The Iron Butcher Chaos Lord, Warsmith Vhorrax, by @art_bruray
The Warsmith stepped on the carcass of the Night Lord Dreadnought. A sizzling mixture of blood, amniotic fluid, and oil sputtered from the open wound in the sarcophagus where the sawblades of Corpse Grinder had shredded the metallic hull of the war machine, allowing Vhorrax to flood the Dreadnought bowels with a rain of promethium of his heavy flamer, burning the Dreadnought pilot alive. The Night Lord outpost was minutes away from being conquered, but the VIIIth Legion has put such a hard fight that he had to step into the battlefield in first person. While their fearmongering doctrine was ineffective against the Astartes, they had plagued the Iron Butchers for a week with fast strikes and retreats, causing the Khornates significant losses. Finally, Vhorrax had pinpointed their location and led the final, direct onslaught. In that, the Iron Butchers were second to none, as the Night Lords have experienced.
On his right, a World Eaters Terminator was starting harvesting the skulls of the enemies, finally free to enjoy the pure flesh-tearing ecstasy without any thought about discipline and orders.
Inside his brain, he started feeling the urge to join his subordinate in a feast of skulls and blood to honor the Blood Father, but he had to resist. Vhorrax kept referring to the thing inside his head as “his brain”, but he wasn’t sure about that anymore. Only the Gods knew what kind of organ existed inside him after Khorne has turned his whole body into a mechanical nightmare, forever flesh-fused with the Cataphrachtii armour. The Warsmith breathed burning air from his mouth grille. Before he could indulge in the pleasure of the blood, he had to listen to the IVth Legion’s rational nature: he had to gather all the possible data about their new situation, then elaborate and combine them to determine all the possible outcomes, and only then he could be sure about the next step to take.
Only keeping the Iron Within, he could keep the blood flowing throughout.
