Now remember well this tale whelp, and pass it on to others in the tribe so that when I fall in battle – glorious may it be - that all may know the glory of the Gorequeen, the Swordmaiden of Khorne!
It is known that southern traders returning from Norsica sometimes whisper apocryphally of their brethren trading with some of the fiercest warriors who reside in it’s tundra. Some whisper still that they have traded with Chosen Men of the North, who purchase their weapons with the gold of dead men. Others say it is treason to their country, some say blasphemy to their gods to trade with such men -but it cannot be denied that the Northerners are some of the most fearsome warriors in the Old World.
One of the stranger legends details a mighty tribe led by a woman. Norse women, being no less fierce or deadly than their male counterparts and possibly more cunning, this wouldn’t necessarily be an aberration. However this woman is different, more cruel and more bloody than the rest. It is said that the tribe’s god has taken particular interest in her fate for every drop of blood she spills in battle is a sacrifice in his name. But drops of blood will not build his throne, for to the god known to outsiders as the Skulltaker, only heads will do, and to this end anyone who dared question her right to rein found themselves without a head before they could think to do otherwise.
In his name she led her tribesmen and many joined her on her unholy crusade becoming more favoured, more powerful with each head taken for her god. Felling the daemon prince Locephax. He was a slave of Slaanesh, the weakling god of debauchery and pathetic lusts. They battled for days as her bloodlust - the only lust worth fighting for – increased and she slew him. His head still adorns her shield – look upon it if you disbelieve me and you may never break its gaze! With her victory the god men call ‘The Decapitator’ smiled on her.
By now many of her original tribe had died, the week culled and their skulls offered to the Skull Lord.. As those that survived, and in doing so had proved their worth, made camp that evening they were visited by the Fell Dwarves from deep within their mountainous homes and with them some ogres clad in gleaming, bloody brass plate keen to join the army of the Gorequeen.
Now my brothers to call the dwarves cowards for living beneath the rocks is folly for they too follow the god of war. They spend their time creating weapons and armours far superior to that which we get from trading with the lesser men of the south. As a tribute they offered our queen’s tribe unholy brass armour, tempered in hellfire, for them to wear into battle as well as cleavers quenched in the blood of innocents. For our queen herself they offered her the Scarlet Armour – made of a chitenous red material that some whisper is one the Blood god’s fingernails.
Clearly chosen by the Blood god her goal was clear – ascend to become his consort by travelling deep into the north, slaying any and all in her wake. The wastes ran red as the tribe, now the size of an army, slaughtered, killed and murdered its way north, leaving nothing but burning piles of corpses in its wake. Yet not one skull was left behind.
Now listen well and trust what I say brothers when I tell you that the greatest day was yet to come – deep in battle with the foes of hated Slanesh, our queen had bested several of their champions until two of them, appoint twin brothers lept upon her at once. And although by far the best mortal warrior in the wastes she was still mortal. And after three days of fighting weary. And so she fell. Our tribe, drunk with bloodlust heard the shriek of what must have been the Blood god’s own fury for the skies went red like blood, and all senses except that of rage were lost as we pressed on slaughtering the cowards like the cattle they were. Despite a glorious victory we were bereft of a queen. One man stood forward, Wolfrik Guadd and claimed leadership. Such arrogance! He must have given himself to Slaneesh in the battle and sought to subvert our crusade of blood. When he did this all of us looked to the corpse of our queen. Wolfrik stepped forward to take her weapons and armour as was customary. Enraged several of us stepped forward to stop him defiling our queens corpse. Clearly we were not the only ones angered as suddenly our queen’s body lurched up, drenched in gore - no more inspiring a sight I have seen in my old eyes I tell you. What appeared to be red claws coalesced around her, tearing, rending, reshaping. At first we thought it was a trick of the Changer but they could not form something so wonderous as this. War personified, the Swordmaiden of our legends, our queen was reforged in hellfire, like our armour by the dwarves, and reaching out with a clawed hand quenched her thirst on Wolfrik’s blood, ripping out his throat and placing his skull as an offering on the place where she fell.
In falling she had been called to her god, and he was displeased. None had the right to take her but he, least of all his youngest brother. Fuelled by rage he reforged her to a form more suited to his consort, and by all the gods her beauty was only exceeded by her battle prowess.
And now we march South again under the banner of Valkia, the Bringer of Glory, Chosen consort of our god, Khorne!