Chaos Warriors are what survival looks like on the Path to Glory. Each has fought through years of slaughter that killed a hundred lesser aspirants, and been rewarded with plate quenched in the fires of dark forges: armor that turns blades, arrows, and time itself. Formed into shield-walls behind full-face helms, they advance at a patient, grinding walk that has broken more defenses than any berserker charge ever managed.
The armor is a gift, and it never comes off; on most veterans it no longer can. Somewhere under the black iron is a tribesman who once had a face, a name shouted by parents, a life before the bargain: details the warrior has traded away, piece by piece, for the strength to keep climbing. Chaos Warriors do not mourn the exchange. Mourning is for people who believe they were something better before.
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