World-Building in the Age of Sigmar

[S133arcanite]

I've just begun creating a map campaign for a gaming group, and, while doing this, thought about the sheer size of the Nine Realms: if each realm is the size of a planet, and their are nine of them, the scope is huge. So, I set myself, my gaming group and, potentially. the TGA forum a challenge: to begin to flesh out one of the realms, or, at least, part of one. So here is the PDF, it has Uzalith and the Screaming City, suggestions from my gaming group, but apart from that its blank...

Please post your suggestions, ideas, and thoughts. This could include anything from cities, mountains and lakes to dormant monsters, moving fortresses and totems to fell gods. Tell me what you think, and every so often I'll add to the PDF. You can find it here:The Plains of.pdn. I've also left the title suitably mysterious, ready for completion.

 

Many thanks, S133arcanite.

 

 

[HorticulusTGA]

Great idea ! I use this video for my own attempt at world-builindf, based on Aqsyh.

The video shows the 8 Realmspheres, and they are even bigger than planets (the lands being giant "flat earth").

You can also see - on the picture attached - the center of one of the Realms, "encircled". Those lands are probably already the size of the World-that-was map, so yeah, really huge. But that's the more inhabited part of each realms, so that gives us a good frame even if the Realms are absolutely huge in size. 

(Oh and P.-S. ; there is only 8 Realms in the material world : the Realm of Chaos is an entirely different dimension beyond reality).

[Mordeus]

Wow I had missed that video, very cool stuff.

[S133arcanite]

Update:

The Plains of.pdn

[Redmanphill]

You’d probably get more feedback on this in the narrative section. I’ve written a few pages on my own setting. Just someplace within which our group can play our games adding some story as we go.

[Swooper]

On 2/24/2018 at 3:02 PM, S133arcanite said:

Update:

The Plains of.pdn

I'd give feedback but I have no idea what to do with a .pdn file. Could you maybe post a more accessible file type?

[KillagoreFaceslasha]

I would honestly work out with you if you used a more accessible kind of format. What in blazes is a pdn even?

[Melcavuk]

I have a fairly extensive writeup of the Plains of Celestis that formed the basis of a narrative campaign I ran in GW Maidstone, it centres around the ruins of an old Aelf (Aeloran) empire and the last vestiges of their power the Temple of Light in a volcano in the centre. 

 

Spoiler

 

“In the early days of the war for Celestra they came in great number, like vultures come to pick clean and freshly discovered corpe on the burning plains. Cockroaches pouring from every darkened corner of the Realm to infect the shattered remains out our once mighty empire, some came under the guise of heroes and liberators willing to help us ascend from our broken prison. Other came to bring their own gods to worship within our temples of light, yet worse were those who came under cloak of darkness seeking only to further the ends of their decadent leaders and false gods

 

They spread like vermin in the beginning, a desperate grab for vital land and resources to feet their feeble and disparate armies that they might make empires of their own. Sigmars slave golems, shattered souls locked in his falsehoods came from the west, two chambers marching over the remains of an empire they abandoned to the tides of chaos. Alarielles treekin came from the east, perhaps remembering old friendships and an alliance lost to the age of time, but in the centuries that have passed such relationships have soured and their motives are hidden to us. To the north east came the raveneous hordes of the Bloodbound, seeking to further gut our kind that they might not have done enough the first time, and on their heels came the thundering hordes of the Orruk Iron Jawz, who came only that they might find a fight worthy of rememberance.

 

They came for us, thinking us perished in the funeral pyre of our empire, but we have endured beneath the smoking remains, burning as embers in the long nights, such a spark capable of erupting anew as the phoenix has so many times before us. They came in great numbers, and in a great ignorance.”

 

It is said in the Tomes of Celestra that at the beginning of the war many dillusioned leaders had held hoped for aid to come from those they once formed a great alliance with, but the bastion against the tide of chaos had long since ruptured. There would be no more jarring a reminder of this than when the forest itself marched on from the West, their gnarled and twisted treekin marching with all haste toward the burgeoning encampments of the Stormcast forming the Anvils of Heldenhammer chamber. Perhaps they still held resentment for the great swathes of their trees felled in the Season of War to fund the industrial complexes of Heldenhammer. Regardless of their intent the unwarranted aggression perhaps caught the Stormcast by surprise, and the night sky become filled with Aetherbirds carrying requests for Aid from their kin.

 

To the north a fresh chamber of Stormcast had fortified their bastions, spanning the northern border in the hopes of expanding further into the plains of Celestra from their mountain fortifications. It was however to the west that the thunderous advance of true warmachines could be heard, ravening hordes of Bonesplittas descended from the mountainous border to the region. A jabbering maddening advance of savages intent on slaughter, in their wake came the bloodbound hordes, once masters of this realm their numbers had swollen with psychotic rampagers in the passing month. Now they reached a critical mass of psychotic murderers and depraved souls eager to spread their misery to the masses.

 

To their south came the hulking forms of Iron Jaws, less numerous than the bonesplitta kin to the north they were no less savage and twice as brutal. Looting and pillaging all in their path as they carved a swathe of destruction. Then came the massive shapes of the Beastclaw raiders, moving at the head of the storm of Everwinter that sought to bring the frost to this realm of fire, their advance perhaps stymied by the clash of elements that left increasingly volatile storms in their wake. Finally to the south east came a fresh force, shifting shadows within the darkness that snuck in the dead of night to seize control of the last unclaimed gate to the realm.

 

And yet forces within the Temple of Light aren't idle, its once emptied walls now stand lined with hundreds of souls maintaining a vigil over their Witch Queen.

 

As winter fell over the Realm of Aqshy there was to be no peace or respite for these fledgling empires, high in the temple of light the Witch Queen worked tirelessly to shore up her defences against those that sought to pillage the ruins of the once mighty Aeloran empire. The very lands around her temple a swirling tempest of flame and rubble that claimed any soul stupid enough to dare encroach upon her increasingly volatile rituals.

 

To those who had made their new kingdoms on the plains of Celestis winter had brought new troubles, even as the flames beneath their feet began to cool the rocks they had made their homes and farms upon began to contract with the cooling air, deep fissures forming across their breadth shattering into chasms that seized huge swathes of crops and livestock. It was fortunate such empires still held trade routes with kingdoms in other realms to keep their peoples and armies fed else Starvation and Decay would have claimed their populace.

 

In what would become known as the Savage East many fledgling empires of destruction had taken hold, using the winter rest to erect huge idols to their disparate god Gorkamorka. Each kingdom seeking to earn the favour of this feral and unpredictable deity over the others and be called supreme boss of a growing Waagh.

 

Seemingly locked between forces of destruction came the violent, sadistic and brutal forces of Khorne, his mortal worshippers draped in furs and the flayed skin of their victims to protect against the winters cold that they might seek out fresh death even in such a despairing season. And to the south came the herds of beastmen, perhaps less feral than the Orruks and Ogors that had claimed the East but no less unpredictable, many watched these nerwcomers that they might disern some kind of motive for their involvement.

 

One would have thought the west, held largely by the ranks of Stormcast Chambers and the wildkin of the Sylvaneth would have formed a more united front in the face of such adversity, but despite all claimed to civility and peace it was here the most bitter of feuding would be found. Perhaps driven by the desire to find the increasingly rare luxury of fertile soil to replenish their ranks the Sylvaneth had been driven into the flank of the Anvils of Heldenhammer, such conflict would claim many a life and perhaps throw any concept of peace into distant memory.

 

 

SEASONS PASS

Winter had begun to pass within the Realm of aqshy, the rapidly cooling rock surfaces have forever changed the twisted landscapes of the Plains of Celestia now ridden with deep chasms and twisted rock faces that were once hidden deep beneath the turbulent crust of the landscape. Those empires that survived the starvation of the winter more or less intact can now look to their borders to expand further into the Realm to seek out their prizes.

 

Seers and Priests are still haunted by the half truths and deceptive visions unleashed by the faint glimmer of light the four great gates of the plains had unleashed over the winters months, the ancient stone portals seemingly feeding on the energy released when mortal beings are struck down within the local region, parasitic and arcane devices rarely being things of joy or benefit to those around them. Despite their attempts to decipher the Aeloran runes dug into the stone they have had no success, the language centuries dead and it's people lost the the sands of time there may perhaps be no way to truly understand the purpose of the sigils littering the gates.

 

With spring dawning the heat of the region is once again on the rise, the chasms torn through the winter cooling filling with coursing magma once more that flows through the broken realm, casting even the darkest of nights in an eerie blood red glow, fragile rock shelves above chambers freshly hollowed out by the winter cooling now prove treacherous to those who seek to fortify them. No step can be taken now without great care lest the reckless fool who took it be cast down into the scorching lava below.

 

 

It is said on the first night of Summer during the Assault on Celestia all of those who had made conquest on the realm awoke at once, not through some noise or disturbance that had violated their rest but instead by, for the first time since they had entered the Realm, the silence of the roaring storms that had plagued their advance. Since the first light of the Temple had been lit many seasons ago a violent and destructive storm of magma and dust had made advance on the citadels outer reaches impossible, those that ventured too near were scarred and burnt alive with their screams of agony fading into the unrelenting roar of the growing storm.

 

Many had theorised this storm was but the first stage of the Witch Queens ritual, her true purpose hidden to all but her inner circle, however as to the true purpose of the arcane struggle she had undertaken none were to hazard a guess. The exiles would claim her intent was to rend this realm and many others asunder, casting her storms across every realm through the ancient realm gates to scorch all who had opposed her from reality. The Aeloran refugees instead claimed she sought to turn the destructive nature to her own ends, turning that which until now could only destroy into a force of creation, resurrecting a civilization long since buried into the dust, the fires of life bursting anew from seemingly deadened ash.

 

On this fateful morning, as the storm grew silent and great clouds of dust settled back onto the ground throughout the realm, many commanders emerged from their encampments, eyes blinking against the sun visible for the first time in many seasons, its bright light scorching their fatigued eye lids as they looked for the first time upon the shattered volcano of Alastia, where the queens temple had been erected many centuries ago. Gone were the ancient golden temples of the temple, the spires that could kiss the morning sun, the fountains of magma carving a delicate passage through the gardens of the Aeloran. They could for the first time look upon the ruin that Khornes servants had wrecked upon the temple in the queens absence, it had become a jarring monstrosity of spikes and bone, founded on the corpses of so many Aeloran priests who had refused to give way to the advances of the god of war. No longer did it stand beautiful testament to creation but a defaced embodiment of chaos and death, there were signs the Aeloran forces had begun to undo some of the works of Khorne since reclaiming it, the marble of the original structure visible in places, most notably the corpses of those Khorne worshippers who had been slain now hang from the ramparts as the flags of the phoenix queen rose high above the walls.

 

To the outer reaches dust kicked up by Aeloran skirmish parties can be seen in a constantly shifting pattern of defensive patrols, deep golden armour glimmering against the freshly reclaimed sun punctuated by black ashen cloaks marks the edge of the new Aeloran kingdom as warning to all those that might seek to assault the palace.

 

To some this new opening would be a think of hope, and yet those who knew better felt the ground beneath their feet creak and groan, all the power that had been maintaining the storm had been absorbed into the queens rituals, there could barely be four seasons left before her power reached its apex in the rising of the next Summer and with it her plans would come to fruition.

 

The climax of the first stage of the ritual saw the four great gates of the Realm heave, some even claiming they swayed slightly toward the great temple for a moment before they grew silent, it would be many weeks before any priest could stir life back into these massive anomalies, as though their very essence had been stolen by the queens ritual for now.

 

Some commanders saw this as a chance for fresh conquest, others dispatched spies and diplomats to the queen with all hast. There were those however who looked instead to the exiles for aid, such enigmatic Aeloran who sought the downfall of the queen could perhaps be put to task, but to treat with an exile is in itself a risky endeavour, they are creatures who turn words against their owner and often those who seek to exploit them instead find themselves destitute.

 

 

CELESTIA

In the first nights of Autumn in the plains of Celestia, it is said two comets rose high in the darkened nights sky, one of burning orange and flame rose from the shattered mountains to the north, the second burning with a deep blood red rising from the direction of heldenhammer to the south. They coursed through the nights sky before meeting in a twisting tempest of the twin tailed comet high above the Temple of Light, rising high up into the sky before their lights blinked out entirely. Many would propose theories as to the meaning of the comet, some felt it was Sigmar showing his patience for the Witch Queens indiscretions had finally run out, other that the God King had finally turned his eyes to a Realm that for centuries he had been too ashamed to look upon. Regardless of the reason the forces in the region viewed the comets as a portent of doom, that their time in the Realm was running out if the citadel could not be breached.

 

None, barring the Storm host were aware of the true reasons for the comets, one storm cast from each of the chambers in the region had flown from their base camps in the region at their Gods behest to seek audience with the Phoenix Queen. To do so on foot would have alerted far too many of the Aeloran guards in the region, both heralds would simply have been slain on the approach never having chance for their message to find the Queens ears. From the south flew Markus, the Knight Azyros of the Anvils of heldenhammer chamber, and from the north rode Danis, Herald of Draco of the Ash Hammer Chamber. The pair met high in the heavy clouds over the Temple of Light, flying high above the clouds before collapsing in the arms of their wings and plummeting, darkened and silent down towards the spiring towers of the temple. It was only at the very last moment, before fatal impact with the broken marble of the towers that each extended their wings once more, the brief glow and hum of energy slowing their descent to a painful yet non lethal touchdown onto the Temple.

 

Quietly the pair stalked through the Temple, all of the guards looked outwards into the valleys with those few who turned their gaze inwards easy enough to avoid in the darkened rippling shadows of the many chambers of the shattered towers. Room by room they scoured for any sign of the Phoenix queen, however the more the pressed onwards the higher the burning beacons of the temples rose, hiding their massive forms was becoming increasingly difficult and with the patrols of the towers becoming more frequent the pair reluctantly pushed through ancient iron doors into the great hall in a last gambit to find their prize.

 

Once inside however, the doors slammed shut behind them, the sound of Aeloran voices on the other side was punctuated by the dull thud of heavy bars being secured over all of the exits. Pitch black in the chamber the Storm cast found themselves flung from their feet by rippling waves of energy that coursed through the very ground and walls around them, time and time again they were slammed into broken walls and shattered ancient vials of powders. Their eyes desperately scoured the darkness for any signs of their attackers yet it would seem the very temple itself repulsed their every action. The Knight Azyros desperately clambered gauntleted hand to reach the lantern on his backpack, both storm casts attempts to speak choked out by the energy that coursed around their throats, their very life's breath being choked out of them. As his last breath began to seep out of his body Markus managed to unseal the lantern, casting it into the centre of the chamber.

 

The Lantern itself blasted the chamber with Azyrian light, burning and scorching across the ground as tendrils of power sought out their prey. With the light having illuminated the chamber the Storm cast could now see the massive form of the Phoenix Queen, her wings curled around her form seemingly to protect her from Sigmars touch. As the God Kings assault on the Queens defences intensified every touch in the chamber burst into flames, a brilliant and burning heat began to rise within the room as Flame danced and leapt like coiled serpents striking the lantern on the ground, and yet in response the Light rippled and flowed like an ocean. The remnants of broken furniture in the room was obliterated by the duel between the gods, both storm cast felt their Sigmarite armour beginning to bend and warp under the seemingly unrelenting barrage of power, their masks cast away as their helmets began to crush into their skulls.

 

All of a sudden the barrage ceased, the Queens wings outstretched her form glowed like the burning embers of a fire, seemingly her wrath had been tempered or at least finally allowed outlet on the god who had betrayed her so very long ago. The lantern glowed softly in the centre of the room, each Storm cast mouthing wordlessly in a conversation with their god king from across the Realms. Brows furrowed each seemed... reluctant to take the order but unwilling to refuse it, casting their gaze upon the unerring smirk on the Phoenix Queens face before offering a final nod to the Lantern of Sigmar and Sealing its light once more.

 

The Knight Azyros offered the queen the briefest of bows, eyes remaining on her at all times seemingly not trusting her not to remove his head mid action “We will buy you the time you need. Do not waste it”

 

The Herald to his side merely nodded in her direction, unwilling to offer bow to such a creature “If you fail in this task... Celestis must burn, you know what slumbered beneath”

 

At his words the queen offered a guttural growl, the flames in the room leaping high once more as she struggled to contain a temper centuries in the making “Do not lecture me child on things you do not understand. Celestis will RISE” the flames drop once more, her breathing steadying again “We will not fail, if you do your task. Find the western approach, I have an Orruk problem to attend to” As she finished speaking the queen rippled with flames that rose high, before she and the flame disappeared entirely.

 

The Storm cast found the chambers door unsealed as they made their exit, walking to the walls at the edge of the tower and casting their eyes across the valley. Danis of the Ash Hammers shook his head softly “The Battle lines are being drawn, war is inevitable”

 

“War was always inevitable” Replied the Anvil of Heldenhammer “We merely sought to delay it. And now I must be away, my men make ready the southern barricade to repel a migration of wandering Mammoth and their ill favoured Ogre kin Masters.” The Knight Azyros cast his eyes toward the storm clouds gathering in the southern sky, even from here the bitter bite of the everwinter storms could be felt on the nights air.

 

The other Storm cast captain nodded slowly, his own gaze moving to the camp fires of his settlements to the north, the faint noise of Orruk chanting carrying on the air. “And what would you have us do?”

 

Dryly the Anvils Azyros replied as he approached the towers summit, the arms of his armours wings extended outwards as they begin to glow and hum with Azyric energy as the winged talons reform “Make ready the food stores, we are about to have enough Mammoth meat to outlast any Siege” even beneath the helmet his smirk is almost audible as he flings himself from the tower wall, wings outstretched as he soars towards the growing Storm.

 

SERPENTS FORK

It was in the eastern valleys, at the mouth of the Serpents Fork rivers that the Orruk Warclans had made their encampment, stretching back as far as the eye could see lay ramshackle tents hastily assembled by increasingly starved looking grots and human slaves. Pelts freshly carved from their prey now being used to form the walls of tents whilst still dripping with bloody and other more nauseating fluids. Crude idols to their savage god Gorka Morka jut out from the valley walls, sculpted from a rock hew of bone and stone and adorned with tokens from those seeking favour from the gods. Their bonfires rose high into the sky, the sounds of Orruk warchanting punctuating by the howl of their tamed beasts forced to fight in primitive arenas for blood sport.

 

Throughout the camp lumbered the hulking, scarred and battered forms of the Orruk horde, the more lithe bone pierced forms of the Bone Splittas intermixed with the far more massive red stained armoured forms of the Iron Jawz. The barest civility keeping this warclan in order didnt stop the occasional scuffle breaking out, the more recent of which had levelled a full quarter of the tents and crushed many a slave in the process. Yet in their midsts more a third clan, seemingly dwarfing even the iron jawz in size, something about the very presence of these Orruks repelled the others from touching them, Blood red war paint marking out the rough shape of an eye across their forehead, blackened robes and bone crafted armoured mark them as an entirely new clan seeking to make war on the plains of Celestia.

 

It was this new clan, led by Da Eye of Gork, an Orruk easily mistakable for Ogrekin due to his size that had called the two warring tribes together in the valley, in the biggest tent Da Eye had gathered the other two Warbosses that they might plan their advance on the Aelfkin Keep that had blighted this land for far too long. The trio were an intimidating sight, to the left stood the leaner form of the Rurzug the Bellower - Savage Orruk warboss, his skin a little of scars denoting kills in his myriad of campaigns, the teeth of monsters he had slain formed piercings across his skin and his eyes showed a deep madness within that few could compete with, a mind entirely devoid of fear or sanity. To the right stood the Orruk Megaboss Badrukk Da Barbarian, head of Da Blood red Barbarians, his form easily twice the size of the savage, darker skin tanned by the heat of the realm, his rough and beaten armour stained red by the daily annointing with the blood of Aelfkin by his slaves, a grunting mass of muscle and brute force perhaps lacking in the cunning of his smaller kin. And in the centre, marking out their first point of attack on a crudely drawn map was the Ogrelike form of Da Eye of Gork, hulking over even the Megaboss he stared out of one good eye down at the map on the table, his other eye a mess of scar tissue still bearing the teeth marks of the creature that had taken its prize.

 

Each boss stared down at the point of attack marked on the map, the two smallerkin seemingly eyeing up Da Eye of Gork, each mentally weighing the odds of crushing the other two and leading the waagh in their own name, fingers twitching over blades of Choppas and Knives as though ready to make the claim. It was however a deafening roar from Da Eye that forced the other pair out of the tent, delaying the challenge for one day longer perhaps but this alliance would be a hard one to maintain.

 

Alone at last in the War tent the hulking form of the Boss slumped backwards into a pile of furs on the ground, hand still clenching the hilt of his blade he found himself unable to release his grip. Energy from the blade coiled and hissed with singing flesh as it bit into his hand. Slowly his form begun to shrink, the ripple of a glamour fading as the once hulking form of Da Eye of Gork reverted back to the scarred and battleworn features of the Khornate Priest Malator, fatigued by the very effort of the change his eyes rolled back into his skull a moment before he snapped to his senses.

 

“Witch...” he growled softly, his voice seething with rage but eager not to alert the Orruks patrolling the camp. “Witch I demand an audience...”

 

No sign of any companion was forth coming, but the blade in his hand writhed and twisted, the snake hilt turning up to face its owner and hissing its response “Ssssshhh now puppet... armies you wanted... kingdoms you needed.... ssssshhh. Armies you now have...”

 

The Slaughter Priest used his free hand to claw at the trapped one, nails ripping into his own skin in a frenzy as he tried to break the blades hold over him, yet even as he tried the burning sensation grew from his hand, pulsing through his veins as it coursed into his skull. Tearing agony ripped through his every sense, sending him spirally further into the dirt as he writhed and groaned in pain. “Re....lease me WITCH” he hissed through his agony.

 

The snake blade hissed out mocking laughter, “When it is done, when the citadel falls into flame and dust, you shall have your freedom and your throne. For now... You're an Orruk, so act like it”

 

“No... don..” the Priests words were cut short as the glamour once again rippled across his form, reverting him to the charade of the Orruk Da Eye of Gork once more, lumbering to the flaps to the tent he glanced outside, the Exiles glamour over his men yet held, the could wander the Orruk encampments free from harm. Perhaps if he endured her game yet longer they could slay both Queen and Exile, and restore the favour of Khorne to his name.

 

 

MAIDENS TEARS

The lord relictor paced slowly infront of a mere two dozen stormcast, each battered and beaten from took long spent to protracted battles in the realm but standing fast amidsts the dust strewn ruins of the ancient city. His head held high he faced his men despite the growing storm behind him, lighting coursing out from the cold front into the ashen and shattered earth as the Beastclaws approached. Clearing his throat his voice echoed out far past his men, the broken walls of the city letting it ripple through the ancient structures and carry on the wind throughout the realms.

 

“We stand now, amidsts the ruins of the ancient Aeloran city of Maidens Tears, it is said that hundreds out years ago, long since lost to memory the Aeloran found themselves setup by the feral predators of the Divesh, foul creatures of the night that would steal in from the wild, slipping effortlessly through the city walls and into the homes of sleeping Aeloran. In the dead of night they would carve and cleave their way through the innocent children as they slept, feasting on heart pure of taint before age could corrupt the flavours.

 

It is said that when morning came, these maiden found they loved ones butchers, their lovers still away fighting the Phoenix Queens wars... they were alone. Yet they were not lost to grief, they took it, channelled it, made it burn hotter than any flame. These maidens took up arms, ancient weapons long since relegated to wall ornament were sharpened once more, these maidens marched out from the city into the twisting warrens of the Divesh. On that very land this city was first born, born of the desire to say NO to the darkness, NO to the untamed, NO to the wild. It was born of a few maidens screaming against the darkness that no more innocent blood would be spilt, that there would be no shadow, no cave, no hiding place dark enough to let such blighted creature hide from justice

 

So I call to you now, do those maidens justice, do as they once did and take up arms against this advance, you are the wall, you are the barricade, you are HANDS OF SIGMAR” As he finished the Relictor turned his back to his men, he expected no cheer or exaltations from his men, known best for their grim determination he knew no matter what each would fight and die for what needed to be done.

 

In the distance beneath the earth shattering storm came the lumbering forms of the Beastclaw mammoth, their obsese fur clad ogre riders rippling with every movement of the grunting mounts. Smaller but no less intimidating came the panting and heaving forms of the Mournfangs, their jagged tooth and frost laden Yhetee kin. Finally came the sabres, leaping eagerly ahead of the rest of the pack seeking out fresh prey, starved for days before the battle these wicked hounds were feral and ravenous in seeking out flesh to gorge upon. The Lord Relictor bowed his head a moment, lips forming wordless prayers to Sigmar as his men spread out throughout the ruins, he could he the flattering wings of his Aetherwing moving out of sight that they might offer warning of other routes of approach, and in the skies above his Heralds flew high above the ash clouds making their approach unseen by their prey.

 

As his prayer finished the Relictor slammed his staff into the cracked dirt below, lighting coursing through the ground and climbing the staff it writhed to envelop his form. For the briefest moment he glowed with the light of Sigmar before the bolt crackled and cast itself down toward the beastclawe advance. Kicking up a mound of dust as he landed the relictor stood alone, far in advance of the rest of his men, he was close enough to smell the disgusting horde at his door, to lock eyes with the feral Frostlord that led this migration into their lands. “Beast! These lands are not yours, go back, or die here!” Once more he slammed the staff into the dirt, a bolt of lighting ripping through the clouds above to strike the lead mammoth in advance to drive it back, the Relictor could not help but let his lips form a satisfied smirk at the smell of singed mammoth fur.

 

Through the break in the clouds a burning light could be seen, rapidly approaching the field of battle the thunderous roar deafened out even the sounds of the Beastclaws advance. Protector after Protector landed with a clap of thunder into the ground infront of the Relictor, their glaives carving out a wall of light to shield their kin from any recourse from the savages that sought to invade. Fifteeen men in all landed, giving the briefest of moments to allow the Beastclaw the option of retreat, yet finding such gracious options not taken they lunched with a fierce roar into the very tip of the oncoming assault.

 

It is said in the final days of Celestis the lands heaved and groaned, oceans boiled sending great plume of steam cascading into a blood red sky. Great mountains of ash and earth roiled and turned beneath the feet of a thousand savage soldiers seeking to make their claim upon the world, the first of the Garrsions of the Aeloran empire had been taken by the Orruk tribes, yet they had not found the conflict they sought. Instead they descended in great numbers full of noise and stench, anger and wrath only to find the outposts entirely abandoned, it was as though the Aelves had never been there, all supplied and men had been pulled away to reinforce other locations.

 

It was here then, at the Serpents fork river that the first route to the Temple had fallen, and yet the Savages could not funnel their true might through the winding passes that led up the mountains slopes to the temple, they would first have to secure better access to the temples main approach too bring their vast numbers to bear, or risk being picked off in the narrow and twisting gullys by Aelven archers.

 

In these final days a council was convened, Aeloran and Stormcast stood shoulder to shoulder with Man and Duardin, and a final gambit was concieved. The majority of the forces would make fast the Citadel to repel any who sought to prevent the queen from completing her rituals, whilst a task force of the Anvils of Heldenhammer would make the perilous journey through the great gates into the heart of the Savage Orruk territory, to carve one head off of the beast that sought to encroach on Aeloran land. Should their task be successul they could limit the numbers that the attackers might bring to bear, should they fail a hundred souls would face the forge of Sigmar that they might find battle once more.

 

The Firewater Causeway formed one of the last remaining routes to the temple of Celestis capable of being traversed by huge armies and lumbering monsters. Such creatures found the narrow mountain trails far too treacherous with their massive bulk slipping to the doom on loose rocks and jagged shards. It was through this eerily beautiful approach that the ice cold winds of Everwinter began their approach, the last of the forces of the Exile to come to besiege the mighty citadel but by no means the weakest. The causeway formed a stark valley of colour in a grey and ash fielded region, from afar its glistening green shards lured in travellers who sought fresh grass and bountiful waters, though in truth such beautiful groundwork formed from a million shards of glass shattered and worn down over the centuries, worming their way through boot and skin alike to give all heavy footed travellers reason to turn back from the approach.

 

Carving through the centre of the valley lay the Dragons Breath, luminous blue waters that many a thirsty traveller had lunged for seeking refreshment in a boiling and unforgiving realm. Such travellers threw themselves upon its waters with no regard for their own safety, only realising far too last that the rivers were formed not of water but boiling acids seeping out from the bedrock beneath the temple of Celestis. So potent was the river that no amount of armour of bulk would save such travellers, hissing and writing with agony their defences, flesh and finally bones would be carved away piece by piece by its stinging currents till little remained except their echoing screams of agony.

 

It was on a blistering day much like any other in the plains of Celestis, when the dual suns of Aqysh sat high in the sky overhead that the ground began to shake and crack under the weight of the Beast claw advance. Roiling mounds of fur and flesh that formed up their mammoth forming ungodly stench as the middays suns beat down on their forms, the riders long since having done away with their furs found their skin blistered and scorched by the long march across the plains that they had sought to make war upon. Wheezing mournfang mounts struggled under the weight of their ogor riders, who themselves wiped swathes of sweat pouring down their brows away only for it to evaporate long before it hit the arid dirt at their feet. At the head of the caravan game the enormous form of the Frost lord, the blisters and reddened skin from the sun had no lessened how hideous such a monstrosity was, possessed of both sheer intellect and malice beyond reason he was undeterred by the hostile elements of the realm.

 

In their path lay the broken village of Morlay, a few scattered cottages all that time had let remain of a once thriving populace. Hidden amongst the ruins were the last skirmish forces of Aeloran that Adira had yet to recall to the palace guard, a mere handful of swordsmen were accompanied by wicked reaper bolt throwers tasked with felling such lumbering monsters. At their head was the Scout Prince atop his Ashen Phoenix, along with a mere dozen of Adiras mounted scouts to harass the advancing forces. But such a small force was not unsupported, the witch sorcerer had joined them that she might befuddle and confuse the advance, potentially even driving these savages against their own allies. With her came one of the Witch Queens prized pets, the young dragon Athor, breath of the mountain, a massive creature of rippling scales and sweeping wings that carried the very breath of Aqysh with it, capable of destruction on a level that these savages would never truly understand.

 

It was with the sound of the hunting horn from the Beast claw tribe that battle found itself commenced, the once rhymatic rumble of their hooves on the approach became a chaotic crescendo of crashing hooves and shattering rock as their steady approach broke into a full on stampede. Dividing in two the herd found one larger force comprising of the frost lord and his most loyal mournfang riders approach down the eastern bank, crashing through ancient ruins and over the corpses of long dead armies as their sought out a flanking force of reavers. To their west on the central approach came the mighty thunder tusk, supported by the frozen Yetis as their unruly forms clambered across ancient bridges to reach the central isle. It was neither Aelf nor Ogor that struck the field blow in this battle however, but with the caw of the vultures who followed this stampede echoing out overhead as they descended on one of the Aelven artillery positions, a crewman cries piercing the air as their talons clawed his eyes and robbed him of his sight.

 

Even as this occurred the massive bulk of an Ogor hunter clambered from a hidden set of magma tunnels in front of the beleaguered artillery position, casting a deadly javelin through the air but failing to find his mark. Incensed the Aeloran defenders sought out their own vengeance, the hooves of a dozen Drake Reavers rumbling forward as their riders loosed arrow after exquisitely designed arrow through the air, riddling the freshly emerged hunter with wounds even as he lumbered toward their artillery. The final blow against this tyrant come from the Aelf manning the bolt thrower, her kin laying dead at her feet the ancient bolt throw let out soft rhymatic thrumming noises as deadly bolts were cast through the air, each impact forcing the hunter to stagger backward before his form fell into the bubbling acidic rivers and slipped from sight.

 

The sky above was ablaze with the forms of the Ashen Phoenix and Magma dragon taking flight, the magic of Celestis enveloping the Dragons form as they interlocked its scales to form a nigh inpenertable hide. With a roar the dragon let out a gout of flame that tore at the Thunder tusks skin, flesh boiling away at the point of impact even as the dragon descended from the skies that it might tear into this new feast with jaws and mighty talons. Wordlessly the Phoenix Scout flew low over the battle field, impacting in the Yetis lines and felling two of their number on the approach, deftly ducking and weaving with his mount he managed to avoid all counter blows.

 

As the battle was joined a number of Aelven swordsmen emerged from beneath their ruined ambush position, shouting defiantly at the oncoming mountains of deadly fur they charges across the broken field of battle to join their princes assault on the Yetis. The sky itself grew dark with hail after hail of arrow, punctuated by mighty aelven bolts cast from their artillery like lighting streaking across the sky, littering the oncoming frost lord with bolts and yet failing to slow his advance. Even against his unrelenting bombardment he drove his reluctant mount through the acidic rivers, the boiling currents ripping the fur from his stone horns form and yet surviving to the other side hairless yet moderately unscathed. As the magma dragon finished dispatching the Thunder tusk the ground began to rumble with the Stone horns charge, those few swords who had sought to immortalise their names in the defence of the valley had run clear into the path of the oncoming stone horn, despite their blades finding purchase once or twice on its mountainous form they fell all too swiftly beneath the blade and hoof of this master of death.

 

To the east the flanking reavers were beset, unable to outrun the oncoming mournfangs one unit had formed a sacrificial wall, one of their number falling to the brutal black powder pistols of the oncoming advance, fighting defiantly against the goring tusks and massive savage blades of the ogor cavalry their fate seemed all but sealed.

 

Even as the last of the swordsmen fell the Aeloran defenders turned their gaze to the mighty stone horn, every arrow, every bolt cast through the sky sought out their massive creature. The Sorceresses magicks sought to befuddle it, the Phoenix circled high over head with every gust form its wings forming a tempest of ash and flame to confuse and slow its assault on their force below. It was however the titanic form of the Magma dragon that sought to clash with the frost laden Mammoth below, flying as though a mighty bolder cast by the Queen herself through the ashen tempest dragon and mammoth grappled and clawed at each other, magma laden claws ripping through stone like flesh as it melted beneath their touch. As the dust settled the stench of burnt hair and mangled flesh filled the air, the Frost lord buried somewhere amidst the ruined form of his once mighty mount.

 

With their Lord dead, and their monster forming fresh feasts for the Aeloran Dragon it fell to the Mournfangs to sound their retreat, dispatching the last of the Reavers harassing them they turned and sped with all haste back toward the main bulk of their tribe. For the Aeloran this victory was to be short lived, even as the mournfangs left the skies above rippled and thundered with mighty clouds, the onset of Everwinter would not be so easily stopped, the sheer icy cold front had begun to clash with the burning breath of the mountain, soon this entire region would find itself ripped asunder by a storm the likes of which had never before been seen. Taking with them fresh meat from their kills, and their dead to honour in the temple of light the Aeloran skirmishers fell back to the temple.

 

All in Celestis could feel it now, the final battle the shape the future of the Aeloran people, Celestis and the realms beyond was soon to commence....

 

 

 

 

“We gave everything, we gave our all. Our Armies, Our Children, Our lives for HIS cause. The Liar King, Deceiver God, Traitor Kin. We BURNED for his pride as he left our kind to rot in the dark. And we burn yet still, but the Goddess preserves us.” Voices in the Darkness.

 

To understand the queens true intent one must first look backwards, through the ages to the great tragedy that had cleaved the Aeloran empire from its perch as the jewel of Aqshy. In those savage days of myth when the first hordes of chaos descended upon the Realm the Aeloran formed loyal parts of Sigmars Grand alliance, the very edge of the sword that sought to defend the realms against the oncoming tide. However such an alliance was doomed, Sigmar in his wisdom (or cowardice) realised this long before the bitter pride of the Phoenix queen, as he began to pull more and more of his forces back toward the Realm of Heaven the Aeloran found themselves increasingly isolated, engaged on far too many fronts to count and always fighting without hope of reprieve.

 

It was with a heavy heart that the queen sounded the retreat, her Aeloran guard defiantly holding back the tide long enough for immense trains of refugees from all corners of the empire to march through the blistering sands to the last true Aeloran stronghold at Celestis, the temple of her birth. Every train of refugees found itself harassed by marauders as they made the long walk to Celestis, the old and weak picked off as they fell behind, wicked javelins and arrows cleaving parents from child in the dead of night and worse still those poor souls who disappeared into the darkness without even a whisper.

 

Despite such hardships huge swathes of the Aeloran population made it to the plains of Celestis, shimmering legions of brass and ash as far as the eye could see, peoples from every corner of the mighty Aeloran empire gathered in massive camps that they might march together through the great gate of the Temple to refuge in Azyr. To this day none can truly agree on who is responsible for the tragedy that befell the Aeloran, some blame Sigmar in his cowardice, others the Queens pride in delaying too long, however when the time came to open the gates to Azyr she found that her once loyal ally had already sealed all entrances to the Realm of Heaven, instead her people found themselves isolated, surrounded and rapidly running out of supplies.

 

The Queen was incensed, enraged, abandoned but altogether more desperate than she ever had been, the fastest riders in her empire were gathered, a force headed by her daughter whose name has since been lost to time. They were given a mission, to ride out faster than any savage could follow, to seek out allies and power wherever it might be found and to gather the power that the empire might need to defend itself. Such riders became known as the Exiles, Nomads, the Liars court, those few Aeloran that were spared the fate of the rest of the empire.

 

The greatest minds of the empire were gathered in the hall beneath the Temple of Light, the court of blood mages, the phoenix council and the remaining children of the Phoenix queen dug deep into the warren of tunnels beneath their holy place. The Temple itself predated the Aeloran empire by centuries, temples built upon the ruins of other civilizations temple time and time again, with a sheer wealth of knowledge and power hidden in the runs beneath the shining city. Such knowledge had long been sealed away, without ever knowing those who had come before them the Aeloran had been mistrustful of delving into the knowledge of a race who had doomed their own fate. In took many weeks, with the force of chaos closing the fence around the Aeloran fast, however in their moment of need the ancient scholars found the knowledge they sought. Hidden in the runes that littered the walls they found a tale of the Ancient, who themselves had been beset by a foe that bested them at every turn, such ancients had formed a ritual known as the Last Seal, a haven between realms, locked away in every reflection, hidden in every shadow. A place to which they would control the entrance and exits that their foe might never harry them again, such a tale warned those who would read it never to follow where such creatures had once trod, but the Queens desperation had consumed her.

 

Her scholars harnessed the four great gates that formed the boundaries of the empire, an invisible fence carved out by these great stone edifice, all keyed to the mighty gate that lay in the heart of the temple. Sullen, wordless and resolved they enacted the great ritual, in the dead of night each of the gate thrummed to life, the light creeping from the stone structures, every living thing touched seemingly drifting apart. In silence every Aeloran in the valley simply faded away into the darkness, only the queen and a small retinue would remain behind that they might one day open the door again to allow their people freedom from this “Haven”.

 

Nobody knows what had held the Queen back for so long, why her people have lingered for centuries locked away in the the mirror realm, nobody know why the exile and her nomad kin betrayed their mission and left their kin to perish in the darkness. Nobody can guess at who the Exile Princess found as her new patron, or why now her own minions have driven the savage hordes of Orruks and Chaos against her mothers fading kingdom but the history books do record, that it was on a stark morning in Celestis, when the chambers of Sigmars Stormcast once more returned to the side of their ancient Aeloran allies that this tide of destruction assaulted the Queen, that her centuries of patience had paid off and her ritual neared completion.

 

 

The legend tells of the day that a tide of darkness sought to wash all light clean in the plains of Celestis, of the day that the Realm of Fire buckled and twisted under the weight of chaos and destruction. The legend speaks of two gods, not as deities beyond comprehension but friends long since torn apart by petty differences and recriminations coming together once more, that a hand reaching out blinding in the darkness to find aid might one day clasp one to pull them back to their feet and stand together. These Legends speak of Heroes, of an army of Gold and Bronze standing defiant as the midday sun in the face of an oncoming storm, at times hidden behind cloud, but burning ever brighter with every passing moment.

 

For years the war on the plain of Celestis had raged, ever since the Phoenix Queen began to pull magic through the Leylines to fuel her final rites to recover her people. They had come from the corners of every realm, these vicious mercenaries, looters, thugs and barbarians, so too came the savages who courted only war and the decadent servants of the chaos Pantheon. So too had comes the unlikely allies, Stormcast serving the bitter queens once stalwart ally Sigmar had come to her aid in this darkest of nights. As dawn broke over the Temple of Light, it was the noble host of Stormcast and Aeloran guard that formed the blocked for the Queen that she might enact the final rites of the Aeloran, against them stood the unruly rabble of Orruks, Ogors, Beasts and Human savages who had fallen to the temptations offered by the twisted Exile and her decadent Deity.

 

In the preceding night the grunts and rumbling of the chaotic advance had been heard, such a disorganised force could never truly hope to approach in silence, instead bitter sniping and insults traded from Orruk to Ogor, Human cultist accidentally trampled under the weight of oncoming mammoth and all the whilst the putrid stench of the oncoming horde filtered through every edifice of the fortress. It was not this disorganised noise that marked the battles onset however, as the morning broke the heralds of the Phoenix queen marched to the towers of the Temple, their horns ringing out defiantly across the mountain tops taunting the army opposite to make their move or risk annihilation at the hands of the Queen of Flame.

 

It did not take much to force this unruly rabble into action, born spoiling for war and twitching with a poorly concealed rage they answered the sound of the taunting horn with a guttural roar that rippled through their forces. The slow advance become the thunderous echo of a hundreds of boots, cloven hooves and bare Orruk feet hammering against the dirt on their approach, the muscular forms of the Khornate cultists rang shoulder to shoulder with the fur laden Beastmen, each dwarfed by the Lithe Savage Orruks that formed the rear guard. To their west came the lumbering forms of the Beastclaw mammoths, eager to reclaim the honour they had lost at the hands of Stormcast raiding parties and claim the throne of the Phoenix for their Frostlord, and finally at their flank came the hulking armoured forms of the Iron Jaw Orruks, shorter than their savage kin but all the more massive for their ramshackle and battle worn armour.

 

The first of the savage host to seek out their foe came the Gore Gruntas of the Iron Jaws, bounding ahead of their Beastclaw allies the heavy grunting forms of their Boar mounts clambered over the broken dirt and barrelled headlong into a waiting line of Stormcast. So rapid came their approach that barely was an arrow nooked before they made contact, tusks and brutally carved weaponry clashing with Sigmarite plate as the melee commenced. Even as the defenders of the Fortress behind them began to firing their hails of arrows into the oncoming horde the entire temple rumbled and shook, from the catacombs below came the roaring chitinous shape of the Dread maw tunnelling worm, shrieking as it pierced the surface and begun to dig a trench toward the sealed gateways of the temple.

 

From the peaks of the mountain came the enormous forms of the Aelorans monstrous cavalry, their Ashen princes phoenix screeched as it came low over the temple sending plumes of dirt and ash cascading into the oncoming savage forms. Behind it came the three terrifying shapes of the drakes of the defenders, two Star drakes with their Stormcast riders threatened to block out the sun as they barrelled into the enemies lines, sending Orruks and Beastmen scrambling to find sure footing. The massive jaws of the Star drakes ripped their foes from their feet, the riders swinging slow with blade and hammer and launching the lifeless bodies back into the horde to slow the savages advance. Finally came the enormous magma dragon pet of the Aeloran queen, its thick hide reinforced by the Aeloran mages that lined the fortress walls as it but a brutal swathe into the iron jawz lines. It sent cascades of magma pouring through the enemy ranks to the sound of agonised screaming as flesh was seared from bone. Behind the monsters came the noise of dozens of archers shouting commands as they sent hail after hail of arrows into the dread maw that sought to send them into disarray. For every inch the monster took new plates of armour were chipped away by the Aeloran arrows, yet still it came with a shriek, its seemingly endless form erupting further from the ground as it sought out the queens combat avatar, only to find that moments before its jawz could claim its target a marksmen finally found its weakness, sending it dropping lifelessly back down into its own warren of tunnels.

 

The skies above the battle turned black with plumed of ash firing up form the slumbering volcano, lumps of burning rock were flung from the Aeloran defenders alongside the comets of Sigmar hailed by the Stardrake host that sought to claim the lives of every savage that had dared oppose them. Behind this monstrous advance came the stampede of Stormcast Cavalry, the armoured infantry of the protectors swatted arrows from the sky as they came up as a rearguard for the Star drakes. To the far end of the field a lighting bolt cascaded down from the skies above, striking deep into the dirt they turned the ground beneath their feet to glass as a host of Retributors sought to carve their way into the Chaos Rearguard.

 

The Savages were not without monsters of their own however, for every dragon or gigantic beast that the Aeloran could muster for their defence came a warped horror from the Chaotic tide. First came the mammoths of the Beast claws who thundered into the Ashen phoenix as he made his approach, the agile bird ducking and diving the goring talons of the mammoth could not escape harm entirely, one wing crippled on the impact with the mammoth sent its rider spiralling away. Then came the blood thirsters, lumbering bloodied and hooved giants with mighty wings flying above their host as they clashed with the flanks of the Stormcast dragons, giant axes glancing off of Sigmarite armour but leaving rents in exposed hide of the dragons with ever blow struck. Beneath the heels of these monsters the Khornate cultists and Orruks swarmed forwards, it was however a champion of the Beastmen who claimed the first real blow against the Stormcast defenders, summoning the mighty power of his amulet he vomiting as cascade of burning magma into the exposed chest of the Stardrake, watching with satisfaction as it ate its way through armoured plate and muscle before sending the mighty beast slumping down into the dirt. Even as this great beast slumped its body was lost beneath the horde of beast men and Orruks as they used it to cover their advance from the Aeloran arrows.

 

From their vantage point on the Temple walls the Aeloran could only watch at the skirmish unfolded, even as their magma dragon brought low the Stonehorn it became surrounded by hordes of Orruks and Beastmen who jabbed out at it with crudely carved spears, many fell beneath its claw and flame and yet the Orruk savages used their last breath to bring it low with their giant spears. So too fell the second Stormcast star drake, the Orruks seemingly seeking out the gigantic beasts as trophies as they littered its glorious form with yet more giant spears only to fall to its protector guard. The Stormcast cavalry and Orruk boars clashed on the eastern flank, Dracothian beasts ripping the Orruks from their mount as energy crackling from their weaponry sent riders scorched down into the dirt.

 

To the west the Khornate reavers clashed with Aeloran skirmishers and the Liberators of the Stormcast, the battered shield wall falling back a few steps under the sheer weight of the bodies being flung at them, for every Stormcast to fall five more chaos cultists fell to their hammers and blades, yet the savage attackers had the numbers that such loses were barely felt. More tragically still fell the great mounts of the Aeloran guard, creatures that had lived centuries in Aqshy cruely brought low by a daemonic engine as it hammered projectiles across the field, even the great bastilidons form was lost beneath its mechanical legs as it sought to defend the approach to the gate.

 

Despite such loses the Aeloran began to take heart, even as Khornate comets hammered against the temples peaks the Leylines across the causeway began to glow and hum, light radiating beneath the corpses that littered the ashen floor. One by one the defenders and savages noticed the noise growing, eyes cast upwards to the summit that formed the Queens throne room as they felt the very ground shifting beneath their feet. Atop the temples highest tower they saw her, the Witch Queen of Celestis wreathed on fire, an angel of vengeance as she stood with arms outstretched. Coursing flame rippled down her form and swam its way throughout the temple walls, twisting and turning, crossing over itself in a tantalising dance of death.

 

As the Queens final ritual completed every corner of Celestis was bathed in light, every gate in the region seeming sprung to life at once. The energy coursing from the queen shone through the Leylines in the region forming a tangible fence of piercing light, those not safely harboured by the sanctuary of the temple found their forms wreathed in torturous tendrils of light that begin to rip them apart from the inside out, the screams of savagery from the Orruks and Chaos slowly drowned out in those of agony.

 

Slowly the screams died out and silence fell across the land, all life in the region that had failed to find shelter within the confines of the temple had perished. Slowly every element of their essence begins to coalesce, starting from the valleys edge and growing like a tide toward the temple the dust shifted and reformed into the beleaguered and travel worn forms of the refugees hidden away centuries ago. Those looking out over the valley watch in pride as hundreds of thousands of Aelven forms rise out of the dust of the savages, an entire empire hidden away by the queens magic that time itself had been unable to touch. Hunched and tired they stumbled confused toward the glowing light of the temple to seek out the Queen who had promised them sanctuary so long ago.
 

Finally the temples light carved its way through the darkened catacombs and through the ancient winding corridors, from darkened corners the last of the Aeloran silhouettes can be seen coalescing slowly, a beautiful tantalising dance of dust as they begin to form up into bodies once again. As these last creature coalesce a cloaked and battered figure staggers into the throne room, a blade barely concealed behind her back as she desperately claws her way toward the queens form, the queen herself is still blinded by her ritual, incapable of moving as the would be assassin lurches at her with blade held high. Defiantly the Stormcast Judicator doesn't hesitate, too long spent fighting in the realm it is all too easy as he draws his bow string back once more, an arrow flying through the air and striking the would be assassin from her feet to defend his charge. As the Aelves broken body hits the floor a barest whisper escapes her lips "We weren't alone in Haven...."

 

Confused the Stormcast dart their eyes across the room, searching out new threats yet somehow blinded to the staggering Aelven silhouettes stumbling out of the shadows. As the flickering flames of the torch light catches the figures their true forms are unveiled, from their crudely hewn wooden boots, to the flesh and metals fused together to form their musculature and hinged wooden frames these hideous marionettes are poor imitations of the Aelves they impersonate. Long and winding strings hang from their limbs seemingly coursing like serpents with wills of their own, raising their lengthened and distorted limbs the Husks send the tendril like strings swimming through the air. Locked in her ritual the queen can do nothing as she helplessly hears the screams of her kind echoing through the chamber, the dull thud of the Stormcast guarding her as their forms impact with the floor resonates through the chamber followed by the rasping scraping of the new creatures boots as they lurch toward her.

 

Helpless, unable to move or see her attackers as the ritual continues she hears but a single word from their lips before darkness claims her

 

“Hungry........”

 

 

 

 

 

Spoilered due to length, its tied to a narrative campaign progress so there's a few battles in there but each specifies a location and history of the region

 

And then ofcourse Jotungard in Ghur, a clockwork city in the mountain ranges at realms edge, frozen and desolate wastes.

 

Spoiler

It is said that in the time of myth, when Sigmar was reclaiming the realms from the wilds that held them he visited each in turn, whilst many legends tell of his great battle with Gorkamorka in shaping the Realm of Beasts little is said of the war with the great Storm titans of the Jotun high up in the mountaintops of realms edge. Even with Gorkamorka having joined the growing pantheon of Gods at Sigmars side there were beasts in Ghur that recognised no man or god as their master, such creatures predated the gods dominance of the realms and remembered a time when the strength of the Wild was dominant. The Tribes of Storm Giants named the Jotun were one such set of creatures, they dwarfed even their Aleguzzler kin in terms of size and stature, mountainous forms of flesh, ice and stone that shook the very earth with every step. They came from the very realms edge, the mountain range known as the Beasts Maw, it is thought their proximity to the wild magicks at the outer reaches of the Realm may have been what gifted them the unnatural size and strength they had used in past ages to claim dominance over the realms. They were known in foul tempers to gather stormclouds around their peaks, casting bolts of primal lightning down from the mountain tops to gouge huge scorch marks across the very flesh of the Realm.

 

In the age before he had formed his Stormcast Legions it was the god Sigmar himself leading an army of men against the Jotun tribes, the battle raged for months with every heavy blizzard forcing both sides to take shelter or risk falling victim to the elements. At the battle climax the great mountain king of the Jotun descended from hus peak, it had been an age since he had feasted on the flesh of a god and the hum of celestial energey resonating from Sigmar had peaked his appetite, whilst it would haved been an easy feat for his kin to finish off the Gods meagre forces his kin would likely devour the godkings flesh long before offering tribute. And thus the two became locked in a mortal duel to claim dominance over the peaks, each casting rippling bolts of energy at the other, those that touched into the mountains surface send racing steams of frozen lightning rippling down into the earth and bringing forth an eerie blue glow from the very ground beneath them. Again and again they struck at each other, the very mountain beginning to hum with power as its light became blinding to those who looked directly upon it, it was however Sigmar who finally seized the upper hand, swinging his hammer time and time again to crush the Giant into the ground, every impact left an ever expanding crater to mark the defeat of the Jotun. As Sigmar looked upon the scars the battle had left upon the realm he could see the racing streams of celestial and primal energy some how frozen into the very ice of the mountain, the crater adorned with bolts of frozen lightning racing beneath the very ground. The ensure the Jotun could never again inflict their cruelties upon the Realms and prevent any who would seize the frozen power of the mountain. Sigmar erected a series of fortresses along the mountain range, his Duardin masons working tirelessly to form unassailable watch posts on the peaks all linked by an increasingly elaborate labyrinth of tunnels back to the lightning crater. Here they formed a great clockwork fortress that a garrison might keep watch over the realm for the day the Jotun sought to try and reclaim what was once theirs, the fortress was dubbed the Jotungard. Within the keep itself lay the arcane forge left by Sigmar to equip those who took up the mantle of Sentinels in the years the come, its flickering flame formed not of heat but the very ice of the mountaintops, a strange and magical contraption that even the Duardin manning it did not fully trust.

 

Sigmar knew that the hearts of men could be corrupted, and could not truly leave such a power in the hand of any mortal beast and yet his attention was needed elsewhere and he was loathed to destroy such potent energies. It was this that drove him to task the greatest engineers of the realms to erect the elaborate clockwork city of Jotungard, its every shifting maze of buildings and dead end corridoors feeding off of the very power of the mountain to fuel the cog-made contraptions. The city itself hummed with the power of the mountain, and to guard it his engineers brought forth clockwork warriors, ingenius contraptions of metal and sigmarite powered by the latent static energies that rippled from the mountains heart.

 

In the centuries that followed many heard rumours of the lost city of Ghur, a palace of such elaborate planning and divine resources that treasure hunters from across the realms sought it out to loot its treasures. Many were lured by the glowing mountaintops of the Beast Maw range, travellign across savage forests to try and secure their fortunes. None however returned from the clockwork city, the Cogs were tasked to protect it from all barring the true servants of Sigmar himself. As the tide of chaos began to ripple across the realm Sigmar knew too well that the mountain might oneday be used against him, and thus he assigned a newly forged chamber formed from the hearts of men who had spent their lives fighting the beast within, those who had maintained humanity in savage climates that they might resist the bestial lure of Ghur. Named the Sentinels of Jotungard they joined the silent clockwork Cogs of the city guard to protect against all who would seek the cities power.