What can be said of anger, that has not been said a thousand times before by poets and those of faith. It burns like acid through the veins, lingers like ash upon the tongue. It is both pure and sick, tainted by its very need to cleanse until nothing remains.

So is Khorne, the Flame that Burns, the Patron of Red Rage and Ruin. His is the call of war, the clarion cry of slaughter and insensate wroth. He exemplifies anger in its purest form, taken to its most extreme end. Self-destructive, violent, and most of all... pointless.

Those that serve him do so invariably without choice, for as the blood flows, sense and reason are burned on the pyre of hate and death. Sanity, compassion, reason and thought, all these and more are but kindling for the fires burning within as you step upon the brazen path.

This is the Crimson Path, to sacrifice all else but destruction. Honour, nobility and perfection of craft, each but the dull facade covering the true colours beneath. Pretty lies hiding the truth that all of us wish to burn, everything and then ourselves.

Here shall we begin, beneath red stars of blinding white. Here do we start, with the Doom of Existence, calling out the same song every time. Blood for the Blood God...

Skulls for the Skull Throne.

The Face

of Murder

The origins of Khorne
are a murky affair, contained within
tomes now blind with viscera and ash.
Some say his first breath was the last
of another, a spark of consciousness born as rock split twain kins blood.

Others claim that his birth was due to the chaos spilling across Terra during the Middle Ages, that era of knights and chivalry perverted by the dark souls underneath. They claim that as strife split the world apart, so too did his roar sunder the Warp in recoiled shock.

A rare few even claim that his birth was from a time so long past, humanity still lingered as cells throughout the ocean water. The War in Heaven they call it, and so terrible was the destruction that the very heavens turned fell with rage, decay and madness.

The truth however... Well the truth may never be known, possibly cannot be known. His darkness eternal from the moment it was born, his shadow cast across existence as laughter drives forth the engines bleak.

Such legacy befits his stature, for Khorne is the most powerful of the gods, unsurprising in the face of such horrors that now exist within the galaxy, each moment a battle against the end that feeds the fires of extinction. He is a beast of fog and flame, a towering fiend of brazen muscle and ironbound hide whose very breath ignites the blood and air around him.

All this coiled and chained like a dog rabid with hunger. From atop his Throne of Skulls, formed from the head of every creature taken in his name, does he watch collapse and direct its path towards the most glorious ruin.

Those foolish enough to stand before him, mad enough to somehow survive, speak of his bated breath that reeks of spilt blood. They speak of wings so vast that whole suns are devoured by their shade. They speak of death...

The Mortals Malign

The fall to Khorne is often swift and carelessly done. A knight eager to protect his land, a student desperate to master the blade, a warrior competing with his fellows before the eve of battle.

It does not take much, a spark to start the flame. Soon the knight decides to hunt that which would threaten him, the student throws himself into more dangerous training, and the warrior ups the stakes through the hunting of deadlier game.

This is it how it begins, step by step, reaching towards crescendo as the beat builds faster. By the end, there is little left of those who once were. The knight now monstrous, preying upon those who looked to him for protection, too weak to guard themselves. The student, battling to the death for the greatest test of skill. The warrior, killing comrade and ally, their blood the greatest conquest in their game.

These are the servants of Khorne, and though many find themselves at different points in their path, madness and annihilation are all that await. Most famous amongst these are the World Eaters, once noble Astartes in the Emperor's service, now twisted parodies of the angels they once were.

Led by Angron, a Daemon-Primarch bound to Khorne, the World Eaters are a monstrous band of lunatic killers, lost entirely to anger and rage. Fuelled on by neural-implants known as the Butcher's Nails, their legacy is one of suicidal dread, and vagrant carnage.

Though legendary, they do not stand alone. From the disciplined ranks of the Blood Pact, to the Butcherhorde who follow in the wake of Khârn the Betrayer, the forces of Khorne are endless. Though many die each day that passes, his madness catches countless into his ranks.

It is not even just humans who find themselves serving the Master of Ruin. From the scarecrow-like Nekulli to the bloodthirsty Rak'Gol, all races find themselves called by the lure of strife. Khorne cares not for what you are, only that battle is served.

The Revenants of Ruin

Behind the fist clenched across reality, are those dark spirits formed in life with their master. The Daemons of Khorne are brutal creatures, unimaginative but effective, forming vast legions of brazen blades and dark strength.

The bulk of these forces are comprised of Bloodletters, lithe creatures wielding swords forged in the fires of hell. Clad in thick scales of crimson hide, they are a formidable opponent, incredibly skill in battle and brutally strong.

Behind them come the Heralds, chosen from amongst their lesser kin for their particular ability in the arts of strategy and murder. Atop mighty Juggernauts, great bulls of iron and brass, do they ride, their quake speaking loud the end to come.

Finally are the Bloodthirsters, towering beings of flame and smoke, borne aloft by wings of shadow cast. None equal these fiends in battle, for they are whirlwinds of destruction, true perfection of slaughter.

Only the Daemon Princes stand separate, caught halfway between reality and not. These are the most cursed creatures, for they were once free, and chose instead slavery rather than a life fulfilled. They are the voice of Khorne, his fist upon existence... For they have not other choice.

The End of All Things

Known by many names, the Woebringer and Warmaker amongst many, this sword is Khorne's most potent artefact. Forged of black steel, covered in the darkest runes, it is said that when he swings it, existence itself is split in twain. A mad few wonder if the end of days shall be heralded by the crack of ruin's storm, the patience of Khorne finally shattered.

The First Host

Formed of the Eight most powerful Bloodthirsters in Khorne's employ, these beasts are the trust masters of rage and death. Each one is an army unto themselves, each one a divine instrument of murder and malice. These are the harbingers of the extinction, their presence no omen, but a certainty of defeat.