They'd pushed the weakling hedonists back. His axe had risen and fallen dozens of times. Each strike had claimed another skull for Khorne's throne. Many were the dead, limbless and headless, that had lain in his wake. Most had worn the colors of the hated foe Gul Vald reminisced over his kills. He did not remember each one, but he certainly remembered the
delightful thrill of carnage, the glorious cyclone of crimson mist that he'd become in the throes of the last battle.