The pride of which I was a part followed Dread Erickson the Flayed, whose skin dangled in tatters from his chest and arms. We were of the Order of Razors, for we sought the blood god in hacked meat and severed veins opened by our long blades. Erickson commanded a large pride, so great was his renown with fourteen of those favoured by Khorne in his terrible shadow and one hundred-forty able warriors and fit slaves to slake his needs. In truth, of these ’serfs’ only twenty were his own alone; each of the Chosen must possess as many servants as he can, to demonstrate his terrible appetites and to provide gifts to those mightier than he. We keep our serfs close, for slaughters are commonplace by prides wishing to increase their standing. Four of the serfs were mine, but of course, Erickson could claim them as his own, as could any others in the pride whose renown eclipsed mine. As we are commanded to obey the mighty, we take what we will from the weak.
Every pride has its hierarchy, and it is always in flux. Our rage hollows us from within and our hunger ever swells. We may satisfy our needs on those of lesser status than ourselves, or partake of their serfs as we wish, though we may not slay such a follower outright, unless we duel its owner for the privilege. Blood flows daily within the pride, and through a precise dance of custom and rank, laws older than time.
The Slaughterfields, seated at the edge of the glorious realm of Eternal Battle, are the home to many prides and it has been so since the primordial past. Each pride claims as much of the snowy wastes as it can hold with blade and deed, declaring it their territory, their fief, their stalking… Any prey within the stalking is theirs alone. Erickson’s stalking was large, at he edge of Calimyne’s Duchy and into the shadow of the Black Ziggurat. In times past, the High Lord drove serfs, prisoners, and spawn into the Slaughterfields to whet our appetites and many enter by way of our lands.