The Order of the Fiery Gate - An Age of Sigmar Blog

 “Mistress Straka, it appears our allies have been delayed. We will be facing these foes alone.”  If Ania’s expression was affected by this news, her beak-shaped helmet betrayed nothing to her second-in-command. She was stood on an outcrop, surveying the battlefield, her disc daemon hovering next to her bearing her shield and staff. After a moment, she spoke.   “Then we will have to settle for a fair fight. A shame, but unsurprising, Magister. We cannot trust any of our allies, especially other servants of the Raven God. Too many moving parts, too many unknown quantities.”   Her subordinate stood silently for a moment, as if picking her words carefully.  “Mistress Straka... Ania. Is this wise? Even now, Aqshy is Khorne’s territory. This is a land of violence and uncertainty. I am not sure what lies in these lands that could be worth risking our strength. In service to Zaronax, no less.” Ania did not immediately reply, so the Magister continued. “Yo...

  From the moment she was born, Ania Straka knew she was Ania Straka.   She knew, but she didn’t understand. She was a problem child. Ragtha, as her parents called her, spent her first years screaming constantly, as if in a state of perpetual fear and confusion. And she was. Her infant brain could not comprehend the memories it carried, only that it did not belong here. It was trapped in a vessel that was not its own, with no idea of how it had got there.   As she grew into a small child, she became known for her wild imagination. She came to know herself, her soul. She had been reborn from somewhere else. When she told her parents that she was Ania, not Ragtha, they hit her. Her tribe told her tales of the World That Was, and the four Gods and their Everchosen who had purged it of its wickedness. Ania knew as soon as she heard the stories that this was where she was from, that she was a traveller from a different time. And though the tribe never spoke the Gods’ name...

Folkvar-Grimnir stroked his beard thoughtfully as Lord-Veritant Lucius Brightblade unfurled a map of the Flamescar Plateau on the table before them. 'Our enemies seek to restore the Prismatikon of the Agloraxi,' explained Lucius as he weighed down the curled edges of the maps with the various cups and utensils already sat on the table. 'A weapon such as that would grant its wielder devastating power. It would allow them to destroy empires - or hold them to ransom.' 'Get to the point, manling,' sighed Folkvar. 'I haven't been home in a long time.' Lucius glanced up at Folkvar, his lips pursed. He was a pale man with gaunt, pointed features and cold grey eyes that lent him a wolfish appearance. His brown hair grew into a high widow's peak that lent him an almost vampiric appearance, but was shorn short as befitted his military bearing. 'My informants tell me that in order to restore the Prismatikon, we should look to three locations,...

The clear ringing of trumpets filled the air as a triumphal procession of Sylvaneth, Freeguild and Fyreslayers poured forth from the Stormrift Realmgate and onto the streets of Hammerhal Aqsha. Great crowds had amassed along either side of the thoroughfare and cheered enthusiastically as the defenders of the Seeds of Hope marched past. The Treelords and their kin - themselves an honour guard granted to the Fyreslayers and Freeguild who had answered the Everqueen's call for aid - lurched ahead of the main force in silence. The feather-capped dandies of the Freeguild relished the attention of the crowds, punching the air triumphantly as they strutted by atop steeds encased in gleaming barding, blowing kisses to giggling young girls and generally making a great show of gallantry. In the centre of the procession marched the duardin of the Hrukvorn Lodge of Ashenhold, led by Folkvar-Grimnir. He sat astride a great-dark Magmadroth, his beard and crest the colour of flame, tinged wit...