Karaghast looked out over the battlefield. The Kislevites fought him at every turn. His own warriors raged at them in a blood-fueled frenzy. Khornate berzerkers hurled themselves at enemy lines with reckless abandon, caring not for their lives as long as blood was spilled and skulls were reaped.
He looked at his lieutenant in dismay and disappointment as he fell, charging down a Kislevite gun line. Barath never understood. He saw the Kislevites reliance on guns as weakness; as the defense of sheep, yet he always desired wolves to fight.
Barath never understood the simple truth. How could there be a wolf, if there were no sheep to hunt? Southerners embraced their weaknesses. They acknowledged that they would never beat a fully armored Chaos Warrior in a straight fight. So they shot him instead. The southerners he knew, by their very nature, were sheep.
Kislevites understood to some extent what it meant to be a wolf. They were the bulwark against the world, but Rieklanders and Bretonnians? Their very land facilitated sheep. How could the men of those lands not also become them?
He watched as the last of the Berzerkers fell and he issued his chaos warriors forward. For all their fury, they pleased Khorne little.
He paused to rub an ever-persistent itch in his arm. How could the mere bloodletting of a single man compare to the leader of an army?
One only had to look at Khorne's own daemons and who the blood god favored. Skarbrand was a whirling ball of apocalyptic rage who had reaped countless skulls, yet his favor with Khorne was non-existent. If one compared him to, say, Uzhul, it was clear as to who was more favored.
The Skulltaker was brutal, sure, but he had led armies. He had truly led them, unlike Skarbrand, who was merely at the forefront of a horde of bloodthirsty followers. Again, he itched his arm.
Karaghast looked out across his battle lines. He could turn this battle around yet. He turned to his two knights. "Mount up and get my warriors on the left flank to push in and kill their archers. I want those Kossars but a memory."
"Understood."
The knights galloped off and he continued to watch the battle unfold. He wanted nothing more than to go down there and butcher those whelps glorious Red Tsar himself. Boris Ursus; That man was a wolf. Perhaps his people called him a bear, but in truth, he was a wolf. He led his pack, and he fought without fear.
He wasn't like the rest. He had been born into a position of turmoil within Kislev, and it had made him strong. Karaghast knew that it was in man's very blood to be weak. The lands in Bretonnia and the Empire were soft, so man became weak. The lands in Norsca were harsh and unforgiving, So the Norse and the Kurgan became strong. The men of the Empire were born under peace, so they became weak. The men of Kislev were born under the threat of apocalypse, so they became strong.
If only you had joined Khorne, mighty Tsar.
A true pity; Khorne could have made use of him. Kislevites were strong, but they could never hope to match the might of a Chaos Warrior. "Wufrak, kill the Tsar."
"It will be done." Karaghast's chosen warrior charged down the hill, mounted atop his juggernaut. The brass beast churned snow and skulls alike as it charged through enemy lines, leaving a trail of gore as the rider made a beeline for the Kislevite champion.
Wufrak was a formidable warrior, but of incredibly dull intellect. The man would never rise to the top of a warhost because of that.
So why is it that he was granted a Juggernaut and not me? Have I not reaped more skulls than him?
He roughly shook his elbow, trying to will that insufferable itch into going away, but it stood firm. He watched as his right flank broke. Cowards.
His plan was going to work, but now? "Brought low by fools," he muttered to himself.
He hefted his axes and looked out over his now encircled warriors. They were replaceable, all of them. Their use to Khorne was immense. It was their ferocity that won battles, but it was lords like him that directed that fury. He was irreplaceable.
There is no glory in pointless defeat.
He dropped his axe in irritation. This incessant itch.
No, retreat was not cowardice in the face of inevitable death; lose the battle to win the war. Karaghast turned to leave his doomed forces behind, but his feet stood rooted to the spot. He dropped his other axe.
That single itch flared up into agony. It felt like molten lava was flowing through his veins! He felt his skin melting inside his armor, his mind became an unrelenting torrent of rage. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he kept thinking. So this is how a Berzerker feels.
He finally, truly, understood. He understood Khorne's way. This was the reason he wasn't gifted a Juggernaut. This was the reason that so many followed Skarbrand. Khorne didn't want wolves. He wanted bears.
He didn't care about one's mind, only about the body's ability to inflict death. Now he understood why Uzhul was truly favored. Uzhul, the Skulltaker, fought on the front lines in mortal combat. Khorne didn't care that armies were led, only that blood was spilled. As tentacles sprouted from his body, and his mind was shattered, he understood why his lord was making him what he was.
Karaghast's body was magnificent. If his mind prevented him from taking Skulls, then his mind needed to die.