Witch aelves are the beating heart of every war-coven: unarmored dancers who close with the enemy at horrifying speed, a sciansá blade in each hand and a hymn to Khaine on their lips. Before battle they receive the blessings of the blood cauldrons, and their conviction that the Murder God turns aside all harm is so absolute that it very often does — fervor knitting into something close to invulnerability. A witch aelf charge is less a maneuver than a festival arriving all at once, and few shield-walls outlast the celebration.
Each is sworn to Khaine in rites of devotion that begin in girlhood, tempered by years of ritual dance that double as the deadliest bladework in the Mortal Realms. To outsiders their ecstasy in battle looks like madness; to the Daughters it is the purest form of worship, the moment when dancer, blade, and god are meant to become one. That the god in question has never once been the one listening makes their joy no less real — and no less lethal.
Order of battle
