Ancient Hastuur had basked in the heat of the fire until he heard the Mouth of Abaddon eulogizing to his honour guard. 10,000 years in a coffin of chains – alone with the universe inside his head – lent his adulation of the Warmaster a frantic edge. His triumphal shouts distorted into wails of electronic feedback by his vox. He crashed out of the bonfire in a cacophony of screeching joints and clashing chains. A multitude of blood-stained golden skulls rattled against his poisonously black carapace, each one a trophy showing one hundred kills made in the service of Chaos. A shower of flying sparks glittered on the horrific ruby-shot jet Daemon skull set into the front of the perambulatory mausoleum that held the tortured spirit of Hastuur. He raised his mighty clawed fists into the storm and howled his pain and unbridled rage into the uncaring sky +++kkKzzLOOD FOR THEzzkBLzzOD GODzkzzZ+++