AN: I don't own 40K or any associated products. I did, however, create the original characters you will see.

Karagôr the Gorewalker

He could not see them in the traditional sense of the word. No, Karagôr saw only in shades of red now. The eyes he had torn from the Daemon that had gouged his own out now served him as his own, differently yet the same. In some ways, they proved to be a hinderance. In others, he mused as he stepped around the wild stab of a terrified PDF Conscript, they served all he needed them to serve. His brass fists, coated from fingers to elbow in a strange brass metal that seemed almost malevolent, lashed out, tearing through flesh and ceramite armor to grip the spinal cord of the poor human that dared strike at him, and inhuman strength crushed bone and cartilage to a strange, powdery gelatinous mush, before the boy, no older than twenty standard Terran years, was ripped in half by the cursed might of the daemon-slaying warrior before him.

Karagôr stood head and shoulders above these puny mortals. In all his nearly eleven thousand years, he had found nothing more despicable than these weak humans that were left behind to defend their home.

His skull began to burn suddenly, an ancient copy of an even more archaic technology daring to impose its own will upon his, and Karagôr roared his fury as his crimson vision blotted out and became nothing but red.

Blood stung at his eyes, a minor pain compared to the Nails burning their fury into his brain matter, and he pressed his metal hands into them to wipe the liquid away. He was surrounded by corpses, drenched in blood and wearing the skulls of a few humans around his neck, hung by sinew and flesh. Three had apparently given some form of entertainment to him in his berserk state, evidenced by the slowly closing wounds he could feel on his neck and gut. One was particularly stubborn about healing, his flesh seared beneath his navel and blackened. A lasbolt had struck him, it seemed. Had he been a mere Astartes, it might have been debilitating, and certainly fatal if he had been a mere mortal.

Karagôr growled, and the blood pooling at his feet trembled. A serpentine canine with brass armor and a black collar around its neck leapt from the pool, clutching a black blade in its mouth. The hound was huge, equal to a particularly large Grox in size, and blazing red eyes stared at Karagôr with amusement and rage in equal parts.

They said nothing, but the duo looked around as more forces began to surround them. The heavy treads of Leman Russ tanks filled the former World Eater's ears, and he grinned at his companion with a challenge in his eyes.

"F-freeze! We have you surrounded!"

The hulking Astartes inhaled slowly, and smiled. He could smell it, but even a mortal could pick up on the man's terror. Eyes like burning globs of magma glared at the man, and Karagôr turned to face him with his body.

"All you have done, human, is proven yourself an insect."

Karagôr moved, and the tanks(Leman Russ Obliterators, he noted with a cruel glint in his eyes) fired as one. The spot he'd just been stood in was suddenly gone, the relatively fragile permacrete vaporized with a single explosion. Karagôr landed atop one of the tanks, and slammed a fist through the thick hatch protecting the commander. The sound of screaming metal rent the air and Karagôr bled as the sharp edges tore his flesh where the brass of his arms ended, but he gripped his prey by the throat and ripped his arm upwards.

Human bones and flesh gave before the hatch did, and the tank commander was pulled as the ancient being tried in vain to force his corpse through an arm sized hole.

Karagôr dropped the corpse as the tanks fired again, and smiled. He'd not had so much fun in ages, and it was all because the eight-times damned sorcerer had sought a little party.

Perhaps the Gorewalker would attend the next one too, if it brought this much fun.