Out of the killing mists drift the Grimghast Reapers of the Nighthaunt, and in their translucent hands whirl the dreaded Reaper Scythes. These are not weapons of forged steel but manifestations of death itself, spectral blades wrought from the same cursed energy that binds the vengeful spirits to their unending servitude beneath Nagash.
A Reaper Scythe passes through armour and shield as though they were mist, for it is not the body it seeks but the soul within. Where its edge sweeps, it severs the tether between spirit and flesh, and the slain fall without a mark upon them, their essence torn free to drift as another wailing ghost. The reapers fight in silent, relentless ranks, their scythes rising and falling in a ghastly harvest, and the cold that radiates from the blades leaves frost upon the ground and terror in the heart.
The Nighthaunt were once mortals damned by broken oaths and unpaid debts, and something of that bitterness clings to every scythe-stroke. They reap the living with a joyless, mechanical hatred, envying the warmth they can no longer feel and eager to snuff it out wherever it burns. To face a tide of Grimghast Reapers is to hear the whistle of countless scythes cutting the air, a sound that heralds not merely death but the theft of the soul beyond it.
The armoury continues
