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

'This has been a farce from the outset,' spat Folkvar. 'By Grimnir, manling, I am an arse hair away from breaking oath...' 'This was but one battle in a much larger war. Now-' 'Those beasts have control of the Realmway!' roared the runefather. 'Did Sigmar drop you on your head when he sent you to us on that bolt from the blue? The gods only know where they've gone now.' 'We are not the only ones fighting for the Plateau,' replied Brightblade calmly. 'They have the gate for now, yes, but they will not hold it forever. Yes, we have struggled to gain a foothold in the north – the orruks have seen to that. And that is why I suggest we venture south.' Folkvar breathed in slowly through his nostrils, then puffed out the air in a long, exhasperated sigh as he fought to control his temper. 'So, you want to take the fight to the Chaos filth. What's your grand plan then, Lord-Veritant?' 'The Disc...

Folkvar-Grimnir found himself surrounded by darkness. The air was cold, still and silent. The only things he could see were the cold, white lanterns that stretched off in a line into the abyss, their meagre light swallowed up by the black. He felt compelled to follow the lights, and so he did. He walked on for what seemed like an eternity, though his instincts told him that this was a place where the normal laws of space and time did not apply. And so on he trudged.  He examined the runes hammered into his hands and his arms; they did not glow, and nor could he feel that constant, thrumming heat that he had become so accustomed to. For the first time in a long time, he became aware that he felt cold. He remembered that he had had a weapon, his Magmadroth... the lodge. Were they things that had been important, or were they the memories of another life?  'It's been a long time, Hrokisson...' came a voice that at once was familiar yet strange, cold and yet warm. From out...