Thel Knight of Gorth the Great Obesity

 Across the frozen salt-flats of the Great Steppe, east of the jagged spires of the Mountains of Mourn, the wind  carried the faint, sickly scent of cooked flesh, smoke, and freshly spilled blood, the smell that always accompanied the host of Gorth, the Great Obesity.

At the head of the warband rode Thel knight of Gorth. Once a Chief of the Dolgans, one of the many nomadic human tribes that called the great steppe home, now Thel was Gorth’s chosen champion in the mortal realms.

 To look upon him was to gaze upon a lie frozen in time. Though he had sworn his tribe’s soul to Gorth centuries ago, no rot or bloated decay touched his flesh. He appeared as a warrior-lord in his absolute prime: a thick black beard and lavish, flowing hair, both spilling beneath an open-faced helm crowned with a snarling  daemon face. His plate armor, forged in midnight-black iron and heavy brass, bore the deep patina of endless battles, paired with a midnight shield that seemed to writhe with leering skull motifs. In his right gauntlet, he balanced a monstrous, barbed hunting spear. A weapon forged not just to kill, but to inflict the utmost pain as it did so, a weapon that could still the very life energy of Thel's enemies.

Beside him, the earth groaned.

Theograx shifted her immense weight, her scaly emerald hide glistening under the pale northern sun. She was an anomaly, a relic of an era before mortal reckoning. She had watched the skies when the Old Ones first arrived, and she had drunk deep of the raw stuff of chaos when their polar gates collapsed, warping her ancient blood with the curse of Chaos. After a millennia of slumber deep within the earth, it was Thel’s call that had pierced her dreams. For reasons the ancient creature could not comprehend—a binding tether woven by Gorth or pure cosmic caprice—she felt an inescapable obligation to serve him.

A low, subterranean rumble rolled from her chest as an inattentive Black armoured warrior rode too close. In a heartbeat, her dark-red dorsal plates flared, her slit-pupil eyes snapped wide with sudden, unhinged madness, and a plume of black smoke escaped from her nostrils. With an unearthly shriek, her neck snapped forward, sending an open mouth full of dagger-like teeth towards the unfortunate rider.

"Down, Old One," Thel commanded, his voice deep and smooth, carrying the weight of absolute authority. He did not raise his voice, nor did he flinch as her massive frame, supporting the red-and-black leather saddle—its high back shaped into a brass-trimmed, sneering daemon face—snapped back into obedience.

Instantly, the ancient dragon’s frenzy dissolved. The violent madness in her gold-flecked eyes melted into a look of bizarre, dog-like devotion. She pressed her massive snout into the dirt near purring with a sound like grinding millstones, crushing a dozen skulls under her talons in the process.

Thel stroked her dark red back crest, his barbed spear slung easily over his shoulder. The Old World to the west was ripe, bloated with weak men who mistook comfort for strength. Gorth was hungry, and Thel had found the ultimate hunter to ride into the feast.