The Death Guard are the greatest champions of the Plague God, Grandfather Nurgle, his favoured spreaders of his bounteous gifts. Look upon them and see the signs: pus seeping from festering wounds that never heal; miasmic smogs of corrosive, stinking gas hanging thickly in the air wherever Nurgle’s chosen tread; the wriggling, lamprey-mouthed tick-leeches that clamp on to their rotting flesh; the droning billions of plague flies that swarm the battlefields they stalk and the ships in which they course through the stars.
World Eaters Khârn the Betrayer
Kill! Maim! Burn!
This is Khârn the Betrayer’s mantra, and it has become infamous across the Imperium as a harbinger of carnage to follow. Khârn embodies the eightfold path of Khorne; friend and foe alike are left broken, twitching and torn apart in his wake. As he sprints into battle, his bellowed war cries boom from the vox-grill of his helm, striking terror into the hearts of even the bravest. His plasma pistol spits bolts of destruction almost indiscriminately into his enemies as he closes in, as his screaming chainaxe Gorechild rips apart any survivors with utterly inhuman speed. Even before his last victim has hit the bloodied gRound, Khârn has charged off in search of more blood for the Blood God.
This multi-part plastic kit contains the components necessary to assemble Khârn the Betrayer, a single-pose model armed with a plasma pistol and his chainaxe, Gorechild. Supplied with a Citadel 40mm Round base.
Shambling across the battlefield in reeking hordes, Poxwalkers engulf their enemies in rotting tides of grasping hands, gnashing teeth and squirming tentacles. They are the cursed victims of Nurgle’s plagues, transformed into unliving weapons by the cruel masters of the Death Guard.
Transport yourself back in time with this very special Noise Marine miniature! We’ve taken the iconic 1991 Jes Goodwin Noise Marine and given him a makeover, bringing to life the classic details you know and love - guitar, mohawk, high heels and all! - in incredible detail.
Chaos Terminators are heavily armoured veterans clad in debased suits of Tactical Dreadnought armour. They form the elite of their masters’ warbands, for though they are ponderous compared to their power armour-clad comrades, nothing short of a dedicated anti-tank laser can stop a Terminator in full stride. Spiked trophy racks protrude from massive shoulders, the skulls of the enemy a barbaric testament to their wearer’s martial prowess. Helmets have grown into bestial masks that sprout great tusks and razored horns, many of which have fused directly into the skulls of their wearers.
Haarken Worldclaimer takes a heinous joy in his role as the mouthpiece of Abaddon, for it is he who proclaims the death of worlds. He does so not with some quotidian threat or hollow boast, but by driving his weapon, the Daemon-touched Helspear deep into the heart of citizen and soldier alike. He is a dark omen given form, and the otherworldly destruction he heralds is the coming of the Warmaster himself.
The roar of a Chaos Biker's engine fires the damned soul of its rider to acts of greater recklessness. They trail brimstone and death in their wake as the harbingers of the dark legions.
Chaos Bikers are scouts, outriders and raiders who allow you to strike where your opponent is most vulnerable. Incredibly fast, well armed and hard to kill, they make for a highly mobile thorn in the side of any foe.
The great labour of the Death Guard is to spread Nurgle’s bounteous gift to every corner of realspace. The Biologus Putrifiers have a vital role to play in this process, for it is they who refine the batches of diseased slurry brewed by the Foul Blightspawn, and distil them to the utmost potency. From their backs dangle racks of blight grenades, churning with the latest strains of noxious plagues. With each volley of hurled ordnance, their epidemic spreads; injector pistols unleashing concentrated doses of foulness into their targets.
Tubes and pipes erupt in profusion from the Lord of Virulence’s armour. These gout noxious fumes are putrid eruptions whose hue and stench guide the fire of artillery engines behind the lines. In their wake, their flensefrond cloaks leave a trail of sickening mucosal slime for hungry Daemon Engines to follow.
The Chaos Cultists can be found almost anywhere the Imperium has spread. At first glance they are indistinguishable from normal men, but under their clothes, the flesh is tattooed and branded with sigils that hurt the eyes of any faithful who look upon them. When the Chaos Space Marines come to a planet, the true colours of the Cultists are revealed.