In the burning realm of Aqshy, where rage smoulders in the very air, the worshippers of the Blood God gathered into a single apocalyptic surge of slaughter known as The Red Feast. It was less a campaign than a contagion, a frenzy that leapt from tribe to tribe until the fire-realm's kingdoms drowned beneath a red tide.
The blades-of-khorne did not fight for territory or plunder, for such things meant nothing to them. They fought only to kill, to hear the wet music of severed heads striking the ground and to raise them into towering offerings for their thirsting god. Warrior-lords who had once been kings threw down their crowns and took up the axe, hurling their own subjects into the grinder, for a skull taken is a skull taken, be it enemy or kin.
Against this madness the free folk could offer only defiance and their own blood. The reborn warriors of the stormcast-eternals descended to contest the worst of the massacres, but even they could not be everywhere, and Aqshy is vast. When the frenzy at last burned itself out, whole nations had simply ceased to exist, their names erased, their cities become charnel-fields. Khorne, they say, cares not from whence the blood flows. The Red Feast proved him monstrously well fed.
The chronicle continues
