Fluff: Arctos Gorehowl: Lord of the Brass Stampede

The Brass Stampede: A Khorne Daemonkin legion who tramples its enemies beneath the hooves of its vast herds of juggernauts. Its leader, once a Space Wolves legionnaire and honor guard to Russ himself, fights atop a monstrous Khornate warp dragon to which his soul is bound.

This legion favors fast moving units. Maulerfiends, spawn (represented by riderless juggernauts), flesh hounds, and bikers (riding juggernaut "bikes") form the bulk of its ranks. To lead the forces of the legion, the warlord (who counts as a bloodthirster) is joined by a black Bloodthirster of Insensate Rage known as Umbragor the Hopeslayer, whose cultist worshippers are all too happy to kill and die in the shadow of his wings.

And now, our friend Arctos Gorehowl would like to introduce himself:

Would it shock you to learn, mongrel, that my blade was once sworn to the Great Wolf himself? Many a warrior I laid low at his feet, such was my fervor to please my lord… my father. We butchered worlds in his name, shed oceans of blood to bring glory to our legion.

Such lengths, such bonds of honor among my brothers and our father that we followed him into the Eye itself to confront the forces of damnation. And yet, across the threshold we found ourselves alone, abandoned by our father to the whims of the nether without a second thought. Were we not worthy to fight by his side? How much blood had we shed to bring him victory a thousand times over? And in the end, we were nothing to him, left to perish in the roiling nightmare domain of the gods. Nine of us, left behind as chattel.

With a howl that echoed across the fel realm, I vowed to avenge this dishonor by the one I called father. By axe and tooth and fist, vengeance would be mine. My anger served as a beacon in the warp. My cries of anguish were answered by my true father. The Bloodfather. In my mind, he whispered a bargain by which I would have my revenge. The price was simple: Blood! Skulls!

In weakness my brothers turned their blades against me, decrying my willingness to pursue the eightfold path as madness and my vow of vengeance against Russ as treachery. They accepted their fate, and so I sealed it. Eight skulls I offered as my first tribute to the blood god. It was a hard won triumph to overcome the chosen of the Great Wolf, but my rage and my axe split them apart one by one. With the father vanished, the slaughter of his sons would have to suffice.

I had pleased my god. One more act, he whispered, would cement our bond. With the blood of my slain brothers and that pouring from my own wounds, I drew the skull rune across my mangled breastplate. And so was I anointed. And so was I chosen by the Bloodfather.

How many millennia have passed since my oath of vengeance? Time is meaningless, my memories of Russ distant and ephemeral. Only blood. Only skulls. I command a legion of Khorne’s mightiest warriors. We are The Brass Stampede, and entire systems have been trampled beneath the hooves of our juggernauts.

I am Arctos Gorehowl, warlord of The Brass Stampede, and I will claim your skull.