Gilded Skulls

The Gilded Skulls are a fearsome warband of Khornate warriors, their devotion to the Blood God intertwined with an unrelenting obsession with the gold of their homeland. Born in Chamon, a realm of harsh metallic landscapes and ceaseless change, the warband endured bitter strife under their former leader, Arkanax. A warlord of formidable strength but little understanding, Arkanax sought to impose his will upon Chamon through brute force alone, failing to adapt to the realm's treacherous demands.

It was Moranak, a native of Chamon, who saw the cracks in Arkanax’s rule. With a vision of strength tempered by cunning, he challenged Arkanax to an honor duel. For eight grueling hours, the two warriors clashed, neither yielding ground. But when the dust and blood settled, Moranak emerged victorious. As a symbol of this new era, he took the skull of Arkanax and gilded it in Chamon’s precious gold, naming the warband the Gilded Skulls.

Under Moranak's leadership, the warband thrived. No longer relying on sheer force, they blended Chamon’s ingenuity with Khorne’s bloodlust, their raids marked by both savagery and calculated precision. Now, as they march across Aqshy in search of glory and the favour of Khorne, the Gilded Skulls stand as a testament to Moranak’s vision—a warband reforged by fire and gold, ready to carve their name into the annals of slaughter.

The molten skies of Chamon burned brighter than usual when the Flesh Hounds began to arrive. Drawn to the territory of the Unknown, these savage beasts prowled the outskirts, leaving bloody trails and guttural howls in their wake. The warband saw this as a dark omen, their god's attention sharpening upon them.

Among these infernal creatures was Ashmaw, a Flesh Hound whose demeanor set it apart. Unlike the others, Ashmaw seemed inexplicably docile in Moranak's presence, a living symbol of the warlord’s authority and favour in Khorne’s eyes. The strange beast’s arrival coincided with growing unrest in the warband, fueling speculation and dread.

It was then that Zorrath, the Sanguine prophet, retreated to the sacred Blood Pits. There, he performed a grisly ritual of blood divination. As the sacrificial blood boiled and steamed, Khorne’s fiery wrath burned through his mind. He emerged from the ritual with a singular proclamation:

“We must march for Aqshy!”

Zorrath spoke of visions of Emberstone, a rare and potent material found only in the volcanic forges of the Realm of Fire. This stone, imbued with Aqshy’s primal energy, could forge weapons that burned as hot as Khorne’s rage. However, the vision also hinted at a deeper trial awaiting the warband, one that could cement their place in the Blood God’s favor—or see them utterly destroyed.

Thus, the warband began their preparations, leaving their gilded halls of Chamon for the ashen plains of Aqshy. With Ashmaw at Moranak’s side and the weight of Khorne’s gaze upon them, they marched toward their fiery destiny.

The fiery winds of Aqshy howled as the Unknown approached their destination. Rising from the scorched earth like a monument to wrath, Cinderhold stood dormant, its blackened walls and forge-spires shrouded in silence. Once a mighty forge-fortress of Khorne during the Age of Chaos, it had long since been abandoned, its forges extinguished and its halls empty.

Moranak stood before the gates with Ashmaw at his side, feeling the Blood Gods influence. Zorrath felt it too and almost instinctively started performing a ritual to reawaken the forges. As the ground quaked beneath their feet, the great forges of Cinderhold roared to life. Rivers of molten metal flowed through ancient channels, and the air filled with the deafening clang of unseen hammers.

From the heart of the forge emerged Khorns bloodletters. One towering over the others, with a blade burning with unholy lightKnown as he roared his name the Vorrkar, the daemon strode forward, accompanied by a snarling pack of Bloodletters. Its voice, like molten steel on an anvil, declared dominion over Cinderhold, dismissing Moranak as an unworthy pretender

Moranak stepped forward, his sword gleaming with the molten gold of Chamon, and issued a challenge. Vorrkar's laughter echoed through the forge, but it accepted. The duel began, a savage clash of strength and fury. Sparks flew as their weapons clashed, and the very ground beneath them cracked and smoldered under their relentless blows.

The battle raged until Moranak, bloodied but unbroken, dealt a decisive strike, cleaving Vorrkar’s infernal blade in two. With a final roar, he drove his sword into the daemon’s chest, forcing Vorrkar to kneel in submission. Yet instead of banishing the Bloodmaster, Morana offered a choice: death or servitude.

Recognizing Khorne’s favor upon Moranak,Vorrkar bowed its head, pledging loyalty to the Unknown. The remaining Bloodletters followed suit, their infernal might now bound to Moranak ’s will.

With the Bloodmaster’s allegiance and Cinderhold reawakened, the Unknown claimed the forge-fortress as their new bastion. Now they prepare to stride into the lands of Ravaged Coast, ready for the next challenge.

The forge fires of Cinderhold roared as Zorrath stormed into the chamber. Molten light danced across the walls, illuminating Vorrkar, who knelt on the stone floor, his once-imposing form cracked and battered. Steam rose from his armor, molten ichor leaking from the fissures across his body. His breath was ragged, a deep, guttural growl echoing through the chamber as he gathered his strength.  

Zorrath stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "What happened, Keeper?"  

Vorrkar raised his head, his burning eyes flickering like dying embers. "I was *killed*," he growled, his voice heavy with fury and shame. "The troggoth crushed me beneath its club, tearing my body apart. But I cannot truly die—not while the forges of Cinderhold burn. My essence is bound to this place, and the forges dragged me back… piece by piece." He clenched his claws, molten ichor dripping from his fingertips. "The pain of reformation is a torment you cannot imagine."  

Zorrath studied him, his face impassive. "Then it seems your failure cost you dearly."  

Vorrkar snarled but said nothing. His pride was wounded, but the truth of Zorrath’s words stung worse.  

"Tell me everything," Zorrath demanded.  Vorrkar’s claws scraped against the stone as he rose. "We tracked the shaman deep into Gloamwater Summit. The air reeked of his foul magic—his blood was close, so close. But then they came… the swamp dwellers. Cowards, shooting from the shadows with poisoned bolts. They struck before we even saw them, killing many of our warriors in the first volley." His voice dropped to a low rumble. "I led the charge. We broke their line, and the blood flowed beautifully. I almost had the skull of the beast carrying the banner of there the crude God."

He paused, the molten cracks in his armor pulsing as his fury grew. "But then… the troggoth came. A monstrous brute with another orruk riding it. Its blows like thunder. It crushed me beneath its clubs. My body was destroyed, my essence scattered… until the forges called me back."  

At that moment, the great doors of the forge swung open. Moranak entered, Kadrich at his side. Their armor was stained with mud and blood, their eyes sharp with purpose. Moranak held two Emberstones in his hand, their cores pulsing with fiery light.  

"The battle was lost," Moranak said, his voice calm and commanding. “But it was not for notting—Some of the Emberstone are ours and we made the orruks bleed for crossing us. Vorrkar’s fall was unfortunate, but I will not throw away the lives of our warriors for meaningless slaughter. The shaman escaped, but we will return."  The flames blazed higher, fueled by the Emberstone and the promise of vengeance.