For weeks, Kratus's physical form had been in flux. His movement was not a fluid motion, as if viewed through a pict feed at a low framerate. In the blink of an eye, Kratus would appear in a totally different position; blink again, and he might appear to have never moved, as if he were totally disconnected from reality.

Kratus has offered many a worthy skull to the Blood God's throne, felling skilled warriors and titanic Knights alike. It was the foul xenoform known as the Salt Wyrm that evaded his wrath: blows that would have landed perfectly, with a ferocity that would tear apart a battle tank, were evaded at the last moment by the Genestealer Patriarch.

Bleeding from a dozen wounds and on the verge of a brain haemorrhage from the xenos's cowardly psychic attack, Kratus's blurred form emitted wisps of pure darkness, like smoke made of the stuff of black holes. In a swirl of swallowed light, he vanished.

Minutes turned to hours as the Cruentes' menials pulled injured warriors from the battlefield and the xeno-mutants burrowed back into their lairs, with no sign of the Chaos Lord. Challenges rang out amongst champions of the Cruentes, and blood was spilled in a race for the warband to find a new leader before it tore itself apart.

It was at the apex of this bloodshed, when it looked like the Cruentes were about to splinter, that a font of blood erupted and coagulated into a dozen or more forms. Most were roughly human-shaped, and several were atop black and brass steeds. One, however, was larger than the rest, its ancient Terminator plate twisted to match its stature.

'Kratus is dead,' it said.

'Long live Arkrath, the Hand of Khorne.'