Chaos Warhounds
They were not bred. They were broken. Once flesh, once loyal, now twisted into snarling engines of ruin, their hides split with warp-scorched veins and iron biting deep into bone.
The warhounds do not charge… they are unleashed. Every snarl is a prayer to something that should not answer. Paint them not as beasts, but as the last thing their masters ever saw.















