glean the paths of the future, they prefer utilising their powers in far more grandiose displays. With hissed incantations, they rip through the skin of reality, blasting foes to ashes and sending their screaming souls into the abyss of the Realm of Chaos.

Though the Ruinous Powers are worshipped at countless warped temples and unholy sites, it is only in battle that they may truly be honoured. The most devout champions of Chaos seek to combine both these forms of worship, crafting bladed shrines that are carried into battle by swollen and lumbering mutants. These Warshrines are utterly suffused with fell powers. Their altars are slick with the blood of the sacrificed slain, and the great icon that crowns them pulses with the energies of the Dark Gods. Through baleful invocation, the Shrinemaster can harness these energies to perform sinister miracles across the battlefield. In the presence of a Warshrine, the faithful of the Dark Gods are preserved against even the most determined strikes. Those who pledge their souls more completely to a single deity display more profound blessings still; they may be granted deeper fury, greater swiftness, armour that roils and absorbs the blows of the enemy without damage, and more besides. Those who lack such favour are compelled to seek glory all the more intently, for the gaze of the gods is drawn to a Warshrine, and in the presence of such a construct are the greatest opportunities for renown afforded.

The Path to Glory is littered with those who failed to impress the Dark Gods or could not bear the weight of the mutative ‘gifts’ bestowed upon them. These unfortunates undergo a grotesque transmutation, becoming a hideous Chaos Spawn. There is no consistency of form to these accursed wretches. Some sprout flailing tentacles or trilling animalistic heads. They may slither or lope or skitter on needle-legs. Many bear traces of their former face somewhere on their warped frame, locked in a silent scream. All Chaos Spawn, however, possess brutal strength and a maniacal disregard for self-preservation. It is not known whether this is because they are truly mindless or because some part of them longs to end their suffering through combat. Chaos Spawn often remain in the orbit of their former tribe. Some are treated as contemptible warbeasts, while others lurk in caves near their people’s camp and subsist on sacrifices of living flesh. Either way, they are tangible proof for any young warrior of what awaits those who falter on the Path. Though they have long since lost any hope of attaining glory, Chaos Spawn retain a sense for godly favour. They follow the wake of those most blessed by the Powers, desperate for an echo of the glory that was once theirs.

Every Darkoath tribe is watched over by a sinister entity known as a Wilderfiend. It is a manifestation of primal malice that, if not supplied with sacrifices, will soon turn upon its fellows. Most Darkoath consider the Wilderfiends to be heralds of the Ruinous Powers, but the truth is far darker. Each was once a hero of the tribes, but at some point in their attempts to fulfil increasingly grander and more terrible oaths to the gods, they faltered – and were punished for it. Their limbs elongated, their spine curled and antlers burst from their skull as they screamed and writhed in agony. Eventually, a creature more beast than man emerged from the gore-splattered ruins of splintered bone and shed skin, its eyes retaining a flicker of cold sentience. A Wilderfiend is bound to stalk behind its clan, acting as both watchful sentinel and ravenous predator. For all its loathsome nature, a Wilderfiend is granted might through its transformation. It is innately sorcerous, able to summon rings of evil flames with an instinctive gesture. In its presence, grass withers and minds are struck by horror. A Wilderfiend uses these abilities to both destroy threats to its clan and hideously chastise those who fail to appease it with gifts; either will suffice, so long as its own appetites are sated.

Raptoryx are unnatural amalgamations of lizard and prey-bird. These swift, frilled beasts are eternally on the precipice of frothing frenzy, driven by base urges to attack prey many times their own size without fear. For all this, Raptoryx are cunning creatures rather than mindless marauders. As the pack swarms over their monstrous quarry, their razor-sharp beaks and bladed hind limbs will target the eyes and patches of more vulnerable flesh with a keen focus, soon leaving them bleeding and weakened. The piercing screeches of massed Raptoryx are, if anything, even more debilitating; even a gargant can be left reeling under this sonic assault, ready to be overcome by the screaming creatures. The first Raptoryx came into being when the Everchosen’s hordes flooded into the Allpoints, blasting the interstitial island-between-realms with mutative energies. Caught amidst this warping storm, the native creatures of the Allpoints were blended and twisted into new and horrific forms. Though the Raptoryx are indigenous to what is now the Eightpoints, their flocks have since spread across the realms, either passing through realmgates or being coaxed and corralled into the warbands of Chaos champions through the promise of fresh meat.

The sound of a Chaos Knight thundering closer can turn the most veteran commander’s guts to water. Brimstone sparks in their wake, and their cloaks snap in unnatural winds. They mass beneath banners inked with runes in the Dark Tongue, sigils that would sear the sanity of any less favoured in the eyes of the gods. To the blasting of warhorns, the Chaos Knights trample deep into the press of the melee, their thick plate turning aside the most deliberate sword swings. Ensorcelled blades and barbed lances strike in a murderous flurry, while lesser enemies are crushed beneath their steeds’ ironshod hooves. Many Chaos Knights were once the nobility of their tribes or kingdoms, those able to maintain a steed of their own. Even as they galloped along the Path to Glory, they retained the traditions of mounted combat, though any notion of knightly chivalry was soon stripped away. Others received their monstrous destriers as a gift from the gods, a reward for some worthy desecration or massacre. Whatever their origins, Chaos Knights delight in nothing more than overrunning a foe’s presumed places of safety, crushing sacred lands into smouldering rubble beneath their trampling charge.

Many Darkoath tribes are renowned for their horsemanship. Such is a necessary skill to survive in Chaos-infested lands, where the speed and decisiveness of a strike is often critical. Moreover, many Darkoath are born raiders, riding into the lands of the Sigmarites and their allies to plunder and pillage before retreating from more organised resistance. Fellriders, as these tribal horsemasters are known, are daring even by the standards of the Oathsworn clans. Whooping in glee and swinging their weapons in bloodthirsty arcs, they are the vanguard of the tribe’s forces, swearing to their gods that they will be the first to take heads and claim glory. The steeds of the Fellriders are not the half-daemonic beasts mastered by Chaos Knights, but they are still far more fearsome than any mere warhorse. Daubed with tribal war paint and sporting grotesque daemonic masks affixed to their muzzles, these steeds are nevertheless treated with a measure of honour by the Darkoath. That said, a great many are fed with scraps of human flesh, developing a taste for it until the smells of battle drive them to trample and maim almost as readily as their riders.

Perhaps one in a thousand champions will prove worthy enough to number amongst the Varanguard – Archaon’s elite, the Knights of Ruin. These are the most feared of the Everchosen’s servants, each a lord of Chaos in their own right. To join their ranks, one must first receive the Call of Archaon. The form of this omen varies: the champion may glimpse the Everchosen’s mark amidst an inferno, or spraying blood may form a silhouette of their would-be master’s crown. They must then travel to the Varanspire, Archaon’s dread fortress, while undergoing grim and bespoke labours that push each aspirant beyond the former limits of their strength and loyalty to the Three-Eyed King. Few survive, but those who do are mightily empowered, rewarded with a daemonic steed and formed into warbands that crush enemies beneath stampedes of fury and iron. The Varanguard are divided into Eight Circles, each of which possesses its own sanctums within the Varanspire and serves Archaon in a different fashion. Many still bear the marks and boons of the gods they once served, though loyalty to the Everchosen has – in theory – come to supplant all. Few servants of Chaos would defy a Varanguard, for they speak with their master’s voice, and they would wield their runeblades until the stars themselves turned cold if he demanded it of them.

It takes great acts of desecration to be numbered amongst the Chosen. These warriors have done more than step onto the Path to Glory; they have succeeded in drawing the attention of the Brothers in Darkness, however fleetingly. An aura of simmering menace surrounds the Chosen, and a fell light burns in their eyes. Many bear especially baroque or grotesque armour, while some have claw-limbed mutations they view as worthy gifts. All are skilled warriors, more than equal to several lesser mortals. The weapons they carry are said to rip the soul from its mortal housing, delivering it into the waiting and hungry maws of the Chaos Gods. Chaos Chosen often form the entourage of a Chaos Lord or are their most trusted and deadly linebreakers. These armour-clad brutes plough into concentrations of enemy soldiery, laughing contemptuously at each panicked sword-blow or spear-thrust that fails to harm them. In turn, each swing of a Chosen’s soul splitter reaps a terrible toll in lives. Throughout these acts of butchery, the Chosen keep watch for those most formidable enemies whose destruction might draw the gaze of the gods anew and see them elevated to even greater power.

Not all daemons are the spawn of one of the great powers. Chaos Furies are spiteful and vicious imp-creature formed from accumulations of pure Chaos energy. They are the scavenger-packs of the infernal realm, though they are driven not by predatory hunger but by a need to maim and wound for its own sake. Their bat-winged flocks can be observed circling the towers of Chaos-held fortresses across the realms, shrieking and babbling in twisted snippets of the Dark Tongue. Chaos Furies are treacherous and conniving beings, entirely driven by self-interest. Though a champion can intimidate or cajole them into serving as messengers, dexterous thieves or even assassins, the daemons will always keep an eye peeled for opportunities for perfidy. Chaos Furies abhor the notion of honourable combat. They are raiders by nature, descending in a storm of flapping wings to stab at unprotected and unaware enemies with their sharpened daggers. The moment that meaningful resistance begins to form, the daemons will wing away, cackling to themselves in cruel glee. They will return to hovering above the battlefield, gnawing on any treasure they have plundered and watching the carnage, before the urge to wreak malice seizes them completely once more.

The Chaos Legionnaires are an enemy lurking in plain sight. Clad in baroque armour marked with leering daemon faces, they blend seamlessly into Archaon’s vast legions; beneath the surface, however, they are schismatics, upholding a secret religion known as the Dark Creed and worshipping Be’lakor as the rightful Everchosen. The Dark Creed claims that Archaon is a false king – a mortal granted power by the trinkets he carries but unworthy to bear the favour of the gods. Their patron, by contrast, was the first of the Daemon Princes, and the very skies have been cursed through his sinister will. It is a battle that must be undertaken in the shadows, for Archaon dominates vast swathes of the realms. Yet the Legionnaires share the patience of their Dark Master and are tireless in their efforts. Cells of Chaos Legionnaires both serve in Be’lakor’s dedicated armies and fight amongst other Chaos hordes, whispering the tenets of their cult to any receptive ears. Their talent for subterfuge extends to confounding enemies as well, working to intercept orders or leave warriors suddenly isolated from their fellows. For Be’lakor’s legions, little is more satisfying than falling upon such vulnerable enemies and hacking them down with cruel blades and mauls.

Life amongst the tribes of Chaos is unforgiving, but one may still find brief respite in the arms of a lover or camaraderie with fellow warriors. Yet those who would become Chaos Warriors – who would commit themselves to the Path to Glory above all else – have left behind even this. Their armour is their hearth, carnage their ale. Their blade is their only companion, save for the daemons that whisper in their ear. Such total devotion brings boons, without question. A Chaos Warrior is strong enough to tear a mortal’s head from their shoulders and wears plate as tough as meteoric iron. Yet in accepting these gifts, they have irrevocably set upon a road whose only possible ends are death, devolution or the fleeting possibility of apotheosis. Chaos Warriors are an unyielding tide of iron that grinds across the field and bludgeons anyone foolish enough to linger in its path. Though each is ultimately concerned only with their own glory, Chaos Warriors are willing to work in unison to achieve victory – especially when the eyes of their champions are upon them. It is a form of brutal discipline that has seen them leave many battlefields carpeted with enemy dead.

The merciless culture of the Darkoath gives rise to hard folk to whom killing comes as naturally as breathing. In their hands, they clasp axes and shields of rugged design, affixed with warlike trophies and tchotchkes. In a great mass, these Marauders will descend upon their foe with blades swinging, roaring with triumph as they litter the ground with severed limbs and cloven skulls. From the moment they can walk, the youth of the Darkoath tribes are trained to wield the axe and the sword. Upon their coming of age, they take part in ‘blooding raids’ on enemy territory, usually targeting rival clans or Sigmarites. During this trial they will swear their first oath, offering their own blood to an oathstone and promising a gift of sacrifice to their tribal gods. Darkoath do not rely upon close formations and well-drilled tactics in the manner of a more conventional army. Their greatest strengths are their intimate connection with the Chaos wilds and their ability to sense where the enemy is weakest and strike decisively. Lent strength by their oaths, the Marauders crash into the fray without pity or remorse, determined to earn glory through slaughter.

Screaming blood-curdling vows to the Ruinous Powers, the Darkoath Savagers have travelled far and wide in their quest for renown. Battling alongside their tribal kin is no longer sufficient to amass the glory they crave; the Savagers’ hunger for prestige has driven them far from their hearth and onto the first true steps on the Path to Glory. They intend to carve out a place for themselves in the greatest Chaos hosts, and many warbands have travelled to the Eightpoints to offer their blades at the foot of the Everchosen’s throne. Though they have their own champions, each Savager warband will ultimately mass around the Godspeakers, those tribal elders who have been granted a degree of prophetic powers by the Dark Gods. It is these seers who interpret the whims of the Chaos Pantheon, which often involve the capture and desecration of sites of particular arcane power. The Savagers fear failing in these vows to the gods far more than the blade of any foe. They will fight beyond the point of mortal injury to claim such ground, knowing that their deities look favourably on those who battle without fear and scorn any who show a hint of hesitation.