The Flagellants are the wild-eyed prophets of doom who wander the roads of the Empire, convinced that the end of days is at hand. Clad in rags, scourging their own flesh with barbed whips and dragging heavy tomes and icons of Sigmar, they see in every plague and war the promised apocalypse.
Most are broken men: peasants who lost their families to beastmen raids, survivors of burned villages, penitents crushed by grief and guilt. In madness they find a terrible freedom, for a man who longs for death fears nothing an enemy can do to him. When battle comes, flagellants hurl themselves into the foe with berserk fervour, singing hymns as they die.
The temples of Sigmar regard them with unease, for their zeal shades easily into heresy, yet no general refuses their aid. Where disciplined soldiers falter, these ragged fanatics hold the line through sheer contempt for their own survival, praying that their deaths might buy the world one more dawn.