Editing The Slaughterfields

<center><table><tr><td><div style="border:1px solid #000000"><div style="background: #BBEEBB">[[Image:Small Book.png|40px]]<small>The following article is a [[/tg/]] related story or fanfic. Should you continue, expect to find [[tl;dr]] and an occasional amount of [[awesome]].</small></div></div></td></tr></table></center>


'''''The Slaughterfields''''' is a large, detailed story that was written by an unknown author and posted on /tg/ on November 21st, 2009. It was subsequently archived, after which other anons found it and proceeded to edit the grammar, spelling, and word order. Below is an interesting view of life in the Far North of the Warhammer World.


[[Image:Warriors of Khorne by Cos Koniotis.jpg|thumb|right|They're pretty angry]]

Blood boils and hisses

Flesh quakes and roars

We exist where everything ceases to be

We live in chains

In release

We find divinity

So that we may burn

Forever

We burn like fires in the night.

The forest is alive and we tear with blade and talon, gouging wounds in bark and soil, shivering as splinters rake our skin. We sense our prey drawing near, their blood stinking on the trembling air. Our skin writhes, sweat steams, hot and rancid with hate. Our fury swells as we long for the slaughter to come. We are forsworn, but our fury will soon be left unchecked. We are forfeit, but we are no longer denied. We burn and the world will catch fire.

There is a scream in the dark. A draft horse thrashes, kicking at its handlers. Voices yell, shock and rage, the animal screams again, the wires tightening around its ankles. I moan as I raise the bone blade to the pale moon. I place the tip against the opening in my armour at the hip and slice up and under, rattling across my ribs. My followers take their knives and follow suit, sweet, ragged agony rippling through us. My fingers fumble eagerly for the gaping cut, already stitching, and my pain turns to rage. Blood hisses, flesh roars. I take hold and pull, the wound tearing and bleeding fresh with long dribbling rivers. Naked muscles spasms. I shriek and the voices of the forest shriek in response. I am a child of Khorne, god of death, blood, and battle. We are the chained ones, and we suffer like no other on this world.

Once, this world was paradise. Life spattered and sprayed, bursting from sacks of meat and bone, churning in the sodden earth - such vitality! We found the Blood God in every moment of slaughter, tearing apart the husks to release the life within. We would rend our mates and feel their teeth on our breast, a lusty communion of violence. Death filled the air, from the moment the sun rose until long into the night. We made way for new life and clothed ourselves in the remains of the old. We knew ourselves to be divine. And how was our devotion rewarded? The gifts of our god come fewer and fewer as the twisting nature of chaos has utterly transformed some of us completely into ravening monsters, no longer children of Khorne but merely weapons. Those of us who lost our mind and our balance would fall to become the Fallen, or worse. Those who failed to anchor themselves would never again know Khorne’s love.

Our blood boils, but we dare not free ourselves from the weight placed upon us. We can slice our skin, but cannot cut too deeply. We dare not consummate our love for Khorne, lest the sacrificial blood cease to flow into His cup. It is obscene. Our blood-soaked paradise is now bitter poison. When the mortal nations arose from the darkness, we ached to lose ourselves in murder. But we dared not open our bodies to blade, claw, and Khorne. He lingered, just out of reach, and He denied us peace. No matter how many we killed, it was never enough to slake His need- our need. Long were we angels of war, sublime hands of death. We were the Sword of Chaos: champions, protectors, executioners of the ancient tradition, and guardians to the Everchosen. No more.

Then came the terrible blow. Archaeon, greatest of us all, fell beneath traitorous blades. Our insides churned in anguish and humiliation. Our veins blackened with thwarted rage. The Nameless High Lord, servant to Archaeon, rose in the Everchosen’s place after his humiliating defeat and ordered an end to the incursion and tradition demanded we obey. Those who failed to follow were cut loose, consumed by the rallied mortals and would ultimately destroy themselves. The end of the campaign seared our souls. We laid waste to the land as we returned, killing everything we touched. We savaged our souls with loathing. Our bodies twisted and writhed with rage and as we seethed in our prisons, we found our way back to divine Khorne. We rent our souls from moment to moment and were reborn, even as our hands twitched to rip flesh asunder. Iron without, iron within. Fury without end. It was not the communion of shredded flesh, but this wine sustained us.

That was when the Slaaneshi came to us, gathering together the scattered prides with promises of a reckoning. They reminded us of our traditions and our orders, and they said that things might be made right again. The time would come and we must prepare. We have counted each day since. Each day, the fire within burns brighter. The Slaaneshi still wallow in decadence, the followers of Nurgle abandon themselves in wasting pits, and the Tzeentchians sustain themselves on arcane secrets. Yet we are empty. So long as the mortals to the south exist, there can be no return to paradise, no atonement for Archaeon’s fall. The High Lord has stayed our hands, and left us to feed upon ourselves. As tradition demands, we obey, but not for much longer.

It is no small thing for a child of Khorne to forsake his oath, even in these times of madness. Obedience to tradition is buried deep in our souls and, once, it gave our bloodletting form and purpose. Much of that millennial knowledge has been lost, eroding precious links to our identity, but some tenets still have the weight of ages: respect and obey the mighty, forsake no oaths and let no blood go unspilled. Even in times past, when we leapt into the maelstrom of battle, raw savagery and physical power were merits by which we Khornate judged ourselves. This is all the more important now, as we must make the best of the forms we are born with. Our skin is sacred, its scars and mutilations bearing witness to our ferocity and the long litany of battles we have fought. We ache for blood; like a lover from the heart of the fray, and those who leap unyielding into the storm of blades attract others seeking to share in their renown. In this way, we form our many war bands, our prides, each of which centre around a warrior of great promise, reflecting his glory and at the same time seeking to usurp it from him. A pride leader must defend his power at every turn from within and without, and challenges occur almost daily.

The pride of which I was a part of followed Dread Erickson the Flayed, whose skin dangled in tatters from his chest and arms. We were of the Order of Razors, for we sought the blood god in hacked meat and severed veins opened by our long blades. Erickson commanded a large pride, so great was his renown with fourteen of those favoured by Khorne in his terrible shadow and one hundred-forty able warriors and fit slaves to slake his needs. In truth, of these ’serfs’ only twenty were his own alone; each of the Chosen must possess as many servants as he can, to demonstrate his terrible appetites and to provide gifts to those mightier than he. We keep our serfs close, for slaughters are commonplace by prides wishing to increase their standing. Four of the serfs were mine, but of course, Erickson could claim them as his own, as could any others in the pride whose renown eclipsed mine. As we are commanded to obey the mighty, we take what we will from the weak. Every pride has its hierarchy, and it is always in flux. Our rage hollows us from within and our hunger ever swells. We may satisfy our needs on those of lesser status than ourselves, or partake of their serfs as we wish, though we may not slay such a follower outright, unless we duel its owner for the privilege. Blood flows daily within the pride, and through a precise dance of custom and rank, laws older than time.

The Slaughterfields, seated at the edge of the glorious realm of Eternal Battle, are the home to many prides as it has been since the primordial past. Each pride claims as much of the snowy wastes as it can hold with blade and deed, declaring it their territory, their fief, their stalking… Any prey within the stalking is theirs alone. Erickson’s stalking was large, at he edge of Calimyne’s Duchy and well into the shadow of the Black Ziggurat. In times past, the High Lord drove serfs, prisoners, and spawn into the Slaughterfields to whet our appetites and the many who enter our lands. But the High Lord’s gifts dwindled over time. Now they are rare, and those prides nearest the Ziggurat watch their borders jealously. I remember the day the howl went up from Jekyll, echoing off the wastes. Prey. Our minds reeled with lust. The two least pride members were left to watch over the serfs, howling and slashing in frustration as the rest of us raced after the prey. We tasted the ashen wind and our jaws slavered at the thought of wet, red flesh.

It was one of the Chaos Spawn, a huge, misshapen thing of terrible strength and ferocity. Our entire pride could have pitted ourselves against it, partaking of its blood and pain, but when we arrived, it was already faltering, its flanks savaged from hundreds of cuts. Forms danced around it, difficult to follow with the eye. They were the Unseen, members of another Order, deviants from the path of Khorne. They had stolen our kill. The spawn died as we approached and we shrieked in fury. Death was priceless in the Slaughterfields - the meat and drink of our masters and lords alone, the greatest gift Khorne’s champions could give. We had come too late to the feast. Hunger twisted our bones, rage seethed and boiled from our skin. The Unseen heard our cries and howled in challenge. They had violated our stalking and stolen our prey. Our blades sang in the air as we drew them. Our minds were all but lost to visions of gore - but the laws of the Everchosen restrained us, holding us back from the brink, hedging us from the point of no return. Laws and tradition are branded on our souls, as they have been since long before the Sundering, before the gods thought themselves different from the rest. Before the name Khorne first escaped the lips of the first prophet of the Blood God. The laws gave our actions purpose and form. It meant the endless miracle of blood, life, and death, and is even more important today. Without laws and careful ritual, we could not survive.

We stopped our approach at thirty-six paces, showing respect and restraint. Our pride was larger, and only an equal number of low status pride members raised their blades. Erickson was the accuser, and it fell on Xagyr, the Unseens’ pride leader, to speak first and declare his intent. Yet he did not. We could feel their hunger as strongly as ours, and the anger weeping red from their pores. They were defiant, consumed with need. Finally Erickson spoke to me. “Go to him. Give him no greeting of blood, but tell him that he must fight me for his crime or I claim a hundred of his own forfeit.”

I went to Xagyr, careful to follow all proprieties. I was the third-lowest in status within the pride and therefore it was an intricate insult to the Unseen. Etiquette is a weapon to the children of Khorne, for a warrior who loses control of his emotions loses status as well, or worse, loses the careful balance of reason and falls fully into the quagmire of rage, going berserk for the first and final time, no longer a beloved child of Khorne, but a mere tool to fulfill his desire. The Fallen are prey, by command of the High Lord. So Erickson and Xagyr sought to unbalance the other, pushing one anothers self-control. Xagyr could not ignore me, but speaking to me was beneath him. He extended his hand for the blood-greeting. Those of lower status must show subservience by allowing their superior to cause a bloody wound, while we do not retaliate. When I refused, taking a pace backward and planting my feet, it clearly unsettled Xagyr and his entire pride. I repeated what Erickson demanded of these interlopers over their shouts and screams.

The bone dart found purchase in the joint of my shoulder, it’s poison pumping. Other Unseen let their darts fly, striking again and again. Shattering on my armour and sometimes reaching the exposed parts, piercing leather, fur, and cloth. My pridemates howled in outrage. Xagyr’s pride was undone. By interfering with Erickson’s challenge, they were open to retribution. But before we could act, these deviants, wielders of Nurgle’s venom while bearing false claim to Khorne’s birthright, fled, blinding us with choking clouds of toxic vapour and leaving us howling for blood. Half of us chased after the Unseen, roaring in fury, with the rest remained to guard our pride. The bile from their darts left holes gaping in my upper body. I fingered the wounds, savouring the pain, for they would heal and scar over far sooner than I would have liked. Suffering the maelstrom enriched my standing in the pride, so much so that I ran alongside Erickson’s favourites. We would make Xagyr pay, in blood or bodies, or we would seem impotent. We also raced the rising tide of our rage, hoping to feed it before it pulled us under.

Duels are fought daily in the Slaughterfields, usually between members of a pride jockeying for status. It is a careful, deadly dance, as the duelists feed their hunger without giving in to the sweet release of killing. The duel continues until one opponent is incapacitated, lying in a heap of torn limbs and spilled entrails, or loses control of their fury, at which point they have forfeited their claim. Serf raids are also common between prides, even within the same order. Serfs are a source of status amongst the prides and the only steady supply of prey. A powerful pride might have as many as five hundred or more. Bred for battle, hunting, food, or other pleasures, they make up the bulk of a pride’s warband and support the entire pride, but unlike the pride leader and his favoured, they are all expendable. The larger the herd, the harder it is to defend, reflecting upon the pride’s prowess. As revenge for what Xagyr and his pride had done, we intended to slaughter every serf they had. Prides that lose all their serfs lose nearly all of their status and become an embarrassment to their order and its lord. They would have to disband, and try to seek acceptance in other prides, likely to become serfs themselves, provided they were not perceived as mere prey. Sometimes, prides conducting a serf raid would steal the serfs instead. As the years wear on, it becomes harder to grow content with just wounds and scars, while the Lords gorge themselves on death before the High Lord and the Everchosen. More and more serfs are slaughtered by the prides and the herds grow thin, while our appetites grow keener.

As we hounded the Unseen onto their own stalking, we saw they had succumbed to the hunger. Their herd was consumed and the handful remaining were a pittance compared to the blood price Erickson demanded. The Unseen hid in the hills and howled our presence to the other prides. Others may take the opportunity to take from us. We had to leave, cheated. We dug our bone knives into our skin, gouging our cheeks to feel the blood flow. Erickson screamed to Xagyr that there would be a reckoning, and the Unseen taunted as we retreated. Erickson and the greatest of his favoured slaked their rage on the slaughter of three of our slaves. Then they drove our herd ahead of us as we began to run, heading for Razor Captain Calimyne the Gutsplitter, master of our order.

Even before we were followers of the Everchosen, the children of Khorne sought Him in splintered bone and blood, the instant of divine revelation as the body is ripped asunder. Yet there is no single path to reach this communion - over the centuries there have been hundreds of different methods and practices that open us to the glory of the Blood God. These philosophies are the basis for our many orders, each refining their individual approach to the art of battle. My pride follow the Razors, whose catechisms hold that Khorne’s love swells most when the body is cut so deeply that moments pass before the victim realizes his death. We fight with swords, axes, and knives of iron and bone, honed to incredible keenness and yearning to strike with clean cuts. Other order philosophies are far more formal and intricate, such as the Briars, who perform numerous Tzeentchian rituals before battle, restricting themselves to specific foes as per the doctrines of the god of prophecy. Some orders are ancient, going back father than the first Everchosen, while others, like Leviathan, formed largely from the bloated, lashed together monstrosities born of Nurgle’s inspiration and Khorne’s fury - Chaos spawn with minds as cunning as any warrior - are only a decade old. The catechisms of the orders give particular focus to our use of sorcery, and when our age has washed all aspects of self away, the orders are our last shred of identity.

There are scores of orders surviving in the Slaughterfields, each lead by a captain or lord who serves as its master. A master is charged with maintaining discipline within the prides who serve him and enforces the High Lord’s doctrine. In return, the size and power of each order reflects upon the master’s status in the eyes of the Everchosen. For this reason, orders often feud and scheme with one another to advance their status at the expense of another’s. Often the prides are the tools of the feud, going on serf raids or seeking out duels that weaken a rival cult’s strength. Occasionally the schemes culminate in a sanctioned war. Unlike the prides, the master of an order remains in one place, ruling a small court of lesser lords from however great a stronghold his order can build. The forts of serf hamlets surround the stronghold, as well as one or more breeding farms. A master holds much of his order’s wealth, giving gifts of warriors and herds to the prides that please him. The thick, rich scent of several hundred serfs set our bodies to trembling as we approached Calimyne’s stronghold, a show of wealth and power that served to remind us of our low station. An order master’s court is as large and complicated as they can manage, the better to show his status to his people and the High Lord. Our pleas for justice would be difficult and expensive, requiring great Erickson to give blood-greeting and herd-gifts to the master’s major domo, his master of serfs, his lord marshal and his trusted lieutenants, with more gifts to come before the captain’s reply could be heard. We would never actually find ourselves in the presence of Razor Captain Calimyne. Our lowly status forbade it.

So we camped our herd and howled a challenge at the stronghold and were forced to wait. We watched our serfs taken away in twos and threes and watched Erickson return with blood dribbling down his chest and arms. Our pride’s wealth dwindled steadily, while our thirst for vengeance grew sharper. More time passed and more gifts and we watched our status shrink. We circled one another carefully and were precise in our conversations, for we were hungry for blood and eager for a chance to duel. Finally we learned that Calimyne was not even in the stronghold at all, but courting with a Nurgle Lord on matters of a rebellion in Abonom. Our fury boiled over and we turned upon each other. We ran down our serfs, slaughtering some and torturing the rest. It was too much for Uncerro, whose mind was lost in fury. Clawing out his eyes and peeling away the skin of his face, he lost himself to the berserker’s fury. We hacked him to pieces, slaking our murderous hunger even though it meant he would be forever damned, and never know Khorne’s love for the rest of eternity.

The murder sickened but sustained us. That night I howled at the hated sky and thought of the hundreds of elves and Imperials swelling unchecked to the south. A feast of gore, wealth uncounted, just out of reach. We knew, deep in our bones, that once the Empire was gone and the people no more than gristle in our teeth, the Eternal Battle would surge anew and paradise would be found. But we waited and the agony continued. On the next day, news came, with a gift of a dozen serfs. Lord Calimyne had learned of our plea and would demand retribution from the Unseen’s master. Khorne commands us and torments us, reminding all of the glory we once had and holding it over us like a leash.

Not all of us are bound to a single lifetime to serve the Blood God. The Lords of Chaos are mighty enough that they can hold their souls back from entering the Realms of Chaos. Their bodies repair themselves, or they are reborn, or merely possess another vessel. They know the sublime sensation of swimming in a sea of ruptured organs and spilled entrails. The Chaos Lords know Khorne as He is truly meant to be known, killing and being killed, causing bloody havoc in whirling, crushing melee. They pack their halls with orgies of reeking death while we mere warriors linger at their gates, eager to please in hopes that we may be allowed into the bloody feasts. The Lords of Chaos can not only survive death to slaughter again, but they can also grant that gift to their underlings if they so choose, using ritual and magnificent shows of devotion to gain the gift and bestow it, granting their favoured champions new forms. When the leaders of the orders fight, they often grant this gift to their most loyal, so that he may fight all the harder and prove his devotion to divine Khorne, settling into their new body at the point where the old one is torn asunder. Every passing day we wait for our master’s commands, hoping to secure the mighty gift for ourselves.

Because lords may show their piety to the Blood God more than the rest, we trusts that they strive ceaselessly to begin the Storm of Chaos anew and return paradise to this world. Some, whose patience has soured over the years, suggest our lords intend no such thing, content with the power they now hold over us. Such dissenters and rebels are quickly weeded out and silenced, their status stripped along with their skins. As our hunger intensifies and the herds grow thin, we must depend on the Chaos Lords to lead us, or all our faith in the traditions is for nothing and all we may count on is our rage and the oblivion of the fallen.

Calimyne courts the favour of many other Lords of Chaos, ensuring the loyalty of the prides through rich favours from the other dark gods. Powerful prides act as guardians to Slaaneshi sorcerers, who provide insight in the killing art and help create forms that are  as beautiful as they are deadly. It is a relationship that so far has mutually benefited both factions and competition is fierce among the prides of the Razor to be chosen for these tasks. Nurgle has recently taken interest in us, seeking prides eager for glory and setting them against Abonom and Kislev in raids and ambushes. Though the means and ultimate goal are hollow and sickening to us, the armour and weapons provided by the followers of Nurgle are incredibly effective, and the sacs of healing juices that improve our regeneration are of great value. As to Tzeentchians, thankfully, they do not seek us. Rather, we find ourselves turning to them, as time and rage wears the memories of what we once were. Their knowledge provides a link to past glories and their powers can release our brethren who have lost themselves to the path of the fallen. They ask for nothing in return and this is troubling. Each day sees us more in their debt. When will it all be due?

While my pride waited for revenge, Calimyne moved among the Lords at the Black Ziggurat. Though the Lords suffer little compared to us, theirs is still an intricate dance of status and protocol, where any slip is an invitation to battle and death. Competition for the Everchosen’s favour is fierce, and Eckhart, Captain of the Unseen, was once a favourite of Archaeon. The petitioning lasted for days. Eckhart rebuffed every attempt and the High Lord turned a blind eye. Our master demanded a duel and was refused. But these were merely diversions, meant to hold Eckhart’s attention. In the background, Calimyne was gathering support from the other orders. When the duel was ignored, the Razor Captain had exhausted all other means and was free to petition the High Lord with the support of five other masters to declare war. Eckhart was trapped, having closed all other avenues of escape. The High Lord, acting on Archaeon’s behalf, couldn’t do anything but accept in the face of Calimyne’s support. Eckhart was now doomed to lose far, far more than the skins of a few members of his prides. That evening, Calimyne and his court arrived at his duchy and as one shrieked a war howl. Our cry for revenge was now a raging storm.

The Everchosen permits such wars because it reminds us of our ultimate purpose, as the warriors of Chaos. Khornate followers comprise the bulk of the Swords, the Storm, and our lords possess a great deal of clout. It is not enough to master the art of single combat, we must also know how to fight as something greater, for the day we take to the field and muddy the earth with mortal blood once more. The wars test our skills, and force us to work with warriors from other orders. Combat of such a scale also causes violent changes in the hierarchy, affecting even the High Lord’s most favoured generals. Fortunes can change hands overnight and when the smoke clears, the balance of power in Arcaheon’s court is rarely the same. Calimyne had carefully gathered the allies he needed to ensure his victory even before the petition was declared. Perhaps he was already looking for an excuse.

As the highest of station in the coalition, Calimyne would take command of the eight orders and the army would gather in the shadow of his stronghold. We would fight for the enemy serfs, killing or taking a hundred for each order in the army. The Unseen, in the face of such opposition, managed to find two allies for its cause and between the three of them, there would never be enough serfs to fill Calimyne’s demands. Eckhart would lose and he would be ruined. The orders gathered through the night, while Calimyne held a tournament to determine who among his followers would claim the gift of reincarnation during the war. We battled like frenzied beasts and the air was filled with shrieks of battle. Dread Ericksson won the honour, as did five other pride leaders. By morning, our forces filled the ashen vale. We set out for Eckhart’s lands beside the Bitter Dancers, whose bodies excreted vaporous toxins. Other prides who marched by our side were the Pale Riders, who rode on the backs of demonic mounts; the Stygian Stranglers who chanted as they marched and swung their barbed garrottes over their heads; and the Grey Maggots who’s bodies were coated in teeth and tiny, lamprey-like orifices.

Arrayed against use were the Long Knives, a diminished order who faced certain ruin to fulfill an oath to Eckhart, and the Black Carcass, whose contact with Nurgle provided them with the ability to attach the bodies of their foes onto their own, creating hellish war machines. The Unseen turned their talents on us at once, lashing out in ambush with darts and harassment tactics. We longed for the sight of Xagyr and his pride, but were denied. Our blood sang to be marching, yet we wondered how our plea would be served amid the upset. Would we be guaranteed serfs to make back all we lost? Would we be allowed to partake in the killing, to make up for the one denied? We were born along on a tide of battle lust and soon our need for bloodshed drowned all other thoughts in a haze of red.

The Long Knives and the Black Carcass awaited us at the foot of Eckhart’s stronghold, fierce and defiant, but barely a handful against the surging tide of our numbers. We swept over the with a roar, clawing and slashing.The front line held the prides with the highest ranks. My pride was further back and after the first moments it was clear that the enemy would be eliminated before we could even come to blows! We howled in frustration, tearing and biting one another. Other prides suffered as well, some falling before their brothers. On a hill behind us, our Lords watched, impassive as a cluster of Tzeentchian sorcerers waited to pick out the lost from among us. The Black Carcass lingered the longest but soon fell, choking on poison, slashed and swollen with disease. A great wail went up from their assembled herds as the victors drowned themselves in plunder.

Not even Erickson had taken a single foe under his blade. We reeled about amid the maimed and wounded, our skin peeling and splitting apart with pent up fury. Where was our vengeance? The lords on the hill were unmoved by our howls. As one, they turned away, returning to the Everchosen’s side. The sorcerers began their procession across the field, seeking the fallen. I was struck from behind by Kylan, one of my pridemates. His nails sank deep furrows in my back and I responded by biting his cheek and we tore at each other for long moments until I shattered his legs. We were lost souls as we lurched back to Calimyne’s Duchy, bereft and bloodless. Eckhart was ruined but what had we gained? If anything, we suffered more. The rage and pain swelled in our skin until blood ran from our eyes.

I tried to remember the tenets. Respect and obey the mighty. Did that not obligate them to serve us in return? If we were to suffer the agonies being separated from Khorne and hold back from attacking the mortals, did it not fall to them to fulfill our lusts? Our herd were getting smaller and the gifts were getting rarer.

Forsake no oaths. What oaths had been sworn to us? We believed the High Lord. In truth, we needed him, because in our state, we could not challenge the mortals alone. We have to follow them and have been the teeth that kept the other followers of the dark gods in line. Yet how have we profited? What have we gained?

When we reached the stronghold, we saw a field of bodies and learned at last why Xagyr wasn’t at the battle. Eckhart, knowing that he had lost, had sent his best to sneak around us, to wreak what slaughter he could on our herds. He could not keep us from victory, but he could make it bitter. All of my pride’s serfs were gone. We were ruined. Dread Erickson was furious. In a single moment he was divine, wreathed in the halo of the Blood God. His back tore asunder and two geysers of boiling blood burst out like wings of an angel of death. But the moment ended and the Flayed One fell from grace. He became lost in fury. He slaughtered all of his favoured and again another amount of our pride before other warriors slew him in their fury.

The Order of Razors imploded. It raged and tore at itself. I saw then, with a cold flash of anger, what we had become. The High Lord and the Slaaneshi were using us, a shadow keeping the rest in line to foster their ambitions. They repaid our loyalty by hemming us into the wastes of the Slaughterfields and leaving us to destroy ourselves, either by madness or hunger. As the herds dwindled, more and more of us will be lost, chained by our inescapable rage. They sought to murder the children of Khorne. They wanted to subvert the ancient and greatest of the gods. We were fools and had been tricked all along into mocking the greatest tenet. Khorne’s tenet: let no blood go unspilled.

The flesh of my face was opened, deep cuts were made that went down to the bone, exposing nerves to the singing night wind. I was forsworn, and free. Kylan was next, then Yoland. Erickson was gone. These seven warriors were now mine. They were my pride. Eight of us were all that were left of the Order of Razors, we were the holy number of the Blood God. We saw the truth with unimaginable clarity. We are the children of Khorne, born in blood. We are meant for slaughter, and the world is our abattoir. If we do not kill, we die. We will show them. We will slaughter the mortals at every turn and leave their torn bodies strewn across the Slaughterfields for all the prides to see. Let them remember our days of glory, and hunger. Let the hunger drive them wild and the earth drip with gore. The Lords must either be swept along, as we have been, or be torn apart.

I listen to the terror of the caravan. Come the dawn the craven priests of Sigmar will find their hides and know a season of death has come. They will know fear, and with luck, they will seek us out. We will hang their bones from the trees and howl curses in the night. We will howl loud enough to be heard from the Black Zigguraut, and if Archaeon would stop us, let him send the armies of the Storm, and see how long they can resist the temptations of mortal flesh. The hunger keens along my bones. Deep rage surges within me and my mind fills with visions of Altdorf, throne of the Empire, clotted with gore.

We are reapers sowing our seed in the earth.

We are the killers of men and beast.

Blood boils and hisses.

Flesh quakes and roars.

We exist where everything ceases to be.

The world turns on the edge of our blades.

We are divine.



[[Category:Stories]]