The Thousand Sons advance into battle amidst gouts of kaleidoscopic warpflame and bolts of raw sorcery. The heart of these arcane armies is comprised of Rubricae – implacable warriors who level salvo after salvo against the foe, marching at the command of the mighty Sorcerers and diabolic Infernal Masters who rule their fractured Legion. Around them come shrieking herds of Tzaangor, mutant shock troops armed with cursed blades and dark sorcery.

Scions of their Primarch Angron, Daemon Prince of Khorne, the World Eaters were amongst the most feared of the Space Marines Legions to turn traitor during the brutal civil war known as the Horus Heresy. The World Eaters long held a reputation for wanton savagery, and as they fell to the powers of Chaos, they devolved into warbands of blood-crazed maniacs dedicated to the Taker of Skulls, glorying in violence and slaughter, and with no other purpose than spilling blood in their deity's name.

Chaos Cultists are the mortal devotees of the Dark Gods, ordinary men and women fallen to promises of temporal power who take to battle in huge numbers. Bearing a motley collection of improvised, stolen and makeshift weapons, they can overwhelm even determined enemies with sheer weight of numbers.

Dark Communes are the pooling evil at the head of any Chaos Cult, led by Cult Demagogues who preach insidious mantras cunningly laced with promises of power. These infernal priests command a retinue of devoted followers – the fanatical Blessed Blades, tasked with guarding against interlopers, the Iconarchs, who carry foul sigils infused with malefic influence, and Mindwitches, unsanctioned psykers whose powers comes at a terrible cost.

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.

Bloated with festering corruption, Plague Marines form the mainstay of the Death Guard, and unlike many Traitor Legions their numbers have only swollen as the millennia have passed.

The great labour of the Death Guard is to spread Nurgle’s bounteous gift to every corner of realspace.

Blightlord Terminators are relentless and unstoppable, elite Death Guard warriors bound forever to mutated suits of Cataphractii armour.

The Pale Harvestmen; the Scythes of Nurgle; the Eyes of Mortarion. The elite warriors of the Deathshroud go by many names, and every one is redolent with a miasma of fear and menace.

Labouring through the air on buzzing turbines and driven by the trapped essence of a Nurgle Daemon, the Foetid Bloat-drone drifts toward the enemy like an armoured plague fly.

A revolting stench wafts around the Foul Blightspawn, his corruption clotting the air itself. Breath rattles through pus-slick tubes as he cranks the rusted handle of his malignant churn, bellows wheezing and plague slop roiling in the incubatum upon his back.

Festooned with swaying plague censers and tainted bells, Miasmic Malignifiers belch thick clouds of miasmal fumes from their rusted chimneys.