“Blood for the blood god! Skulls for the skull throne!”

War cry of the blood legions

THE BRASSED AXE LEGION

The Brassed Axe Legion is known for its martial prowess and an overwhelming disdain for the use of any ranged weaponry. So great is their hatred that the bloodthirster who leads the legion, Ka’Borakh the Bonecrusher, forbade the use of skull cannons entirely.

The Brassed Axe Legion are often called upon to break through heavily armoured formations, their incredible fury manifesting tangibly, empowering the eight cohorts of this legion and where they tread, carnage follows.

The eighth cohort, led by a Herald of Khorne known as Ka’Kobohr the Bloodsoaked, gained a reputation for exacting extreme violence on the battlefields in the realm of chaos fighting the daemons of Slaanesh and Tzeentch.

Being a murderhost cohort, its ranks are filled with bloodletters, bloodcrushers and flesh hounds, combining all of their strengths to make the 8th cohort an extremely effective force.

However, now that The Great Rift spans the width of the galaxy, Khorne has retasked the legion with expanding Khorne’s influence in the mortal realm.

While the other cohorts of the legion are occupied elsewhere, Ka’Borakh has tasked Ka’Kobohr and his 8th cohort with observing a particularly interesting situation building in the Tiberian system. A number of opposing factions are gathering and Ka’Kobohr is eager to taste his fair share of the slaughter, additionally enticed by the prospect of collecting a far more worthy skull for Khorne.

KA’KOBOHR THE BLOADSOAKED

Thud, thump, crack, crunch, squelch. Red pulp coats the foot of the daemon in the large ornate throne room. A guttural roar escapes his throat as he stamps on the remains of the inquisitor’s head.

The pitiful human looked so promising at first. But any respect this Herald of Khorne had for his mortal opponent vanished in an instant when the gluttonous pig clad in power armour not only threw his servant towards approaching danger but also pulled a gun and tried to shoot him through the servant.

Kicking the remains of the shattered jaw, Ka’Kobohr ensures that this particularly pathetic skull shall never join the skull pile. Although he is unusually bloodthirsty even for his kind, Ka’Kobohr the Bloodsoaked steps away from the corpse before the growing pool of blood can reach him, and he cleans his feet of the fatty gore stuck to his clawed toes.

He picks up his warpsteel sword with a bloodstained hand and marches out of the room, leaving the several bodies of its many inhabitants to burn to ash along with the rest of the building. None of them are worthy of becoming a trophy for the increasingly irritable daemon of Khorne.

In the courtyard, the delightful scents of charred flesh, rubble and blood assault his nose. The thick smoke laden air chokes him slightly as several tall black plumes of smoke burst forth from the scorched interiors of the towering buildings of the city, reaching ever skywards.

Explosions and screams ring out from every direction, and Ka’Kobohr stalks his way over to the bloodletter pack waiting for him at the no longer gated entrance.

Suddenly, a pack of bloodcrushers crash through the heavily fortified wall to his left, crossing in from of him and exiting in the same manner through the wall to his right, their thunderous hooves still audible for a while afterwards.

Ka’Kobohr and his cohort had achieved their goal in coming to this world. Khorne’s influence encroaches ever further into the mortal plane and Ka’Kobohr can see the results manifesting as the sky and its clouds have morphed from a light green to a deep shade of red. It starts to rain, and as blood falls from the sky, he sticks his long-forked tongue out to catch the droplets trickling down his face.

It had taken only two days to bring this mess of an imperial world to its knees. Some mortals had put up a good fight, resorting to teeth and nails when weaponry failed them. Defiant to the end, their skulls make fine prizes for those of the eighth cohort.

On the other hand, far too many living in this world were unable to put up a fight due to malnourishment or disease, depriving the cohort of the maelstrom of extreme violence that they have come to crave from their time on the battlefields of the realm of chaos.

This is a cause of concern for the leader of the eighth cohort. A lot of the daemons on this planet, Ka’Kobohr included, were unable to quench their murderous thirst, and their rage grows increasingly difficult to manage with every passing moment. Although infighting is expected within any cohort in Khorne’s legions, manifesting in the mortal realm this time was only possible initially with the help of cultist summoning rituals. As such, even with the incredible amount of blood spilled as they rampaged across the continents, replenishing their losses will take time that many of the cohort would rather spend travelling elsewhere to find a halfway decent battlefield.

With a composure entirely alien to the bloodletters he leads, he begins to reminisce about the never-ending battlefields in the Realm of Chaos. Only to be interrupted by the leader of the cultists who arrives with his retinue of pathetic mortal minions in tow. The large bald man covered in terribly written runes waddles closer.

“Praise Kharnath for this victory!” He shouts.

The words sting Ka’Kobohr, his cohort did all the fighting. Very few of their murder cult did anything to help, and even then, these so-called leaders sat in their oddly small chairs, and Ka’Kobohr cannot fathom why Khorne was interested in this particular world. There are plenty of other easy footholds in this system alone, yet this cult is wholly unworthy of Kh-

A thought flashes through his mind, and Ka’Kobohr believes he just answered his own question. He issues orders to the bloodletter pack in the dark tongue all while staring at the cultist leader. He then hears them disperse behind him, cackling as they pick up speed.

“What did them you speaking?” the cultists leader asks in the dark tongue, butchering the language with his pathetic understanding of it.

Ka’Kobohr faces the fat man in front of him, rage building as he decides whether to respond or not. Then, he raises his blade and says in perfect gothic, “I told them to do what they do best.”

“What? The cultist leader asks.

“Here, let me show you,” Ka’Kobohr responds excitedly, raising his weapon. With a single downward strike of his warpsteel blade, he vertically cleaves the body of the cultist into halves. A metallic scent fills the air, and the daemon trapped in his blade sings as it tastes blood once again.

Fear sets into the eyes of the other high-ranking cultists and Ka’Kobohr sees his multi-horned daemonic visage reflected in their eyes, a grin spread across his face.

“BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!” he proclaims as he sweeps his blade to the left, separating one of the men’s torsos from his legs. Another slash and another cultist is cut down, then the next, and the next. In eight seconds, all eight leaders of the murder cult are no more, and Ka’Kobohr feels just a little better.

He licks the red glistening blade and breathes a sigh of satisfaction. The bodies in front of him start popping, limbs snapping and bones protruding through skin as the blood remaining in the bodies rises and forms a portal that floats just above the ground.

A hulking figure steps through the portal, a red-hot glowing brass axe in one hand and a very large flail resting on its shoulder. “LEADER OF THE EIGHTH COHORT, THE BLOOD FATHER IS PLEASED BY YOUR OFFERING,” the growl of a voice says and Ka’Kobohr recognises the leader of his legion.

“Lord Bonecrusher,” Ka’Kobohr regards the greater daemon several times his size with the little deference that he has become accustomed to providing. Any who lowers their head to the leader of the Brassed Axe Legion tends to find themselves staring up at their torsos not too long afterwards.

A large cloven hoof crushes the entire torso of the fat cultist leader, and Ka’Borakh the Bonecrusher glances downwards at the red stain under his foot. “DISGUSTING MORTAL MEAT SACK,” he growls before returning his focus to his subordinate, “I HAVE ANOTHER JOB FOR THE EIGHTH.”

“Will there be any fighting this time?” Ka’Kobohr asks before quickly adding, “this world was extremely disappointing.”

Ka’Borakh stares daggers at him and Ka’Kobohr can hear his grip tighten on the chain at the end of the flail that earned Ka’Borakh his moniker. A tense second passes before the giant winged greater daemon responds with a dagger toothed grin, “PLENTY.”