Having surrendered to the terrible curse that the Canis Helix afflicts, the Wulfen are a grotesque distortion of the power of the Space Wolves.
Like an enormous mechanical spider, a Triarch Stalker looms over the battlefield with its multiple slicing limbs and devastating weaponry controlled by a high-ranking Triarch Praetorian.
Arco-flagellants lope alongside faithful armies in packs, their lash-like limbs whipping back and forth as they follow their priestly masters to battle.
The Allarus Custodians deploy with sudden fury to tear the throat from the enemy army.
When a Chaplain takes to the field on a Raider-pattern bike, he is able to keep pace with even the swiftest armoured advance or spearhead breakthrough. Fighting in such an action, he will urge his brothers to victory as he bellows his catechisms and charges headlong into the foe, crozius arcanum swinging.
With his Grabzappa crackling, Zodgrod herds his notorious super runts into battle.
Tor Garadon is the Imperial Fists' longest serving Battle Company Captain, an unstoppable warrior in whom the lessons of the Primarch have been distilled to their most punishing form.
Just as the duties of the Salamanders 3rd Company place an exceptional strain upon the noble and compassionate warriors who must discharge them, so an exceptional leader is required to ensure that this burden never becomes too great for even Vulkan's sons to bear. Adrax Agatone is that leader.
Steeped in the arts of ambush and hidden assault, Kayvaan Shrike is the Raven Guard’s foremost warrior and leads his Chapter as Master of Shadows. In the course of his long and bloody life, Shrike has brought liberation to many worlds and death to countless enemies
No living Iron Hand can recall a time when Feirros’ sardonic tones did not grace the Iron Council. Nor does any remember another wielding the axe Harrowhand during their Rite of Severance – the lopping of the left hand so that an augmetic fist may take its place is the moment in which a recruit truly becomes an Iron Hand.
In the craft of murder, Wyches have no equal. In battle, Wyches feed upon screams of pain.
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.