INTO VIOLENCE
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There is not a single war in all of existence that the Blood God does not know of. This one was no different, but it was watched with no small amount of interest.
Though hated, this pathetic 'Duchy' was no concern and though blood flowed from those with the boot to their neck, there was no meaningful resistance, no
fight. No matter its 'power', no matter it's so-called 'competent leaders', it had fallen into the same trap as the Anathema once did at the moment of its conception. Too Human, too arrogant, too
weak. They would not find glory, but join the skulls on the throne.
It was The Child Anathema's Federation that truly drew hate and wrath.
They denied the power of Chaos entirely, from the smallest babe to the doddering elders.
THEY DARE!
Such was not an impossibility, yet it enraged the Blood God and his siblings nonetheless. It could not be denied that should this nation grow to match the might of the Anathema's Empire, Chaos' inevitable victory would be thrown into question.
And so, when an opportunity presents itself, the Blood God seizes the opportunity with no hesitation.
Aboard a single ship in transit, the crew feel the Warp
scream. The only warning the captain gets is the smell of fresh blood before reality rips open in front of him. He barely manages to tear his eyes away but it does him little good. A blade cuts across his chest before he can even raise a hand in defence, he feels like he's been cut in two. Then, a hand plunges into that cut and something is pulled out of his chest. The last thing he sees is his heart in the claws of a snarling Bloodmaster.
The moment the captain's body hits the ground, more Bloodletters emerge from the shadows of the ship and Khaar'goth, Bloodmaster of Khorne, raises his blade at the crew - shock and horror on their faces - and roars.
The crew immediately have their hands on their weapons, but it only buys them time before screams fill the air and blood stains the walls. Soon, every Federation and Lamenter ship would have a similar incident and the severity differed each time. Some were lucky, some were not.
THE SKULLS OF YOUR WORSHIPERS BELONG TO ME, CHILD ANATHEMA.
EACH DREAM AND HOPE MEANT NOTHING.
"And yet, they resist you."
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