Luthor Blackheart sat at the top of the large oak table in his large Mordheim hall, his war band all around him drinking ale and eating meat. Luthor Blackheart was a vicious overlord of a band of gangers, all of them dedicated to Slaanesh - the chaos god of torturous pleasure. He had his two hounds conveniently named Flesh Tearer and Blood Fang; these he mainly used as defence against renegade assassins who would attack him whenever his back was turned. He also had an assortment of assassins and warriors. Luthor was probably one of the most sinister looking people to roam the world today, because of his horribly burnt face. Nobody dared ask him the origin of these scars. Luthor wore a large hood to cover his identity and to look as sinister as he could.
One stormy night in Luthor's hideout a new face appeared outside. He was a tall muscular man, with a huge sword strapped to his waist and covered in a long deep red cloak. "What business do you have here?" asked the guards
"I want to speak with Luthor Blackheart",
"Password?"
"Tell him his days are numbered and that Dreadthor will rule all." With that, the character turned and left. The guards ran after the stranger and grabbed him.
"Wait" shouted one guard. The man turned around, removed his hood and stared him in the eye, the guards gasped just before the stranger's sword was plunged down one of the men's throat, then he yanked the sword back out and sliced the stomach open. Blood spurted over the stranger. He then turned and pulled the dead guard's entrails out of his body. The attacker was stood with a chunk of his enemy's intestine in his hand,
"Your skull will sit with thousands of others on the throne of Khorne!" said the stranger before he thrust the intestine down the throat of the guard, he gave a slight laugh as he watched his foe suffocate on his partner's gut.
"Sir, I think you should see this," said a warrior, avoiding eye contact from Luthor. Luthor walked outside to see his comrades inside out. Luthor groaned as he grabbed his unique flail: the Flail of the Blackheart, unlike most mundane flails, this flail had scraps of sharpened metal on the end instead of heavy spiked balls. Rather than cause fatalities it gifted the victims with excruciating pain. He stood brandishing his ornate weapon, in a flash Luthor swung the flail and vented his anger onto one of his men. There was a loud silence as the victim curled up in the foetus position, cradling his face in his bloody hands. After this cathartic moment Luthor turned to his men "Right, we are going to find this person and then we are going to send him to see his worthless god!" cried Luthor and his men. He grabbed his armour and readied his men.
