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...

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...

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 stink of sorcery hung heavy in the air as the Hrukvorn Lodge trudged bravely on through the howling winds. Though the Brightblade was gone, his scouts remained in the northern reaches of the Flamescar Plateau, and it was from them that Folkvar-Grimnir had learned of the presence of the vampire corsair's minions in the Sorrowpeaks. That they had chosen this place to create a foothold was unsurprising, saturated as the place was in death - or so Runesmiter Alsvir informed him. What troubled him were the reports of a captive duardin - a large and cantankerous Fyreslayer. The shadows of Ahramentia lay all around, jutting forth from the snow like desecrated graves. An icy wind whipped the snow into vicious flurries, stinging the exposed skin of the Fyreslayers. Suddenly, Alsvir - who marched at the head of the column astride his magmadroth - halted the column. 'What is it?' shouted the Runefather. Alsvir waved a hand, gesturing for silence, then motioned to his ear. ...

'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...

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...