Flamers are living chimneys of raw change, limbless torsos of fungoid flesh that bound across the battlefield on skirts of flame. Their gaping maws and puckered flame-ducts vent the stuff of Tzeentch's own realm, and they move with a lurching, unpredictable gait that makes archers weep and generals redraw their lines twice a minute.
It is the fire itself that veterans whisper about. Warpflame does not char so much as reconsider: a charging knight becomes a spray of startled songbirds, a shield-wall a hedge of flowering crystal, a scream a colour. Survivors of a Flamer attack often suffer the worse fate — changed in ways that keep changing — and the free cities' healers have a quiet doctrine about mercy in such cases.
Order of battle
