They called it a city, but to almost any watcher such a name was a lie. A city implies civilisation. Buildings were crumbling, broken old edifices that few lived inside. Most had fallen into ruins. The inhabitants lived mostly in tents, and the only recent buildings were crude and made of old wood. There was only one industry, run by slaves, and that was the construction of weapons, war machines, guns, swords and axes. Hammers rung on forges throughout the city. Food was all taken from stolen supplies or enslaved farmers, or beasts that the inhabitants hunted. The only buildings that the supposedly free went to were the palace and the amphitheatres. In the latter, the inhabitants of the city battled captives, slaves and wild beasts for their own enjoyment, all willingly. They all believed themselves to be free, unlike the slaves, no knowing they too were slaves, not to the will and whim of their master, but to their uncaring god.
The palace itself was made of stone, a stolen building at the centre of the city, but kept im a good state of repair. It was a fortress, a crudish keep with well armoured and armed soldiers on the inner and outer walls, men that seemed calmer than those who rampaged through the city. There was a moat, but it was still and filled with old blood rather than water, the drawbridge of rusted iron almost always down. All around it mounds of skulls were piled, and many more alongside decaying heads decorated pikes upon the walls.
Deep within the heat keep, a large throne crudely beaten out of brass was laid in a room filled with skulls, trophies and weapons of the Vermillion Knight and notable enemies. Skulls of humans, daemons, mutants, ork warlords, huge monsters and alien were nailed or hung to the walls and ceiling. Candles of bloody wax gave the room its light, along with the pungent stink of burning blood. Behind the throne, chain-axes, swords, axes, spears, dagger, scimitars and countless other weapons designed to shed blood and kill hung. Along with the skulls on the walls, a few helmets of Space Marines. One was of the Emperor's children, three from the Word Bearers hung next to ten of the Black Legion. Eight were from the Marines Malevolent, a further sixteen from the Ultramarines.
The Vermillion Knight was easily ten feet in height, with dark red skin, slitted yellow eyes and many horns, two huge and straight crowning his head and smaller, curved barbs down the sides to the very bottom, where two stuck out at his chin rather than curving upwards like the others. His teeth were all small fangs, or at least small for his size, and his nose was flat, two large vertical nostrils blowing out hot air that reeked of blood with his every breath. His huge hands ended in pointed black nails, as did his bare feet. His form was still roughly human, but hugely muscular. He was still dressed in what had been his power armour when he had been a Chaos Marine, scaled up and covered in symbols of Khorne, the gore red and gold plates now part of his very body, the symbol of he World Eaters proudly displayed upon his shoulder guard and left leg.
A chain-axe hung upon his back, a power sword was sheathed at his side. Both were exceptionally fine weapons, but notched and chipped with use.
He looked like any other daemon prince of Khorne - brutish but powerful. The reality was, however, that underneath his huge muscles and weapons the mind of a master tactician lurked. He enjoyed battle and killing, yes, and he could lose himself in bloodlust if he wished. There was a thirst there, and unending desire for blood, death and honour, but there was such huge restraint and self-control there also. The Vermillion Knight had long ago known that by thinking, by planning could more blood be spilled in Khorne's name. That was why he had become a daemon prince, unlike the sixteen remaining berserkers of his Legion under his command. Every one had lost themselves now, like almost every member of his Legion.
The Vermillion Knight longed for the day Khorne finally claimed the skull of one of his greatest and most favoured champions, Khârn the Betrayer. It was an ambition of the Knight to own that skull. He did not truly want to kill the cursed man, but he wanted the man's skull. He had shattered their Legion, upon that frozen hell. He remembered that day well, remembered the confusion and then the battles that ensued as his Legion tore itself apart. He had been one fo the few who had appealed for calm, cried out for it to stop, to no avail. He had been forced to defend himself from frenzied men of his own Legions, some fo which were his friends. He left the battle with forty three marines loyal to him, all still thinking warriors disgusted with Khârn. Time had killed most, and left the remainder as more faceless berserkers. Angron didn't care what had become fo his Legion, he too was too far given to Khorne to care about anything other than the sound of blade upon flesh.
The Vermillion Knight did not resent Khorne in the slightest, he loved the god he worshipped for freeing them and for giving him a purpose, but he was often sad at the loss of his brothers.
His servants upon the world that was his fell into four broad and rough categories. The first was that of those who had mostly had little choice but serve Khorne, newer devotees of the Blood God who had changed little before their worship of the God. These were basically normal men, but they would either die or change soon enough.
The second group were those who fought for Khorne happily, with abandon, the younger servants usually. They believed in honour, fought honourably and believed in whatever causes they would. Many still fired guns, many champions and leaders emerged, dripping blood, from this group to lead armies.
The third group was the fate of most of the second if they survived. Berserkers, killers to whom any concept of honour had drowned under an ocean of blood. They cared only for death. You would have to repeat their names for them to know they were being addressed. They did not make leaders, but they were among the greatest and least valuable of his soldiers.
The fourth group was that which he fell into. Older servants too strong-willed to give in to their bloodlust entirely. They fought with tactics, intelligence more so than even the newest of Khornate converts. He respected these more than any other, even if some said theirs was not the true path pf Khorne.
They were wrong. Khorne cared not from whom the blood flowed, he asked for nothing of his troops but they be honourable and strong. A thinker would be more exalted than a berserker as his schemes would lead to more death, more blood and victory. To win a battle was to fight in another, and another.
Currently the Vermillion Knight was speaking to a new servant, Jeruss of Cadia. He had brung a platoon of corrupted troops into the Eye of escape Imperial retribution, and he had come to the Vermillion Knight for succour. He had naturally agreed - such troops were valuable, armed well with guns and young in their years.
Jeruss himself was a muscular man, dressed in a tattered uniform from which all Imperial symbols had been crudely but throughly removed.. His old Cadian helmet had an eight-pointed star carved into it, and his bare left arm was tattooed with the symbol of Khorne. He had a thin face, pale, with the violet eyes of Cadian. His nose was small, his lips tight. His hair was lightish brown, and his features were soft, offset by the hardness of his eyes. A worn laspistol hung on his belt, alongside a crude axe that had seen much use. What would he become? Another nameless corpse in but a few battles, having been bled dry by his god? A champion worthy of leading his men or joining his inner cadre of wise skilled troops? Or just another berserker that would fight his fists and teeth when his axe was gone?
Deep down, the Vermillion Knight didn't care. More soldiers to replace the honoured dead. More troops to kill and die for Khorne, to give their blood to the greatest of all gods.
He was kneeling now, cutting his hand and letting the sacred blood drop before the brass throne of the Vermillion Knight, who was passed the ceremonial knife by a huge attendant, a blood priest in a red robe. It was made of brass. Drops of rich daemon blood dripped onto the tiny stain that had been Jeruss's, and a pact was made. It was sealed by the two, and every honoured soldier who had witnessed it, screaming the chorus they lived and died for and by.
"Blood for the Blood God!"