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

 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 amongst the m

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 to the Toofpullas. But An

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 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