CHAOS SPAWN SLAANTHROB

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Nobody who has seen him agrees on what he is. He was here before the last crusade. He was here before the crusade before that. Every time he is destroyed - unmade, burned, torn into components that should not allow reassembly - he returns. The same. Not approximately the same. Not similar. The same. Same muscle. Same face. Same muffled, useless sound behind the restraint he cannot remove, that nobody put there, that was simply part of him when he arrived. Scholars of the dark gifts argue whether Slaanthrob was made or chosen or condemned. Whether the God of Lust and Deviations reached down and sculpted him like a favored toy - a body built to perfect the idea of yearning trapped in flesh. Whether he was once a devotee of extraordinary dedication, dissolved into pure gift. Whether he was, most terrifyingly, an enemy - someone who offended the Prince of Excess and received this. Received exactly this, forever. The theologians have no consensus. The spawn himself, predictably, cannot clarify. What he can do is kill. The legs propel him faster than the torso expects. The blades and tentacles are not decorative. The spiked ends have learned what they like. His face, which still looks disturbingly human in all the worst ways, watches from somewhere inside the charge with the distant expression of someone who stopped being surprised about any of this long ago. The God of Excess does not leave his work unsigned: Slaanthrob's lower part carries the proof - unmistakable…