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

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...

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...

 “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...