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

The battle was over. The entire area was wreathed in smog from the guns from the Ironweld artillery machines and the weapons of the Fyreslayers. Having seen the way the battle was going, Ertan the Apostate had quit the field with his disciples, leaving the followers of Tzeentch to their fate. The sorcerer woman - Ania - had been stricken down in a violent volley directed by Lord-Ordinator Ironbrow, though her body could not be found. Her followers - at least those who had not retreated or routed - were slaughtered. What was left of Karnack's followers were quickly cut down or else unaccounted for. Folkvar-Grimnir coughed and wheezed as he hobbled across the battlefield, leaning on his grandaxe for support. He was covered in ash and blood and should have been killed many times over - but still he stood. 'You're alive,' growled a massive orruk encased in red armour rent in a dozen or more places and soaked in his own blood. Folkvar-Grimnir began to laugh, but soon...

 As she lay on the the ground, the shifting environment around her flickering between momentary sensations, and as her lifeblood drained away, Ania recalled the final moments of her failed assault. It was as if fate itself had fought against her - and, of course, it had, for such was the will of the Raven God. Her tribeswomen scattered and butchered by the Orruk’s living idol. Her chimeras flailing uselessly, wild and unruly. Her dragon gunned down before the same warmachines that would later claim her. Her own Chosen, waylaid and by the treacherous magics unleashed by this hellscape, helpless to fight back as they were cut down. And her faithful warriors, fighting ot the last as their plans crumbled around them.   Their allies had not fared much better, of course, but she could tell that the eye of Tzeentch had turned its gaze on her at such a pivotal moment, and fate had aligned against her struggle.   At the last moment, she had seen an opportunity, a last lifeline...

The Plain of Sigils, Hysh Grisnakh Toofpulla idly tugged at the chains tethering him to his monstrous mount’s thickly-plated hide. The great, green maw-krusha snorted in irritation, eliciting a scowl from Toofpulla. The orruk pulled hard on the chain this time, about facing the brutish creature so that he could see the army arrayed behind him. Before him stood the strongest of the Toofpullas, the brutality of the orruk tempered in the fires of the Flamescar Plateau and all the horrors and foes it was home to. Before him stood a mighty Waaagh! indeed. But he knew that I would not be enough for what they were about to face. He turned to his left where the Runefather and his kin were arrayed – rank upon rank of duardin ready and eager to wet the blades of their axes with the blood of man and daemon alike. Toofpulla grimaced as the Runefather approached, astride a mount the colour of volcanic glass and blue magma. ‘Your brutes grow restless,’ called Folkvar-Grimnir to Toofpul...

  Although she would not admit it, Ania Straka was desperate. Furious, and desperate.   The past months had been met with mixed successes and undiluted failures. While she could rival and even best the other forces roaming the Flamescar Plateau, her early successes against the Ironjawz had quickly evaporated as they grew into an unstoppable force that no faction could truly eclipse for long. Each fleeting victory had become a prelude to a later defeat.   And of those victories, what cost? The destructive forces that the loathsome Karnack and his host wrought were invaluable, and it fell to her army to be their bulwark. Each battle, more and more of her sisters died, while the daemons they died to protect flickered in and out of existence in a mockery of mortality. There was no satisfaction in these victories. She bought them with the blood of her comrades, sacrificed at Tzeentch’s altar.    Even that had been insufficient. The Eternia Realmway had fallen t...

Folkvar-Grimnir sat and watched in silence from atop his mount as the combined host of daemons and mortal servants of the dark gods approached. 'The same heathen lot as last time from the look of them,' said Skjor, battlesmith of the Hrukvorn. 'Aye,' replied the Runefather. 'Only this time they're on our land.' Folkvar kicked his heels to Brim's flanks and the beast trudged forward. Coming to a halt at the fore of the berzerker duardin, the magmadroth turned so that Folkvar faced his fyrd. 'SONS OF GRIMNIR,' boomed Folkvar, his grandxe held high and his left hand open as he addressed his men. 'WHEN KHORNE'S BASTARDS RAN RAMPANT ACROSS THESE LANDS AND THE FREE PEOPLE RAN TO AZYRHEIM TO HIND BEHIND THEIR GOD KING – WHO ENDURED?' 'THE FYRESLAYERS!' came the cry from a hundred throats. 'IN WHOSE LANDS DID THE BLOODBOUND FEAR TO TREAD?' 'THE FYRESLAYERS!' 'WHO TAUGHT THE SER...

The Sorrowpeaks, Flamescar Plateau, Aqshy Runemaster Ruadhar squinted down at the piece of parchment he held in his calloused hands, eyes as black as jet glinting in the light of the torches. 'From Ashenhold?' asked the Runemaster. 'From Loremaster Imrael, to be precise,' said Folkvar-Grimnir as he gazed ruefully down at the scrolls arranged on the wartable. 'I'd have taken it for more umgi ravings if it hadn't come from the aelf.' '"The Balemoon waxes and unrest increases,"' read Ruadhar aloud. '"The Brightblade has returned and is keen to pass the Fiery Gate to expunge the 'infidels' within the city. Ironbreakers spread thin, Aurelius manning the Gate personally."' 'A fine mess, by the sounds of things,' groaned Folkvar-Grimnir. 'And here we are – stuck in the Plateau, wiping the Heldenhammer's arse again.' Ruadhar knitted his brow and gave the Runefather a derisi...

 “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...