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Warhammer: Vermintide 2 (aka Vermintide II) is the sequel to Vermintide. It features first-person co-op with melee action.
In the End Times of the Warhammer world, players face untold enemy hordes in a desperate struggle to save the Empire from devastation. Players choose a career for their Hero, climb the talent tree, pick from a vast range of unique weapons and gear, and hack through the ranks of the monstrous invaders.
The five Heroes of Übersreik are back for more blood-splattering battles against overwhelming odds. The 15 unique careers provide different playstyles and add variety and depth to character progression. Each career has an individual talent tree, active and passive abilities, and access to unique weapons and equipment.
The Warriors of Chaos have joined forces with the relentless skaven ratmen, forming a dark pact to ravage the realms of men. Their combined horde is bristling with terrors and is supported by a wide array of specialized units, always ready to punish any arrogant southlander trying to play the hero.
- Warriors of Chaos
The Rotbloods are a clan of extremely vicious Norsemen, bordering on the insane, who worship Nurgle, the God of Pestilence. They have allied themselves with the skaven and launched a devastating offensive, and don't intend on slowing down until the whole Empire is nothing but a putrid mire of disease and decay.
The vile and cunning ratmen once again swarm from below, killing, consuming, defiling, and enslaving wherever they strike. Clan Fester has returned with a vengeance after their debacle in Übersreik, and this time they will not let some band of pathetic man-things ruin their plans.
- Level up Heroes (five total) to unlock new talents, abilities and access to powerful gear.
- Each Hero has three careers to choose from, for a total of 15. All careers include a unique talent tree, allowing players to spec their Hero to best suit their playstyle.
- The Heroes are bolstered with one active and passive ability, each unique for every career. Abilities can be crucial in turning the tide of a battle, so learn to use them effectively to increase the killing capacity and survival chance.
- Mod support
- The Keep
The Keep is the Heroes’ new base of operations. Here players will plan the ongoing war by choosing what missions to partake in as well as try out new weapons, talents, and abilities in the practice room. The keep can be decorated with battle trophies, showing off accomplishments.
- Spawn Director
The enemy is guided by the Spawn Director, ensuring that every playthrough will be different. Enemy spawning and formations are always unpredictable.
- Loot System
The completely revamped loot system ties rewards to the Hero and career currently played. Combining a vast number of weapons and accessories with a wide range of properties and traits, players will be able to tinker with character builds.
With an improved matchmaking system and support for dedicated servers, the multiplayer systems have been overhauled and enhanced.
- Heroic Deeds System
These consumable quests will place players in strange new settings, dramatically change the mix of enemies they face, limit the use of weapons and abilities, or give them unusual mission objectives.
Bardin Goreksson introduced himself to the world as an unstoppable avalanche on the battlefield, an ale-swigging hurricane at the inn, and a steadfast friend by the campfire. A bulwark of comradeliness and good cheer, Bardin became the glue binding our unlikely band of heroes. Driven by his search for the lost dwarfen hold of Karak Zorn, Bardin has been somewhat sidetracked by the ceaseless skaven interference. Yet he stays true to to his spirit, fighting the good fight as a hero whose deeds do his ancestors proud!
- Ranger Veteran: Bardin's experiences in Übersreik have honed his skills to that of a ranger veteran. Steady of hand and keen of eye, he adapts swiftly to the horrors vomited forth from the shadows and battles implacably until they breathe no more. The search for Karak Zorn still weighs heavy upon Bardin, but the Reikland's perils compel him to attend to more urgent matters.
In battle, Bardin favours a head-on approach, using his arsenal of ranged weapons to punish the foe from afar. Yet he is no stranger to the press of melee. Should the need arise, dwarfen steel will punish those enemies foolish enough to stray within Bardin's reach. Maybe not with the same flourish as cousin Okri, but near enough to count.
- Ironbreaker: Before he embraced a ranger's duties, Bardin earned his beard as an Ironbreaker in the great hold of Karak Norn. Skills burnished in darkness did not lose their lustre in the light. Following the defence of Übersreik, Bardin felt the Ironbreaker's oaths and gromril armour calling him once again, for only an Ironbreaker could stand as a bulwark against the evils gathering against the surface world.
As an Ironbreaker, Bardin is the indomitable bastion upon which the vermintide breaks apart, a rallying point for straggling allies and a grim promise of death to rampaging foes. Be they ratman or Rotblood, no foe shall easily overcome the Ironbreaker, not while he has breath in his body and dwarf-forged gromril in his hand.
- Slayer: Unbeknownst to his comrades, Bardin has long borne a burden on his heart. In the carnage at Übersreik, that burden blossomed into a new and terrible ambition. Thus Bardin cast aside the ranger's garb in favour of the slayer's spiked hair and tattooed shame. Now, an honorable death is the only thing to satisfy him, though such is his formidable battle-skill that death may yet be a long way distant.
The Slayer Oath prohibits Bardin from using ranged weaponry, but his capacity for slaughter remains undimmed. Driven by pride, determination, and the appraising eye of a tempered killer, Bardin is a whirlwind of carnage, equally lethal with hand axes or the cleaving fury of a gromril great-axe. He is dwarfen vengeance personified, and the bringer of death.
Like all Wood Elves, Kerillian feels the pulls of both light and dark. First as a waywatcher, and now as a more experienced waystalker, she has kept those aspects in balance. Indeed, Kerillian's reason for journeying to Übersreik was an attempt to help her reclaim her moral poise. Thus Kerillian is mercurial at best, at once resentful of the path she has been called upon to walk, and grateful for the chance to make amends. But who knows how little it may take to topple her from that path?
- Shade: In the aftermath of Übersreik, Kerillian's dreams were a jumbled cacophony, and one of the most lucid visions spoke of an ancestor who bore the exiled blood of Clar Karond. The dreams did not emphasize the future, but rather the here and now. Through the mists of memory, a cruel voice spoke, urging her to reclaim the mantle of her forebear. Her count continues, but in glory, not penance.
As a shade, Kerillian treads an assassin's path, striking unaware or distracted foes when they are most vulnerable to her wicked blades. She is fleet-footed death, come to claim the blood of the living.
- Waystalker: The defense of Übersreik brought Kerillian a focus she had never before known. Disgusted by the skaven machinations, and despairing of her companions' clumsy efforts, she resolved to hone her waywatcher's skills to a waystalker's perfection, becoming a rightly-feared shadow in the night. Every shot is a kill, or accompanied by a muffled curse and a silent resolve to do better. For Kerillian, the paths of the Empire are as much her hunting ground as much as those of Athel Loren ever were.
Kerillian the waystalker reflects her ever-increasing skills with a bow and arrow. The waystalker specializes in elven archery in all its forms, be it pinpoint precision work or sheer volume of arrows loosed against enemy hordes.
- Handmaiden: Kerillian has ever fought the darkness in her soul, trusting to Lileath to guide her through bleak times. However, in the wake of Übersreik - slaughter on a scale she'd never before witnessed, and for which she felt a hidden pang of responsibility - she sought guidance of a higher power. Guided by a new voice, she came upon a long-abandoned shrine of Isha founded in the days before the elves became divided, and gave herself over to the ways of a Handmaiden.
As a Handmaiden, Kerillian favours melee combat, using a spear's reach to deliver death to her foes before their own weapons bite flesh.
Never the easiest of comrades, Victor Saltzpyre has shown little sign of mellowing since the early days of the Übersreik invasion. Perhaps his tongue is a shade less caustic when addressing Sienna Fuegonasus, but he is still as suspicious as ever to anyone or anything.
For Victor, life has ever been a never-ending battle against heresy and destruction; the beleaguered Reikland is but a vaster stage upon which to strut his hour. Though it is hardly in Victor's nature to trust such outcasts as are his companions in these dark days, he accepts that righteous work can sometimes be accomplished by stained souls and soiled hands.
- Bounty Hunter: Affronted by attempts to conceal the horrors of Übersreik - to maintain the fragile lie that skaven are naught but myth - Victor at last buckled beneath obsession and spoke more truth to his superiors than a sane man should. Though Victor never discusses what transpired thereafter, and his ties with the order would seem intact, the gulf between him and his superiors is wider than ever. Now, he finances his endless crusade with coin garnered from the bounty hunter's trade - a pragmatic choice for a man who once relied solely upon faith.
As the bounty hunter, Victor dons heavy armour and favours ranged weapons, the better to keep their tainted and decaying flesh (and all associated aromas) at a safe distance. The Victor of today favours more brute force than the witch hunter of old ever did. Finesse costs time, and to a bounty hunter, time is money.
- Witch Hunter Captain: Promotion in the Order comes as much from a dead man's shoes as from merit, and in these dark days there are many pairs of boots to be filled. The witch hunter's path ventures ever into the shadow, and the shadows too often are more bountiful with teeth than glory.
Thus Saltzpyre's long-abandoned dreams of ascension finally came to pass in the wake of Übersreik, the ink still wet upon the Grand Theogonist's commission. Whether he rises further remains to be seen. Doubtless his many enemies within the order yet remain, and it might yet be that the world gives out long before the coveted rank of general is within reach.
As a witch hunter captain, Saltzpyre is all that he was during the Übersreik campaign and more. Myriad near-deaths have sharpened his reactions, allowing him to dart deftly to advantageous positions, from which his impressive array of weapons can be brought to bear.
- Zealot: Where, in another life, a weary Victor Saltzpyre stared into the flames of Übersreik and found the courage to confront his superiors, in this one he found only the solace of the furnace, of a world fit only to be cleansed in righteous fire. Thus fell away the earnest, if bleak, witch hunter, and the zealot was born. Victor no longer places his trust in the organisations and strictures of the Empire, but in Sigmar alone.
Victor the zealot is a furious melee fighter, favouring heavy flails and holy rage as expressions of worship and tools of battle both. Faith can carry a body through the most horrendous of wounds, and the zealot has dark-eyed faith to spare...
Sienna Fuegonasus is an addict, forever torn between her will to control the destructive magics of Aqshy, the Wind of Fire, and a burgeoning desire to set the world alight for no other reason than the rush of magic in her bones. Another being might succumb to such temptations, and indeed, many have. But Sienna's compassion and wry sense of humour keep her grounded.
Sienna's introduction to her companions was not the most auspicious. What began as a journey in chains has blossomed into common cause of seeing the Reikland freed from invaders.
- Battle Wizard: The calamity of Übersreik caused many folk to re-examine their choices. For her part, Sienna came to realise the power that came with greater control. Through supreme effort of will, she has learnt to temper her addiction, recalling half-remembered lessons from less-than-pleasant college days. This renewed discipline has served her well; fully in control of the flame for the first time, she is capable of feats never before dreamt of.
As a battle wizard, Sienna unleashes spectacular area-of-effect spells, immolating large numbers of enemies and turning onrushing hordes into smouldering piles of ash.
- Pyromancer: Though Sienna's angry departure from the Bright College lies many years in the past, Thyrus Gormann's critique remains with her still. As much as she curses the old man for his sharp tongue, Sienna knows he was more right than wrong. But the arrogance of youth too easily callouses into the habit of middle-age. Though part of her knows that she is not a true battle wizard - she relies too much on instinct and too little on her lessons for that - Sienna tells herself it is better to be a free-spirited pyromancer than an adept caged by rule and ritual.
Sienna credits her survival in Ubersriek to this creed. How many times did her quick-thinking save her companions from annihilation? How often did an instinctive casting rescue victory from the ashes of defeat? And yet, Sienna is honest enough with herself to admit that she lacks the control for the most austentatious of spells. Only by channeling her wildness into tightly-focused castings can she hope to keep control of the power blazing within.
As a pyromancer, Sienna is a ferocious single-target annihilator, specialising in incinerating the hardiest of enemies at a brisk pace, one at the time.
- Unchained: No one knows for certain when Sienna's chains shattered - not even her. What is certain, is that she no longer cares to conceal the blazing need that burns inside her. Caution thrown aside, she embraces every possible scrap of power from the Wind of Fire. She lives from one dizzying magical high to the next, closing with her foes to better witness that sublime moment when flesh and bone succumb to that glorious flame she now serves.
As unchained, Sienna's focus now lays in magically enhanced melee combat. She can channel the winds of Aqshy to provide both an armour of flame that protects her and a might spell of fiery destruction, detonating around herself.
"Should've said no to the insufferable old bugger." It's a phrase Markus Kruber mutters almost daily, but never when Saltzpyre's within earshot. After all, without Saltzpyre's commission, Kruber likely wouldn't have been drawn into the horrors of Übersreik, and certainly would have avoided all that followed. But had he not accompanied the witch hunter, he would have ended up in Übersreik anyway. Arriving in the skaven-infested ruins of Übersreik all alone, and with no misfit band of skaven-slayers allowing him to vent his rage, Kruber would have had to face the devastating loss of his family all by himself. His prospects of survival would have been low.
Although still world-weary and marked by his experiences, Kruber has found purpose in the aftermath of Übersreik. As a soldier first, last, and always, he understands that some battles have to be fought, no matter the cost. And who better to fight them than Markus Kruber? At first, the former Ostland Sergeant was wary and distant towards the other members of his newfound ragtag unit of five, but along the way Kruber did reevaluate both fellow fighters and schools of thought.
- Foot Knight: After fighting more or less continuously since Übersreik, Kruber found himself invited to join the Order of the Reikshammer. Quite how this invitation arose is the subject of some speculation. Kruber certainly did nothing to seek out such an honour, and suspects that one of his companions brought word of his deeds to the Master of the Reikshammer. Whatever the cause, Kruber was knighted, and rose in rank like foam to a tankard's brim, and was granted the rights, responsibilities, and most importantly weapons, of an Imperial knight.
As a knight, Kruber stands tall in the thick of combat, trusting to heavy armour and sturdy shield to keep him hale, or a great weapon to crush his foes before they recognise the danger.
- Huntsman: Kruber has always sought a simpler life. He grew to manhood in Taal's sight, and a youth spent on his parents' farm gave him a taste for the labours of the soil. Had he not enlisted, Kruber would still have found himself caught up in war, for in an Empire under siege no man keeps what he cannot fight for; soldier and farmer alike too easily become slaves.
After Übersreik, Kruber realised his disillusionment of army life wasn't temporary and with the ghosts of his past still clawing at his soul, he sought solace and found it in returning to his roots. By walking the wilds of the Empire and devoting himself to Taal and Rhya, the gods of nature, Kruber was allowed to breathe and focus, at least as long as he had a stiff drink or two at hand.
As a huntsman, Kruber favours the weapons of the deepwoods, the arrow and the bullet. He cuts a very different figure without uniform and armour, but he is all the lighter on his feet for that, able to stay one step ahead of the foe, and rain down death from afar.
- Mercenary: The mercenary is a versatile fighter, entering battle in armour balanced to provide ample protection while not severely restricting mobility. In combat, the mercenary is capable of both close quarters mayhem and shredding the enemy with ranged fire.
When Saltzpyre, the witch hunter, recruited Kruber for his retinue it was the former state trooper's first venture as a mercenary. The new profession lit a fire within him, and a desire awoke to one day lead a company of his own as a mercenary captain. Perhaps the events in Helmgart will lead him down this path.
Trolls are known for their indiscriminate appetites and raw, physical might. Bile trolls, their being forever altered by the warping might of the Dark Gods, are even more ferocious.
Though trolls are dim-witted in the extreme, it is a foolish soul who underestimates such an opponent. Should a blade penetrate its tough, almost rocky hide, the troll’s formidable regenerative abilities will knit the wound together in a matter of moments. Worse, the attacker will now find himself in easy range of beady-eyed retribution. A fortunate soul will contend only with a pulverising blow fit to shake the hillside. The unlucky perishes in a flood of seething, acidic vomit that scours flesh from bone.
All worshippers of the Dark Gods strive for their patron’s recognition. Every life they claim, every barbarous act, is in furtherance of this one goal. Alas, the gods are fickle, and ladle out their blessings with an uneven hand. The mortal form was never meant to bear such gifts; when the tipping point is reached, mind and body collapse beneath their weight. Thus is born the Chaos spawn.
The vaguest outline of a man can be recognised beneath the spawn’s thrashing bulk, the barest glimmer of reason in its bellowing voice. But the man who was is there no longer, trapped in a prison of his own mutating flesh, driven to madness by his nightmarish existence. Where the man fought for glory, and for pride, the spawn battles on only to soothe its own pain, and because it knows no other life.
In combat, the Chaos spawn is surprisingly fast and erratic despite its towering height. Blinded by its rage and pain, it will constantly overwhelm its opponents, forcing them to split their ranks. Any poor fool who is left standing alone against the Chaos spawn will soon find themselves inside its maw, razor-sharp fangs biting through armor and skin alike. The only means of killing it is to attack from all sides, dividing its attention and preventing it from targeting any one individual.
Few enemies are as terrifying or as dangerous as Clan Moulder’s rat ogres. Though their precise provenance is clouded by history and the shrouded nature of skaven society, it is clear that the brutes are well-named, melding a rat’s ferocity and cunning with the bullish, lumbering might of an ogre. Doubtless the breeders of Clan Moulder have made many other "improvements" beyond the obvious, but proximity to such a beast encourages the broadest and swiftest of analyses if one is to survive.
Veterans of skaven conflicts know too well not to underestimate a rat ogre’s strength and speed. They are rapacious and unstoppable, covering ground with great speed and undaunted by all but the most serious of wounds. Many a triumph has been cut short by the pounding of a rat ogre’s fist, the jellied pulp that remains after such a blow serving little purpose save as fodder for the beast’s prodigious appetites. Those same veterans, therefore, take care to hunt a rat ogre only when well-prepared to do so, lest they join the roster of its victims.
An enhancement of the already formidable rat ogre, the stormfiend counts amongst the crowning achievements of Clan Moulder’s breeding experiments. Hardiness is granted by warp-metal armour fused directly to twisted flesh and reason by the brain-beast melded to the creature’s spine.
However, Clan Moulder cannot claim full credit for the stormfiend. Clan Skryre weaponry grants the monster a capacity for slaughter that other rat ogres lack. Thus the stormfiend’s maddened roars are often blotted out by the seething rush of warpfire, gouted from projectors bolted to its forearms.
When facing a stormfiend, the choice of battleground can mean the difference between aching life or agonizing death. Thanks to the tactical awareness of the brain-creature on its back, the towering rat-beast will engage its foes from a distance with lethal gouts of warpfire. As the battle commences, the ground will quickly become a maze of flames, making it crucial that you choose your terrain carefully. The brute is heavily armoured and comes with one crucial weakness: the wicked little mastermind on its back. Interrupt its attacks, watch your step, charge as a team, target the mastermind, and who knows, you might even make it out alive.
The lowest of the low in the skaven hierarchy, skavenslaves perform the most menial and dangerous tasks, constantly under threat of being devoured by their kin. In battle, they are deployed without thought for survival, without armour and decent weaponry.
Skaven are covetous creatures, and see little sense in wasting precious resources on such wretched, disposable attacks in great numbers, called to the fray by battle horn, or goaded into ambush of an unwary foe. They strike with desperation, as afraid of their masters’ whips as the bite of their enemies’ blades. Many a lone hero has perished to such wretches, dragged down by the frantic multitude.
Of all the Horned Rat's children, plague monks are undeniably the foulest. Zealots dedicated to the spread of corruption and decay, they are recognisable through their ragged, soiled garments and a putrid stench that fogs the surrounding air.
Plague monks are fanatics, hurling themselves into the fray without thought for their own lives. So scarred and swollen have their bodies become that pain is a distant memory, held at bay by diseases yet gnawing at their flesh and callouses hardened into knotted lumps. Only death can still their fanatical ardour.
Tattered robes and ramshackle gas masks grant poison wind globadiers a sinister silhouette. This is a harbinger well-deserved, as are the rasp of rotting lungs and the acrid stench of warp-gas that sours the air about them. Each of a globadier’s gas spheres swirls with tendrils of lurid, poisonous fumes. Upon impact, the globe shatters, releasing a cloud of toxins that eat away at flesh and armour alike. Those caught within the cloud approach their last, panicked moments. Eyes weeping and lungs burning, they must fight their way clear before the poison takes hold.
They care nothing for the lives of their fellow skaven, and will happily slaughter dozens of their own kind to fell a single foe. Life is cheap in the Under-Empire, and victory forgives all.
The ratling gun is a six-barreled monstrosity of unparalleled fire-rate, powered by warp steam and operated with a handcrank. This fearsome weapon is normally operated by a Clan Skryre weapons team, but lighter, experimental versions have been sighted in the Reikland. These variants require only a single ratman to act as crew, with little apparent trade-off.
Encumbered by the unwieldiness of his weapon, the ratling gunner is far from quick on his feet, but once he cranks up his weapon a torrent of warpstone hail is unleashed. Such gunners are known for their single-mindedness. Having chosen a target, they track it continually, firing relentlessly until either the weapon jams, needs to reload, or the victim lies shredded beyond recognition. It is therefore not unknown for many skaven to perish in a ratling gun’s volley, torn apart as their comrade’s fire tracks towards its target.
The warpfire thrower is whispered of in many quarters – chiefly for the horrors it has wrought in the cramped confines of dwarfen holds. Though little more than a vat of unstable warp-fuel and an ignition source, it is a weapon to be feared, as many charred skeletons would perhaps attest, could they speak of it. With the smouldering projector aimed, the simple flip of a switch births roiling clouds of warpfire that scour all from the gunner’s path.
Though the warpfire thrower is frequently seen wielded by weapon teams of two skaven, particularly deranged gunners have been known to take the field without the aid of a fuel-bearer. Eager to earn favour with their masters, such ratmen readily trade the additional burden for the chance to deny another skaven a share of the glory.
The stormvermin are the black-furred elite of military might. They are, to an individual, larger than the average skaven, well-muscled, and proficient in the use of various weapons and armour. They are aggressive by nature and are given to overt displays of prowess in order to intimidate those around them.
The stormvermin are often found in groups together with other stormvermin or on patrols. Stormvermin may seemed armored to the teeth but their head is vulnerable against light attacks.
The packmasters of Clan Moulder excel in driving packs of ravening beasts into battle, but in the crush of the swarm they favour other tactics. Clan Moulder is ever seeking new subjects to further its vile breeding experiments, and every packmaster covets the bounty paid for a particularly noteworthy prize.
Thus lone packmasters eschew their commonplace whip for a ‘things-catcher’, a barbed polearm, capable of strangling a foe into submission, and leaving them prone to later harvesting. Once caught in such a manner, the prey has no chance of escape, unless he or she has friends close by. Otherwise, the laboratories of Clan Moulder beckon . . .
Gutter runners are masters of stealth, soft-footed agents of Clan Eshin who wear the shadows as a cloak. They seldom attack head on, preferring to catch a foe unawares, or else while bogged-down in combat with clanrats or slaves. When the gutter runner judges the time to strike has come, it leaps, bearing the foe to the ground, slicing and tearing at the prone victim with warpstone-edged claws.
Yet for all its cunning and ferocity, the gutter runner is no less a coward than others of its kind. Should it be caught in the moment of attack, or sighted out of its hiding place, it vanishes in a cloud of smoke, nimbly skirting the confused attacker as it returns to the shadows. From there, the gutter runner sharpens its blades and plots its assault anew, just waiting for opportunity to arise.
Clanrats form the mainstay of the skaven army, a man-shaped mass of filthy matted fur, and weeping lesions topped with glowing red eyes and chisel-teeth. They are the embodiment of debasement, the nobility of mankind stripped bare, leaving only base appetite and cunning.
Armed with scavenged weapons and clad in rusting, patchwork armour, lone clanrats are little threat to a seasoned warrior. Even small groups can be overcome if hearts remain stout and purpose undaunted, for they lack the discipline for shieldwalls or similar defences. Clanrats’ true strength lies in overwhelming numbers, in a tide of shrieking, stabbing vermin given courage by the verminous press of bodies. They scurry from hidden tunnels and concealing shadows, fighting with desperate ferocity until their ranks are broken, and their courage fails alongside.
Rotblood sorcerers are the true guiding power of the tribe, dripping tainted guidance into the waiting ears of marauder and chieftain alike. Unlike their brothers, the sorcerers are in no doubt that they serve ebullient Nurgle – that the plagues and diseases besetting their tribe are blessings from the most generous of the Dark Gods. The sorcerers themselves are most ‘blessed’ of all. They are mountains of rotten, swollen flesh that transpose through magic more readily than they waddle into the fray.
Chaos sorcerers draw upon the full fury of the Winds of Magic. Unlike the tutored wizards of the Empire, whose rituals and rites offer protection against the ravages of Chaos, sorcerers trust to their wits and the fluxsome favour of the Dark Gods to endure the ravages of raw magic. Few are entirely successful, and certainly none are successful forever. Magic is the stuff of Chaos itself, and those who wield it without safeguard are destined to warp, body and soul, beneath its baleful power.
Barbaric tribesmen from the frozen north, marauders are natural-born fighters, tempered by a life of hardship, who despise the soft-bellied Empire and its notions of laws and discipline.
Theirs is an existence where only the strong survive, where worth is proved upon the field of battle, not by cowering behind walls of stone and steel. Marauders come to the fight in a storm of axes, swords, and clubs, praises to the Dark Gods howling from their lips.
Such a sight is born from the darkest of legends, an assault fit to chill the heart of even the bravest soul and sweep away the strongest defence.
A Chaos warrior is a living weapon, encased in warped armour and imbued with raw, superhuman strength. Having shed the concerns of petty mortality, he dons the mantle of war in the name of the Dark Gods. His is a life of unending battle.
Slaughter is the Chaos warrior’s only comfort, the mercurial affection of his blasphemous patron the only love he seeks. Carnage is his nourishment, destruction his muse. His armour slicked with the blood of countless foes, the Chaos warrior stalks the face of the Old World as an instrument of godly death, implacable as the master he serves.
Towering brutes with horned helmets, these battle-hardened veterans of Chaos are skilled fighters that use their superior strength, size, and thick armour to their advantage. Not only do they swing a massive two-handed axe with phenomenal strength, but they also adjust their techniques to match and counter their opponent, making them especially formidable in combat. Keep your tactics fluid, watch out for his axe, and remember that it will take numerous heavy blows to make this armoured foe fall.
The mauler has earned his name on countless battlefields, employing a combination of raw might and a massive greataxe to shatter armor and bone. Stay light on your feet and be ready to dodge. If he lands a blow, you'll find yourself in the dirt with a broken bone or two to boot.
If you thought encountering a raider was challenging enough, wait until you clash blades with his brother-in-damnation, the bulwark. Adept at blocking attacks and capable of staggering you with a weighty shove, a bulwark requires tactics to defeat. Only once past his shield can you land a telling blow, so sidestep with care and strike with surety.
The most fanatical and ferocious of the Rotblood tribe, the savage enters battle with an axe grasped tight in each hand, throwing himself at the enemy in all-consuming frenzy. A level-headed defence and precisely-timed counterattacks are key to surviving his assault.