By Strider92 21 Comments
Kharn The Betrayer:
Alias: The Betrayer, Crimson Psychopath, Red Death, The Avatar Of The Blood God
Kharn wields the Demon Weapon Gorechild. Gorechild is an ancient dread-axe thousands of years old made of adamantium with mica-dragon teeth for blades. The weapon counts both as a power-weapon (See the Space Marine Respect Thread for info on power weapons) and a daemon weapon. As a demon weapon the axe incorporates the essence of a trapped daemon:
A Daemon Weapon is a sentient item that grants tremendous power to its wielder. The weapon itself is often quite destructive in its own right, and nearly all Daemon Weapons allow their bearers access to their daemonic senses, heightening their perceptions of their surroundings. The bound daemon, if it has not been driven to insanity by its imprisonment, can also counsel its bearer or even manipulate him.
-Description of a Daemon Weapon
The bearer of such a weapon is in constant battle with the weapon to prevent it overtaking them and devouring their soul. Kharn use his bloodlust and insanity to channel the destructive nature of Gorechild onto his enemies and has remained in control of the weapon for the past 10 thousand years:
Some conformation of Gorechild being a Daemon weapon:
Gorechild, Kharn's daemonic axe, howled in his hands
-Let The Galaxy Burn, Wrath Of Kharn
Gorechild howled with frustrated bloodlust, writhing in his hand as if it would turn on him if he did not feed it more blood and sinew soon.
-Let The Galaxy Burn, Wrath Of Kharn
Kharn using Gorechild to suck the soul out of an opponent:
His axe howled thirstily as it drank deep of the ancient and corrupt soul imprisoned within.
-Let The Galaxy Burn, Wrath Of Kharn
Kharn wields an arcane Plasma Pistol that fires shots capable of reaching the same temperature as the sun. For more information on plasma weapons see the Space Marine Respect Thread.
The Blessings Of The Blood God and Collar Of Khorne:
Kharn bears the Mark and Collar of Khorne. These two artifacts render him completely immune to the effects of telepathy, telekinesis, reality warping and anything else outside the realm's of physical combat:
Daemonic Power Armor:
Kharn is the bearer of a set of daemonic power armor. For more information on Power Armor see the Space Marine Respect Thread. Kharn's version of power armor however is possessed by a daemon fortifying the armor with a daemonic aura rendering his durability far superior to that of a standard Marine. He also bears a daemonic forcefield:
As a Space Marine Kharn is capable of everything a Space Marine is (see the Space Marine Respect Thread) however he has proved himself far superior to a standard Marine in every aspect as I will show next.
Kharn tanking Bolt-gun shots (essentially small missiles) with ease:
‘BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!’ bellowed Khârn the Betrayer, charging forward through the hail of bolter fire, towards the Temple of Superlative Indulgence. The bolter shells ricocheting off his breastplate did not even slow him down. The Chaos Space Marine smiled to himself. The ancient ceramite of his armor had protected him for over ten thousand years. He felt certain it would not let him down today.
-Let The Galaxy Burn
Gets hit with a Lash of torment (a whip designed to take possession of your mind) and shrugs it off with sheer force of will and and bloodlust:
Leather-clad priestesses, their faces domino-masked, emerged from padded doorways. They lashed at Khârn with whips that sent surges of pain and pleasure through his body. Another man, one less hardened than Khârn, might have been overwhelmed by the sensation but Khârn had spent millennia in the service of his god, and what passed through him now was but a pale shadow compared to the battle lust that mastered him. He chopped through the snake-like flesh of the living lash. Poison blood spurted forth. The woman screamed as if he had cut her. Looking closer he saw that she and the whip were one. A leering daemonic head tipped the weapon’s handle and had buried its fangs into her wrist. Khârn’s interest was sated. He killed the priestess with on back-handed swipe of Gorechild.
-Let The Galaxy Burn
Demonstrates his Blood Blessing by resisting sorcery and hypnotism from a Slaanesh Lord:
As the cult leader spoke, imaged flickered through Khârn’s mind. He saw visions of his youth and all the joys he had known, before the rebellion of Horus and the Battle for Terra. Somehow it had all looked so clear and fresh and appealing, and it almost brought moisture to his tear ducts. He saw endless banquets of food and wine. For a moment, his palate was stimulated by all manner of strange and wonderful tastes, and his brain tingled with a myriad pleasures and stimulations. Visions of diaphanously-clad maidens danced before his eyes, beckoning enticingly.
For a moment, despite himself, Khârn felt an almost unthinkable temptation to betray his ancient oath to the Blood God. This was powerful sorcery indeed! He shook his head and bit his lip until the blood flowed. ‘NO TRUE WARRIOR OF KHORNE WOULD FALL FOR THIS PITIFUL TRICK!’ he bellowed.
-Let The Galaxy Burn
Kharn shows why he is the most dangerous close quarter fighter in 40 by soloing 2248 opponents in a single battle:
Khârn was in among them, and no man had ever been able to boast of facing Khârn in close combat and living. The numbers 2243, then 2244, blinked before his eyes. The ancient Gothic lettering of the digital death-counter, superimposed on Khârn’s field of vision, incremented quickly. Khârn was proud of this archaic device, presented by Warmaster Horus himself in ancient times. Its like could not be made in this degenerate age. Khârn grinned proudly as his tally of offerings for this campaign continued to rise. He still had a long way to go to match his personal best but that was not going to stop him trying. Such pathetic oafs were barely worth the killing, Khârn decided, lashing out reflexively and killing those Slaanesh worshippers who passed too close as they fled. 2246, 2247, 2248 went the death counter.
Men screamed and howled as they died. Khârn roared with pleasure, killing everything within his reach, reveling in the crunch of bone and the spray of blood.
-Let The Galaxy Burn
By the end of the battle how many opponents has he killed?
Once more he felt the thrill of victory, and knew no regrets for rejecting the daemon’s offer. 2487. Not his personal best, but still a good days work.
-Let The Galaxy Burn
Yep soloing 2487 opponents in a day and its not his personal best? Then what pray tell is his personal best? At the siege of Terra we find out:
I was the first to stand upon the walls of the Imperial Palace. I was the last to be borne away from Terra, my body broken by the slaying of one million of the Emperor's lackeys through the breach at Lions Gate.
None shall ever surpass my count.
The Contest is over. I won.
-The Weakness Of Others
Yep Kharn killed 1 million opponents in close combat on his own! One-fricking-million. These were all Space Marines. See the Space Marine Respect Thread to see what they are capable of and why this feat is so insane.
One of Kharn's most impressive close combat feats. Taking on upward of 30 Khrone berserkers in close combat at the same time. Berserkers have an average of mach 2 reaction speeds and can on average beat a Space Marine in close combat. Kharn takes on 30 of them at the same time (not separately, not one by one but at the same time) and slaughters them all mach 2 reaction speeds? Hah too slow:
Suddenly the rest of the berserkers were upon him. Khârn found himself fighting for his immortal life. These were no mere Slaanesh cultists. Newly tainted though they might be, they had once been worthy followers of Khorne, fierce, deadly and full of bloodlust. Mighty maces bludgeoned Khârn. Huge chainswords threatened to tear his rune-encrusted armor. Bolter shells tore chunks from his breastplate. Khârn fought on, undismayed, filled with the joy of battle, taking fierce pleasure every time Gorechild took another life. At last, these were worthy foes! The body count swiftly ticked to 2460 and continued to rise.
Instinctively Khârn sidestepped a blow that tore off one of the metal skulls which dangled from his belt. The Betrayer swore he would replace it with the attacker’s own skull. His return stroke made good his vow. He whirled Gorechild in a great figure-of-eight and cleared a space all around him, sending two more traitors to make their excuses to the Blood Good. Insane bloodlust surged through him, overcoming even the soporific influence of the Heart of Desire and for a moment Khârn fought with his full unfettered power. He became transformed into an unstoppable engine of destruction and nothing could stand against him.
Khârn’s heart pounded. The blood sang through his veins and the desire to kill made him howl uncontrollably. Bones crunched beneath his axe. His pistol blew away the life of its targets. He stamped on the heads of the fallen, crushing them to jelly. Khârn ignored pain, ignored any idea of self-preservation, and fought for the pure love of fighting. He killed and he killed.
All too soon it was over, and Khârn stood alone in a circle of corpses. His breathing rasped from his chest. Blood seeped through a dozen small punctures in his armor. He felt like a rib might have been broken by the last blow of that mace but he was triumphant. His counter read 2485. He sensed the presence of one more victim and turned to confront the figure on the dais.
-Let The Galaxy Burn
Kharn Vs Loken. Kharn takes on Loken and has him on the ropes until a land raider crashes into him:
It was later revealed that despite being hit by almost 100tons worth of tank and having his chest completely torn out Kharn's healing factor had kicked and he regenerated. This is just prior to him slaying the 1 million opponents. So not only did he kill 1 million opponents in said battle he did so after having a tank pushing 100tons rip open his chest. Now that is stamina and durability!
Kharn sitting back and letting Angron Primarch of the World Eaters beat him up without wearing any armor or nay of his Chaos upgrades:
He exhaled, and took another step into the room. For a moment he thought he could hear movement, the padding of feet, a rush of air that felt like breath before everything splintered and whirled and he crashed into a pillared wall to land hard on his back, gasping in pain.
By the time the gasp had entered his lungs, reflex had taken over and he was up on one knee, turning to put his broken right arm and shoulder to the wall and holding and tensing his left arm ready to ward as he scanned for motion, eyes sifting the gloom, pushing into infrared to see the hulking shape hurtling forwards to fill his vision—
Will overrode reflex, and with an iron effort Khârn forced his hand towards his side. Then he was skittering on his back across the floor, breath hammered out of his lungs and cracked clavicle flaring. Unthinkingly he drew his knees to his chest, turned the skidding tumble into a backwards roll. Training, determination and Astartes neural wiring let him shunt the pain to the back of his mind as he came up into a combat crouch.
Then will took over again, and Khârn made himself stand upright and placed his hands by his sides. He looked back and found the spot where he had rested a moment ago, but the floor was empty, no shape or heat-trace.
Was this how it was for the others? He caught himself wondering, and stopped thinking about it when the lapse in concentration started him swaying on the spot. He focused, half-heard movement closing in behind him and opened his mouth to speak, and a moment later was jerked up from the floor, the back of his head and neck in the grip of a hand that felt bigger and harder than a Dreadnaught’s rubble-claw. Will, will over instinct: Khârn stopped himself from kicking backwards, trying to wrench free.
"Another one? Another one like the rest?" The voice in his ear was a rasp, a rumble, words like handfuls of hot gravel. "Warrior made, warrior garbed, uhh..." For a moment the grip on the back of Khârn’s neck juddered and his body shook like a Stormbird hitting atmosphere, then the animal growl from behind him became a roar.
He was being carried forwards one-handed in long blurring strides across the width of the hall.
"Fight me!" With the words, a slam into the wall hard enough to leave Khârn’s wits red-tinged and reeling.
"Fight me!" Another slam and the red was shot through with black. His limbs felt sluggish and only half there. The voice was bellowing drowning his hearing, pouring into his head and trampling his jangled thoughts.
"Fiiight!" Another steel-hard grip closed about his broken arm and for a brief moment Khârn whirled through the air. Another impact and his back was to the wall, his feet dangling, broken shoulder incandescent with pain as one of the great hands pinned him against the dark marble.
It took a moment for things to clear. Astartes biochemistry stabilised his pain and his cognition, glanded stress-hormones
slammed into his system and Khârn looked at his primarch’s face with clear eyes.
Wiry, copper-red hair curled away from a high brow, pale eyes sat deep behind cheekbones that angled down like axe-strokes to an aquiline nose and a broad, thin-lipped mouth.
It was the face of a general to follow unto death, the face of a teacher at whose feet the wise would fight to sit, the face of a king made for the adoration of worlds: the face of a primarch.
And rage made it the face of a beast. Rage pushed and distorted the features like a tumour breaking out from the skull beneath. It made the eyes into yellow, empty pits, debased the proud lines of brow and jaw, peeled the lips back from the teeth.
And yet it was a face so maddeningly familiar, the face of the sire whose template had made the War Hounds themselves. Khârn could see his brethren in the bronze skin, the set of the eyes, the lines of jaw and skull. Pinned there and staring, the thought that flicked into his mind was of the Legion’s battles against the capering xenos whose masks wove faces out of light, taunting them with distorted mockeries of themselves.
The primarch’s grip tensed, and Khârn wondered if he had heard the thought – didn’t they say some of their sires had that trick? Slowly Angron’s other hand rose up before Khârn’s face. Even in this light he could see the crackling shell of quickclotting blood coating the fingers. The hand made a trembling fist before his face that seemed to hang there for an age before it slowly opened to make a stiff-fingered claw. Khârn could tell how the claw would strike: a finger in each eye, powerful enough to punch through the back of the socket and into his brain, the thumb under his jaw to crush his throat, the whole hand then ready to clench and rip away the front of his skull or pull his head from his neck. Astartes bone was powerfully made – did the primarch have the power for that in just one of his hands? Khârn thought he did.
But the hand did not strike. Instead Angron leaned forwards, the snarling gargoyle-mask of his face closing, closing, until his mouth was by Khârn’s ear.
"Why?" And his whisper was like the grate of tank-treads on stone. "I can see what you’re made for. You’re made to spill blood, just as I am. You’re not born normal men, any more than I was." A long, savage growl. "So why? Why no triumph rope? Why no weapon in your hand? Why do you all walk down here so meek? Don’t you know whose blood I really— eh?"
They were close enough that he had felt Khârn’s smile against his cheek, and now he pulled back to see it. Angron’s eyes squeezed shut for a moment, then flashed open again as he twitched Khârn away from the wall and slammed him back again. It seemed to Khârn that he could feel the fingers of the hand that held him thrumming with checked violence.
"What’s this? Showing your teeth?" Another slam against the wall. "Why are you smiling?" By the end of the question the voice was once again at that shattering roar, and even Khârn’s hearing, more resilient than human, rang for whole seconds before it cleared. And in those few seconds, he realised that the question had not been rhetorical. Angron was waiting for an answer.
"I am..." His voice, when he found it, was hoarse and brittle. "I am proud of my Legion brothers." He swallowed to try and soothe his dry throat so that he could speak again, but before he could take another breath he was pulled from the wall and dropped. Angron’s kick lofted him into the air in a long curve that fetched him up against a cold, torn corpse. When Khârn dragged in a breath it was full of the reek of blood and offal. There was no way to tell whose the body had been.
Bare feet thumped along the stone floor, counter-pointing growling heaves of breath as Angron closed the distance. He leapt and landed in a crouch beside Khârn as he tried to make his body move. The grip damped around him again, around his jaw and face this time, and he was dragged half-upright to stare into the primarch’s eyes again.
"Proud." Angron’s lips worked as though he were chewing on the word. "Your brothers. No warriors. None of you will fight. Why... are... you..." He was shaping his words with difficulty, and one hand had risen to clutch at his head. "How, uh, how can, nnn..." And then he lifted Khârn by the front of his tunic and slammed him back down. The ragged remains on the floor gave a bloody squelch as Khârn’s back came down across them.
"No pride!" roared Angron, in a voice that Khârn thought dizzily could finish the job of bone-breaking that his fists had started. "No pride in brothers who stand there with their wits slack! Dulleyed as a steer on a slaughter-chute! None of you fight! My brothers, my brothers and sisters, oh..." The grip on Khârn’s tunic lifted, and he blinked his vision clear and looked up. Angron was not looking at him any more. The primarch had sunk back onto his haunches, one great hand over his eyes. His voice was still a powerful rumble, but barely formed and harsh with accent. Khârn had to concentrate to make out the words. "My poor warriors," Angron was murmuring, "my lost ones." And then he dropped his hand and looked into Khârn’s eyes. The fury was still in his stare, but it had been banked like a furnace,
glowing a dull vermilion rather than roaring crimson.
"Your brothers," he said in a drained voice, "are not like my brothers, whoever you are."
Whoever you are. It took a moment for the words to sink in, and the next thought was, He doesn’t know. How can he not know? Still flat on the floor, Khârn took a shuddering breath.
"My name is Khârn. I am a warrior—"
"No!" Angron’s fist shattered the floor beside Kharn’s head. Stone chips stung his skin. "No warrior! No!"
"—of the Legiones Astartes, the great league of battle-brothers
in service to our—"
"No! Dead!" screamed Angron, his head back, muscles corded in his neck. "Uhhh, my warriors are dead, my brothers, my sisters—"
"—beloved Emperor," said Khârn, fighting to keep his voice cool and level,
To put in perspective why this feat is so impressive I will show you how strong Angron is:
“'Whats happening', he shouted over the noise.
No one answered and Loken fell as the top of the breach suddenly exploded in a sheet of flame that reached hundreds of meters into the air. Rocks and metal were hurled skywards as the top of the wall vanished in a massive seismic detonation.
Like the bunkers in the cities, the Brotherhood destroyed what they could not hold, and Loken's senses shut down briefly with the overload of light and noise. Twisted rubble and wreckage slammed down around them, Loken heard screams of pain and the crack of splintering armour as scores of his men were pulverised by the storm of boulders.
Dust and matter filled the air, and when Loken felt safe enough to move, he saw in horror that the entire crest of the breach had been destroyed. Angron and the World Eaters were gone, buried beneath the wreckage of a mountain.
Before Varvarus could react to the senior preceptor's declaration, the rubble behind him shifted and groaned, cracks splitting rock and metal as something vast and terrible heaved upwards from beneath the ground.
At first Loken thought that it was the second seismic charge he had feared, but then he saw that these tremors were far more localised. Janizaes scattered, and men shouted in alarm as more debris clattered from the breach. Loken gripped the hilt of his sword as he saw many of the Brotherhood's warriors reach for their weapons.
Then the breach exploded with a grinding crack of ruptured stone and something immense and red erupted from the ground with a bestial roar of hate and bloodlust. Soldiers fell away from the red giant, hurled aside by the violence of his sudden appearance.
Angron towered over them, bloody and enraged, and Loken marvelled that he could still be alive after thousands of tonnes of rock had engulfed him. But Angron was a primarch and what - save for an anathame - could lay one such as him low?”
-False Gods Pg. 389
Angron is capable of throwing of thousands of tons around and couldn't get Kharn to stay down without his armor on!
Kharn Vs Flesh Tearer: Kharn one-shots a Khorne/Blood Angel champion with a small blade. The same Champion that was seen butchering Khorne Berserkers that same day. Great skilling showing from Kharn:
Kharn stood unspeaking. He appeared to be sizing up the Flesh Tearer in return. Tarrogar raised his voice over the din.
"If the Betrayer is to fight then let it be an even contest have him put aside the Gorechild"
Mavin scoffed. It was a desperate ploy but before Mavin could give voice to his derision Kharn replied.
"Agreed. Give me a weapon you deem a suitable replacement"
Tarrogar gestured to one of his World Eaters a scarred veteran with a double headed power axe across his back.
"Drogen, give the Betrayer your blade"
The named berserker made to reach for his axe but the warlord halted him. A savage smile on his lips.
"Your sword Drogen. Give him your sword"
The World Eater, Drogen unhooked the short blade strapped at his waist and tossed it into the circle. Kharn retrieved it and drew it from the simple leather scabbard. It was forged from unadorned dark steel with a wide blade and a plain hilt. Tarrogar's laughter was taken up be several of his retinue.
"The fool thinks he has already won" Mavin muttered before Brond stepped forward.
"This is an insult" he made to unhook his own axe but to his surprise Kharn shook his head.
"No" he spun the short sword in his hand testing the weight of the blade. "This will suffice"
Mavin threw an alarmed look towards Brond. The Warlord simply shrugged as Kharn moved to the edge of the circle and laid Gorechild on the hot sands at Mavin's feet.
"Touch it and you'll die" Kharn warned before turning back to the task at hand.
The Flesh Tearer watched him closely eyes narrowed to points, taking in every nuance of his movements and stride as Kharn stalked back to the center of the fighting circle. Kharn drew up on the sand flexing his great muscular arms and neck. He beckoned to the beast.
"Come its time to draw blood"
"BLOOD!" with a scream of bestial rage the Flesh Tearer lunged forward. The beast was fast, supernaturally fast and barely seemed to touch the ground as it moved. The mighty chain glaive it wielded whirred deafeningly as eager for blood as its master and the Flesh Tearer brought it down overhead in a deadly arc. Kharn made no attempt to dodge the blow or feint to the side, nor to bring his blade up to block the powerful strike. As the Flesh Tearer screamed its horrifying war cry Kharn flipped the sword around into a reverse grip in his left hand and at the very last moment dropped down to one knee. The churning barbed teeth of the glaive tore threw the air only a millimeter from his forehead as he slid under the blow. Before the Flesh Tearer could turn for a second strike Kharn rose and still using his forward momentum plunged his blade into the side of the Flesh Tearer's head. With the flat of his right palm pressed against the butt of the hilt he guided the sword as he rammed it home with the full weight of his body behind it. Kharn roared and twist the hilt so sharply that the blade broke off inside his opponents skull. The Flesh Tearer was dead before his body hit the ground. Silence descended over the area. It had all happened in barely a few seconds.
-Chosen Of Khorne
Kharn kills the Terminator Lord Tarrogar. Marines in terminator armor have taken blows from 100+ tonners and yet Kharn tears one apart with apparent ease:
With a roar Kharn barreled into the Warlord from behind and Gorechild bit deeply into the back of Tarrogar's right leg. It's shrieking teeth spraying blood and shards of ceramite onto the arena floor. the blow did not fell him but he staggered and swung around lighting claws slashing through empty air. Kharn avoided their touch side-stepping neatly around his heavier foe and aimed another blow at the same leg striking hard into the weak armor at the back of the knee. Tarrogar howled i agony crashing to the ground his leg almost completely severed. Kharn was upon him instantly. He pinned the hulking beast his knee pressing one claw to the floor. He brought Gorechild close to aim his final and decapitating strike. With his free hand Tarrogar caught the mighty chainaxe by its hilt as Kharn brought it down towards his throat. The servos in his guantlet whined in protest such was Kharn's strength but he held fast the axe a safe distance away from his face. "You loose. Little man" Tarrogar grinned evilly and began to squeeze Kharn's fist in his servo powered gauntlet. Bare knuckles began to creak and crack under the terrible pressure. Kharn snarled wordlessly but smoothly drew his plasma pistol and aimed it into the joint of Tarrogars elbow. "No Devourer. You loose!" There was a flare like a miniature blue sun and Mavin was forced to cover his eyes. The Warlord had turned away from the shot but he not howled in pain and impotent rage. Armor, flesh and bone ran together dripping onto the ground and small flickers of flame danced in the charred joint where his arm now ended. Kharn tossed away the severed arm and gripped Gorechild in both hand. It was hard work to get at his enemies thick bull-like neck protected as it was by his terminator armor nut Kharn was not to be dissuaded. As Tarrogar cursed and spat Kharn worked the keening chainblade back and forth liek a demented surgeon. Sending razor shard of ceramite flying. With a sickening wet sound as the teeth bit home Tarrogar was silenced and bright red blood sprayed over Kharn's armor plate and exposed limbs. With a savage roar of triumph he hacked the Warlords head from his body and atrial pulses gushed from the ragged stump of his neck. Kharn lifted the severed head up high and roared.
-Chosen Of Khorne
This will be updated with more feats later on as I can't do anymore reading right now!
Feats to come:
- Kharn curbstomping Erebus
- Going full-on Beserker