And behold, a Daemon Lord comes in the full panoply of battle. At his passing the trees gibber their rage and the stones shout their hate to an uncaring sky. He hunts the enemies of his Master, for meat is mortal flesh and his wine mortal souls.
At his left hand moans a Daemon bound in the shape of an axe. Its songs of blood and hatred echo forth and fill the the sky with a sound to stir the dead. At his right hand stand lesser Daemons, hunters all, straining at the leashes of the Hounds. They chomp upon the shades and spirits they have harried, throwing morsels of innocence to each other, so that all may sample the sweetest meats.
Behind him wait the legions of his master, arrayed in armor fluted and chased with gold, brighter than the sun and darker than midnight. Each holds and shrieking sword, each screams in disharmony with his blade, each joins the chorus of Chaos, a promise of worse than death for those who hear it. Beneath their feet, the earth writhes at their touch, as if seeking escape their presence.
Behold, a Daemon Lord comes and we are all doomed...
All Daemons are falsehood. They are lies, given the shape of creatures by the power of Chaos. Fear the Daemons of Khorne for this reason and then fear them once more.
— Inquisitor Lichenstein, Warhammer 40,000
We see the hordes of perdition. The stamping of iron boot and cloven foot. They march. They march out of the City of Dis. They march out of Pandemonium. They march out of Sheol. We see the myrmidons, the branded vagabonds, the burning banners, the inured, the reclaimers, and all the rest of the hellspawn. It seems impossible that reality has undone so many.Above the the demonic rank and file are the officers of Hell's armies. We see the Iscariot, the Lustrehunter, the Ach-Myrmidon, Cassius, and Brutus. Leaders of demons and still they are slaves to the churning, infernal machine, and their masters. They keen their grief with so much force. Mercy and justice disdain them.
The armies of Hell march, sweetling, though they can no longer remember why.
—The Buzzing, The Secret World
The changing streets of Paris echoed now with the slamming of Hell-hard feet. They had burst from sewers after the blast came, torn open trees like broken doors, hurtling out into the world as the manifs did, though they were not like them, nothing like them, though the explosion has palpably been not of their nature. As if the explosion was not their birth but their excuse. They swam up into the light through pavements made lava, roaring up from a glimpsed painscape. Giants with cobwebs for faces, crab-headed generals encased in teeth. And so on. They were armor and gold. They cast pestilential spells and yammered with abyssal gusto.