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...

  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 found himself in that same dark place his dreams often took him to. In his hand he held a torch, but he had none of his other possessions with him. 'I thought I'd find you here, my little friend,' came a sinister, familiar voice from the impenetrable darkness. He held his torch out at arm's length and took a tentative step forward. A great, winged shadow loomed into view. 'You,' growled Folkvar. 'What do you want now, you thagging great mutant?' 'Now, now,' clucked Karnack, his three avian heads coming into view as he strode forward. 'Still smarting from our last encounter, are we?' 'I'm assuming you're here for some other purpose than to gloat? Or has being a triple-headed chicken wizard become so boring that you've started haunting my dreams?' Karnack threw back his three heads and laughed; shrill and unnatural was the sound. 'I do so enjoy our little chats, Folkva...

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...

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...