Aktywne filtry
Clanrats mass into huge clawpacks, their vast numbers bolstering their courage and allowing them to surge across the battlefield and overwhelm the enemy, regardless of the hideous casualties they suffer along the way.
The skaven are a race of perfidious ratfolk who gnaw on the very fabric of existence, pouring from their Under-Empire in teeming swarms to spread corruption and conquer the Mortal Realms in the name of the Great Horned Rat. Led by maniacal Grey Seers, great seething hordes of Clanrats scurry to war, joined by hulking mutant Stormfiends bristling with esoteric weaponry, and unstable Warp Lightning Cannons that can obliterate entire regiments – if they don't destroy themselves first...
Swooping on leathery wings, Parasites of Mortrex use their barbed ovipositors to drive Ripper gestation pods deep into their victims’ bodies. These swiftly-growing creatures soon chew themselves free from their unfortunate hosts. Such was the fate of the defenders of Imperial planet of Mortrex, the world first cursed by the Parasites’ onslaught. Now they wreak havoc on the foes of the Hive Fleet by soaring over defences and seeding unlucky souls with nascent Rippers.
Infernal Masters forge pacts with daemonic entities, referred to in the lore of Prospero as tutelaries. Chanting jagged syllables and making promises of blood and souls, they unleash the powers of these malign familiars to engulf their foes in swarms of momentarily corporeal terrors, to divine whispers of the future, or to master the currents of the warp itself.
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.
The air screams as Magnus the Red descends from the skies, and stone runs molten beneath his shadow. Cyclopean son of the Emperor of Mankind, his very presence is anathema to logic.
The Venomthrope's whip-like tentacles drip with a multitude of alien poisons. Indeed, so potent are these toxins that it is believed that a Venomthrope's very touch means certain death.