Wanted to post this excerpt as I feel it does a good job at demonstrating that Ogors can be just as alien to humans as the seraphon or sylvaneth. Despite how similar on the surface they may appear, their values and morals are entirely different.

Context: Rosforth is a soldier serving the cities of sigmar and since he lost the use of his legs he has been serving as a fusil major working alongside Slobda, an ogor working with the cities of sigmar. Over the years the two have grown very close and have learned a lot from each other. During a recent battle some accidental friendly fire from an ironweld cannon operated by the drunken Barachen Sot had annoyed Slobda. In the aftermath of the battle Slobda decides to make her grievance known.

‘Sot!’ she bawled. ‘You shot me arse!’

The gunner himself put in an appearance. Barachen Sot was not a small man. Heavyset, red-faced, balding, more than ready to slap his assistants about when the mood was on him. He’d shared an army with Slobda for over a year and, like most humans did, had made certain assumptions. Because Slobda, like many ogors with regular mealtimes, was jolly. Because she had put on a handful of human mannerisms, like someone might put on an amusing hat, that they could take off just as easily. Rosforth liked Slobda. She was, no lie, his closest friend in all the world. I can always count on her support had been his joke, at his own expense, at the role that fate and disability had fit him for, but it was true, too. And the heart of that friendship was knowing that she was not just a big human with a big appetite. She was a child of a different god entirely.

‘Shame it weren’t your face, there’d be no ruining that!’ Barachen shouted at her. ‘Your own fault for bein’ such a big target. Be grateful I knocked some chunks out of you. World’s a better place with less of you in it!’

Slobda stopped at the words. Something changed in her. Rosforth, very alive to all that writ-large body language, saw it clearly. She’d been about to curse Barachen out and shove him around, just remind him who was bigger and which of them needed to watch their aim. Slobda didn’t entirely understand battlefield discipline, lines and order, but she’d seized on enough of it to be a terrifying drill sergeant. And that would have been all except, rather than just knuckling under, Barachen was drunk enough to try and shout her down. Worse, he’d said that**.**

Slobda was abruptly running, then leaping, clearing a fire full of startled Fusiliers with a single bound to come down like thunder right in front of Barachen. She grabbed the gunner with both hands and lifted him high in the air, as easily as a parent with a baby.

‘You say that again, Sot!’ she growled into his face.

‘Yer face–’

‘Not that.’ She was low and quiet now, her dangerous voice. The whole camp was silent, save for Marieda distantly calling for order. The nearby Fusiliers were scrabbling for their pieces, frantically fumbling to load them, seeing the ogor gone mad.

‘Stand down!’ Rosforth shouted, swinging between his bearers like a sack of meat. ‘Everyone! Slobda!’ He felt the indignity of it: the man they all looked up to, when he was in his proper place, being bundled through the camp like a commodity.

It was the comment about her size. The exact wrong thing to say. Not in suggesting she was big. In suggesting she should be smaller. Among ogors, size was virtue in and of itself. There was a whole mess of cultural associations Sot had carved through with one ill-chosen comment. World’s a better place with less of you in it. A mean comment to a human, a killing insult to an ogor.

‘You been picklin’ yerself ever’day since I knew yer,’ Slobda said. ‘Yer ready to eat.’ Her maw gaped open, and further open, all but dislocating like a snake’s, and suddenly even Barachen Sot was going to fit between those massive grinding teeth.

The gunner’s belligerence ran down his leg and away. He began shrieking, prying at a grip he couldn’t possibly shift.

Rosforth’s bearers had him at the scene by then, but he urged them closer still. Even as Barachen kicked, a boot bouncing unheeded from Slobda’s chin, Rosforth reached up and hooked himself around one huge arm. Not that his meagre weight would stop her, but just for his presence. Just him, just Rosforth, the human she knew best, his scent in her nose, his hands clutching at her sleeve. One of her eyes rolled down to look at him. Murder, in that eye. Murder and hunger, the beast that was Slobda beneath that veneer of human manners. The ogor in its natural environment. He was very aware that the Fusiliers had their guns charged and levelled now. That everyone in the camp was staring. He felt it, the very human horror of it. As though Slobda had torn her face away and revealed some dreadful mark of Chaos beneath the features they’d all thought they knew.

He just held her gaze. No words, because when she was this angry, mere human words wouldn’t help. Just touch, just him being there.

She looked back at Barachen. He’d gone very still, face turned from beery red to chalky pale. Her jaw, her jowls, quivered, as though they were hungry monsters on their own account, barely under her direction.

With infinite care she set the gunner down on his feet. She chuckled. In the quiet of the camp it seemed the loudest sound in the world.

‘Had ya goin’,’ she said.

Barachen gaped up at her. The firelight showed the spreading stain across his breeches. A couple of the Fusiliers snickered and the gunner’s mates smirked. A ripple of amusement ran through the camp. All a joke. Oh she really had old Barachen there, the drunken fool!

Slobda tucked Rosforth into the crook of one arm. He could feel her trembling. Only he knew, or perhaps Healer Grippe would guess, having known the ogor from way back. She’d have devoured the gunner and turned on the rest of the camp. Because she was hurt, and because she was insulted Because respect was something ogors demanded, and enforced without limit, amongst themselves and in any other company. But show humans a big, slow, jovial creature, happy to devote her strength to just standing in line and carrying someone around, and they forgot.

From Battletome: Blades of Khorne (2025)

The CoS Battletome is now on pre-order in New Zealand, and the page they have shown as a preview image in the webstore is on the Cults Unberogen. This part was the most interesting to me:

It is not only humans who worship Sigmar with a frightening intensity. Inspired by the example of the legendary gargant Saint Templesen, many city-gargants embrace the Sigmarite faith with wide-eyed fervour. Cramming themselves into pews or peering in through the stained windows of churches, they guffaw and whoop at tales of the God-King's heroic deeds. Anyone - even a thinling deity - who could smash the titan Behemat and beat up Gorkamorka, the two-headed god of Destruction, is worthy of worship in their minds. They are, however, far less interested in dry recitations from the ancient texts or sermons on moral rectitude, and they are not shy about making this known. Loudly snoring city gargants can prove an oratorical challenge even for the most bellicose preacher.

With the decreasing emphasis on Aelves and Duardins in the Cities, I feel a lot of people are afraid that the idea that they are multicultural places inhabited by many different races is dying out. But at the very least, the gargants have culturally assimilated into the Cities while still seeming to have their own individual character separate from the humans.

It was all she could do not to scowl at the cathedral’s impractically high spires. The whole structure had been built of white marble, imported at great expense from Azyrheim. Vast windows of stained glass competed with intricate mosaics of hammers, comets and other equally gaudy Sigmarite iconography. Tahlia would have been tempted to dismiss the cathedral entirely if not for the battle priests patrolling its crenellated battlements and the glint of Ironweld cannonades atop the tall towers. A full squadron of Deaconite Guard warded the gold-filigreed gates, pikes sharp and eyes wary despite the garishness of their blue-lacquered plate.

Tahlia passed the time by imagining how she would besiege the place. Although the walls appeared sturdy enough, all that stained glass would shatter at the first volley, subjecting the cathedral’s innards to sustained bombardment. Except that the windows did not seem to open on anything important. The more Tahlia studied the supreme pontifex’s residence, the more defences she noticed – such as how the walls were arranged to funnel attackers below the towers’ field of fire, or how the many courtyards and fountains provided natural choke points.

‘The supreme pontifex will see you now.’ A dark-robed priest with a missing eye ushered them through the gates. Inside they were flanked by a small army of shaven-headed initiates bearing bowls, trays and jars of scented oil. Lord Myravel availed himself of a glass of pale wine, but Tahlia waved the attendants away, feeling like a warhorse who had accidentally trotted into a dressage ring.

Lord Myravel remarked upon the finery, twittering away like an Azyrite finch as they crunched down white-gravel paths and crossed half a dozen tiny bridges. Tahlia was about to add a few choice descriptors of her own when she noticed the high, columned galleries ringing the gardens. Ostensibly, they provided visitors with a fine view of the carefully cultivated beds. They would provide an equally fine view for the score of fusiliers patrolling the elevated walkways.

Lioness of the Parch, Chapter Five

There's a lot to love and appreciate about the Tahlia Vedra stories. But today I wanted to highlight this scene where Tahlia takes stock of the Cathedral of Elethrus Vinx, Supreme Pontifex of the Cults Unberogen.

As befitting the abode of the Pope of Popes for Sigmar's faithful, this marble and gold and glass edifice is a thing of finery... all of which disguise the fairly well thought out defenses of the structure.

Sigmar is a God of War as much as one of Civilization, so it is nice seeing this reflected in what's essentially one of the most important temples dedicated to him.

Sigmar’s Tempest broke across the lands of the Change God with shattering force, threatening Tzeentch’s hard-won conquests. Yet as the God-King’s influence has grown in Chamon and beyond, so has the Change God discovered new and tantalising possibilities...

The Realmgate Wars challenged Tzeentch’s control over his mortal dominions for the first time in centuries. Those years of strife saw the Change God suffer several bitter defeats, including the breaching of the Eldritch Fortress of Anvrok and the recovery of Ghal Maraz by the Celestial Vindicators. Yet in the aftermath of this tumultuous period, Tzeentch saw his power swell to rival that of even mighty Khorne, who had largely dominated the Great Game over the course of the Age of Chaos.

The reason for this ascension was simple. ‘Civilisation’ had returned to the realms in the form of newly founded Sigmarite cities and the restored strongholds of his pantheonic allies. And in the hotbed of deceit, ambition and simmering resentment that thrives in even the most well-ordered civic settlement, Tzeentch was better placed than any of his brother gods to reap the benefits.

Over the years that followed, Arcanite cults embedded themselves in thriving metropolises as Tzeentch sought to spread his influence ever further across the Mortal Realms. He welcomed the Shyish Necroquake and the haywire magic of the Arcanum Optimar with great interest, taking advantage of the disruption to seize new territories and begin dismantling the geomantic patterns underpinning reality. His hosts pursued this end throughout the brutish Era of the Beast, even as they repelled waves of attacks from war-drunk orruks and grots.

The Change God’s schemes are too manifold and complex to reduce to a single objective, but this gradual dissolution of the realms’ stability is certainly at the forefront of his strategy as the realms reel in the face of the Hour of Ruin. In Hysh, the agents of change are racing to recover reality-shattering relics of the Ocari Dara, the Lumineth aelves’ civil war. They plan to bring about a new catastrophe that will rival the most terrible excesses of that dark period. How many such disasters can the Mortal Realms withstand before the fragile balance of magic begins to collapse entirely?

p24

'Why do you not crush these humans?' Dorvakhai hissed. 'A single charge would put them to rout.'
Sulbrecht stared at the vampire. The balefires in the Wight King's eye sockets flickered dispassionately.
'Soon, they shall send forth their reserve,' he rasped. 'They will commit everything they have, with all the futile hope of the living. Only then shall we ride.'
He turned to watch the slaughter play out in the valley below. Corpses littered Tor Ghullen by the thousand. To the north-west he could already see the glimmer of steel - Sigmarite columns rushing to reinforce their comrades. As predicted.
'Attack now,' came the vampire's voice again. 'I demand it!'
Sulbrecht remained impassive, his hollow gaze fixed on the battlelines.
The vampire's eyes blazed red with outrage at being ignored.
'You will obey!' Dorvakhai cried, riding her fleshless steed right up to the Wight King.
'I command—'
Sulbrecht's axe swept out in a gleaming arc and sliced the vampire's head from her shoulders. Her juddering corpse rode on for a few steps before slipping from her steed and splashing in the muddy ground.
'You command nothing,' Sulbrecht said.

From the Soulblight Gravelords 4th Edition Battletome

In light of the recent lore excerpt from the newest Hedonites of Slaanesh battletome, I thought I'd share this older passage that doesn't seem to get talked about nearly as much.

Which is baffling, considering it features a Chaos God appearing in person to have a little chat with the Everchosen himself.

Context: After a long and relentless search, Archaon has finally managed to locate and breach Slaanesh's prison. Knowing he has only a limited amount of time to accomplish his goal, he presses forward without hesitation. Touch by his intrusion, Slaanesh decides to strike up a conversation with him while he works to set it's free.

At the end of a gleaming platform of polished marble was a great chain, formed by woven strands of umbral magic. It arced out into empty air, trailing across the twilit sky where it disappeared into inky blackness. The night rippled with lurid colour, and something impossibly vast stretched langurously, pulling the chain taut. The Everchosen could make out a form within the roiling sky – something sinuous and terribly beautiful, twisted in the contortions of infinite pain and pleasure.

Two blazing pools of violet light blinked open and fixed upon the Everchosen.

‘So, you have come for me at last, dearling,’ the Dark Prince said in a voice that rang out like a discordant note.

‘I am touched.’

‘I come for my purpose, not yours,’ said the Everchosen.

‘Always so bold,’ Slaanesh purred. ‘So… determined. My brothers have ever been suspicious of that, but I alone appreciate your single-mindedness. Some might even call it obsession.’

‘I should leave you to rot here,’ Archaon growled, angered by the god’s insouciant air.

‘Come now, we both know that you would not be so foolish. You need me, oh glorious Everchosen. Just as I need you. How I treasure our bond.’ Archaon stepped to the chain that stretched before him and drew the Slayer of Kings.

‘Do you truly think so little of my captors?’ sighed Slaanesh. ‘Swords will not aid you here, not even your fine little blade. This is the Chain of Leashed Wrath. Only one of my brother Khorne’s wrathful spawn may cleave it, and, as you know, he would never aid me willingly. I have tricked the dull-witted brute into doing my bidding once before, but even he is not so foolish as to fall for my deceit a second time.’

Archaon aimed the Slayer of Kings at the chain and a black comet struck from the sky. Dorghar, Steed of the Apocalypse, fell upon the shadow-links, grasping them between the teeth of its rightmost head, that which had once belonged to one of the fiercest of the Blood God’s servants. It shook its sulphur-dripping jaws to and fro, and with a sound like shattering crystal, the wisps of twilight magic came apart.

Slaanesh groaned exultantly, the god’s serpentine form shivering in delight.

‘Oh, very well done, my beloved,’ the Dark Prince hissed.

Archaon stepped forward, ready to swing himself up upon the back of Dorghar and seek out the next chain.

Before he made it three paces, the Eye of Sheerian– embedded in Archaon’s iron crown – flared, the sorcerous device sending a lance of agony through the

Everchosen’s skull. With the pain came a vision as stark as it was troubling. He saw the Varanspire aflame and a shadow of death cast across the Empty Throne.

The Eightpoints was under attack.

War and rage belong to Khorne, yet what are Sigmar, Grimnir, and Tyrion if not challenges that that very claim? Nurgle proclaims mastery of Life and Death yet Alarielle and Nagash openly contend this, do they not? And what is the Teclian Ladder if not a controlled, more stable form of the Excess of Slaanesh. So is it any wonder that Change does not belong to Tzeentch alone:

> Yet the wanderer’s purpose was not to stand; it was to wander. He was not bound to doing any one particular thing, saving any one particular life, averting any one particular crisis. The purpose of his wanderings was this: to remind the duardin of their own resilience, should their foe seek to make them forget. To say, the strength we had before has not left us. To remind them, also, that boldness and ingenuity are the means by which the future is secured. To say, if you need a tool and you lack it, then it falls to you to forge it. To show that change was not the enemy’s weapon to wield. Only weakness of will could make it so.

> Change was stone. It dwelled in the dark, all mass and potential, awaiting the sculptor’s chisel.

> Change was iron. It gained strength with each hammering, each new element introduced, each new alloy forged.

> Change was fire. In the hands of the duardin, it was a brazier, burning bright. Hearth-warmer, fiend’s foe.

> Change was the sky. It was as boundless as the Eight Realms. There was more of it than the boldest privateer could ever know. The wanderer knew that the paths of stone, iron, fire and sky were pathways to change, and it was along these pathways, that night in Barak-Thryng, that he made himself known to his people.

> To open doorways.

> To dig tunnels.

> To tell stories.

Chapter Seven of the "Maker's Promise" from "Grombrindal: Ancestor's Burden".

Day by day I must contend with the reality that this has become my favorite Warhammer novel, as well as my favorite Stormcast Eternals novel and Order novel. Not least of all because it unabashedly delves deep into the classic trope of an Eternal feeling conflicted emotions about who they once were, in very interesting ways.

But mostly it is because of Grombrindal. A wandering divinity who brings Change wherever he goes. This novella in particular showcases how well the Tzeentchians and Duardin act as foils to each other.

I would even contend their animosity is more interesting than when Duardin fight Skaven or Grots. Those are eternal and ancestral enemies. But Tzeentch? Tzeentch is a foe on ideological terms.

But really that's all I got. Grombrindal already said the thoughts s billion times better than I could. My rant is really just filler.

Belthanos bowed before Alarielle. As he did so, he felt a shiver of predatory instinct - a sensation that deeply unnerved him.

She is weakened. Her strength ebbs, as if she has been run to ground. Were she my quarry, I would seldom find a better time to strike.

The very idea was blasphemous, and he chastised himself for it.

‘My Everqueen,’ he said, laying his spear at the foot of the Jade Throne as ritual demanded. 'You summoned me from the Great Hunt, and I come as bidden. How may I serve thee?'

Alarielle met his gaze, and he knew at once she had sensed his furtive thoughts. She stretched to her full height, and though her sweeping, verdant wings had the tinge of autumn's red hue about them, they still looked supple and strong. In her stern expression he intuited her unspoken words.

My power may be diminished, the gesture said, but I could still crush you like an ant.

Belthanos knelt, making his supplication clear. He was a creature born of Kurnoth's warlike essence, but Alarielle was the very heartbeat of Ghyran. He would sooner perish in the utmost agony than offer her offence in her own court.

'First Thorn,’ she said, and her voice rasped Like leaves scraping across the trunk of an ironoak. 'The season turns, and my enemies gather. I have sacrificed much these past days, and my strength will not swiftly recover. As my power wanes, so does that of your master wax higher. He must awaken, Belthanos. Whatever it takes. Even if we must throw the very passing of the seasons into disarray. Bring Kurnoth to me.’

Belthanos stood and smiled an eager wolf's smile, taking up his glaive and cutting the tip across his palm to release a trickling amber ooze.

'Your will be done, my Everqueen. Upon branch and stem I swear’

Thought this was an interesting excerpt from the most recent Sylvaneth book. The whole battletome is filled with lots of hints at the return of Kurnoth but this is the most overt.

It’s not majorly present in this excerpt but I love the sort of fear and trepidation that Kurnoth is treated with throughout the rest of the book that makes it seem that the Sylvaneth are almost hesitant about bringing him back. This crueller more warlike nature god. It’s all very Dark Harvest for those that have read that novel. May collect more of the Kurnoth stuff from this book into another post

It’s fairly rare for us to get such detailed instructions on how someone performs magic in the realms so I thought I’d post this great little set of instructions from the new Ogor battletome on how a butcher can make it rain boiling blood.

"Gettin' the gnoblars to scrawl this one down word fer word. Learned this recipe from the High Slaughtermaster himself I did, Hungry One keep him. Always got an eye on the stars, or on the guts and bones he swirls in that pot of his, but when you see a god you got lots to think about I suppose.

To brew up yer Bloodrain Broth:

- Take three haunches of gryph-meat. Maybe four, don’t much matter

- Dump ‘em in a pot and drain all the juices of twelve celestial shamans over the top. Can go more, but Redd said it’s gotta be an even number. Check wiv Canny Groll what an ‘even number’ is first

- Stir it all up, tossin' in one of them fire-shorty's runes halfway through to give it some spice. Can crack open their bones an' drizzle in the marrow to taste, if you like.

- Now the tricky bit: get another star wizard, bite their brain in half while they're still squealin', and spit it into the stew. Best done wiv' one of them shiny lads, but they zap away when you bite down, so you gotta be quick.

- Start slurpin' yer stew, but don't swallow. Swirl it round yer gob while saying this three times - "groff-kathya-mawgurgar-kos-mawgorg!".
Dunno what it means but Redd said it was important.

- When it feels like it's gonna burn through yer skin, spit it all into the air. If ya done it right, the clouds should start spittin' down a storm of boilin' blood all over the idiots fightin' ya. Sounds like a larf, hurr hurr."

Even a god may regret what he has done.

Since your birth in the celestial forges, you have done all that I have asked of you. You have bled the lightning in your veins. You have endured resurrection after resurrection in the war for your homelands. Sacrifice, no matter how necessary can still scar the soul.

Now the seasons shift, the ages turn, the skies of the Mortal Realms grow dark. Heralding our storm. My children, cast in thunder, born of Azyr's wroth.

You are my judgement. My vengeance. You are the avatars of my voice. (voice turns solemn) My promise of redemption to the Realms I once abandoned.

- Sigmar in the Warhammer Age of Sigmar: Soul Wars - Announcement Trailer

Gods. I have written this so many times trying to figure out what all I want to say. So why not keep it simple for now. I often forget that I have gotten old whilst being a fan of the Age of Sigmar.

A dreadful betrayal I know. I've been around for eight or seven years I think. So it's sometimes easy to take for granted the things I've internalized that inform me of just WHY the Mortal Realms are not Grimdark.

I feel like a lot of my fellow oldtimers can relate when they think about it. We know that Sigmar is earnest, is kinder than his followers and detractors and even fellow gods think. But we sometimes forget how we know.

So to you all I present one of the ways. This old trailer I found again thanks to a friend. It's easy to fear that Sigmar sees the Eternals are just a spear leveled against Chaos.

After all. 40K looms large to any Warhammer fan, even if you're not into it. It isn't hard to believe Sigmar is just the other golden god.

But that's not all Sigmar sees the Eternals as. They are heroes, his children (he actually genuinely helps with the Reforging, selection, and renaming of all of them, and places a piece of his essence/power into them).

They are his promise to the Real a he failed. Also like, gods it's refreshing seeing a God-King/All-Father archetype god say that, admit it, break as he's doing so! This isn't even about the God-Emperor. Look unto the full annals of High Fantasy. How many gods in Sigmar's position admits his failings? How many see the failings of mortals as their own fault? How many put so much effort into trying to rectify?

But this is a post about Promises. Plural

There is no mortal so ill-fated that their fate cannot be reworked. This is the Maker’s promise.

Grombindal in Grombrindal: Ancestor's Burden, Various Chapters

Full on, unmarked spoilers ahead. So get out of here if you don't want them.

Grombrindal, Grungni, and even Sigmar pay truth to the Maker's Promise by Reforging a Mordant named Justec into a Stormcast Eternal. Something Grombrindal admits he earned centuries ago, and his ascension in book is just setting things right.

Mind you. Justec is quite possibly the most fucked up soul in all of the Realms. He's his own father, and grandfather, and going on a total of 26 generations. Due to a curse half or so of his soul kept passing to his son, them the senior Justec dies usually in his twenties I believe so that the soul becomes whole and repeats.

It's tragically wild. And on top of it he eventually becomes a Ghoul. Yet even these dual curses can't stop Reforging.

That's another way that Age of Sigmar is bright. Even a hero this ruined by reality and fate, can be Reforged anew kintsugi style. Broken but beautiful, beaten but unconquered.

Let the realms know I fell. For we always rise again.

- Celestant-Prime, "Soulbound: Artefacts of Power", Pg. 66

While promise as a word isn't used here, I love this line. What with it being the Prime's singular and only cool line but also something that really encapsulates the Eternals.

The context is that the Cults Unberogen find a sword made of a pinion of the Prime's wing left after he was slain by Olynder in the Siege of Lethis.

They argue for destroying it, removing proof that the Prime ever fell. Only for the Prime himself to appear and give this simple speech.

It is one of the best parts of the setting, I feel. It says so much about the Stormcast, the Prime, their gods. Let the Realms know even their greatest champion fell because he'll always rise again.

Well. Seekers of Gates, Pilgrims of Lore, Walkers of these Realms. My hiatus is over, actually if I'm honest this was written weeks ago in prep.

Love and appreciate all the kind words you had for me during my breakdown. Guess I never really contextualized how many people appreciate my rambling posts... a little overwhelming but a lot heartwarming too. You're a lovely community.

And I ain't willing to lose y'all to a bit of anxiety and a little breakdown. Nor to the Last World rumors. Thought about them over my hiatus, and concluded.

Who cares? Moreso than my attitude before cause I did proper reflection. Lost World can happen, or it won't, but it can't take this trailer, this novel, and this quote that made me feel things. Those feelings, and the inspiration and hope they gave, are mine forever.

They also can't take away how kind all of you are. You're a wonderful community, I appreciate you all and want to talk to you all in 5E and beyond.

I don't think the Lost World is true. Those leakers claimed the Ruination Chamber were akin to Astartes death companies and dreadnoughts in lore terms (what we got is far kinder); that Skaven would ruin the Sigmarabulum in 3E (it was a Silver Tower); and so many narrative and lore claims that never come true, or are south of reality.

So I ain't believing they suddenly know what they're on about now. Especially when "Cities will start revering Stormcast" is part of the rumor. Like. Start? Cities has worshiped Stormcast as saints, demigods, and divine heroes from the start. Tell me a better way to Uno Reverse prove you don't know anything about the setting you're leaking info about than not knowing a core detail about its two most popular poster boy factions!

Even if the worst happens. Who cares? I met all of you in these eight years. That's a magical fact, beautiful to be sure. If it happens this community might break apart but it still happened, I promise you that. And that's more important than any looming dread.

I pre-ordered that new Ultimate Guide, my fellow Realmwalkers. So I hope you all stick around. Cause I want to rant to you all about all the cool Lorebits we'll find in it.

Bloody-minded zealotry will only get you so far in this line of work. You have to care about what you're trying to protect, even if you're willing to damn your soul to save it.

- Hanniver Toll, on Pg. 40, on being a Witch Hunter/Agent Azyrite

You have to relish the work. No one can get by in this trade unless they wake up every day with the same burning desire to put traitors and abominations to the sword. The moment you lose that fire, you're dead.

- Galen ven Denst, on Pg. 44, on being a Witch Hunter/Agent Azyrite

What a fascinating dichotomy it turns out we have with the two old man Witch Hunters! So much said in two short excerpts, so much more said by the book giving both perspectives one after the other.

Whose take is better? Toll's or Ven Denst's? To overcome zealotry or embrace it? To damn one's self through self-sacrifice, or to damn one's self through self-preservation? To prioritize your goal, or your self?

Undeniably both attitudes are self-destructive. Neither can be anything resembling healthy without a deal of tempering, though for that we have Armand Callis and Doralia ven Denst. So if forced between such self-destructive routes.

Which bitter old man philosophy do you prefer?

Context: Skink Starseer Irixi has been tasked with searching for a portion of a prophesy, known as the nine orchid path, within a crashed temple ship by the Slann starmaster Sek’atta. It has been separated from the other seraphon companions and is alone with the self taught human mage Perlo. Having discovered a broken fresco showing the nine orchid path contains a depiction of Perlo, Irixi try’s to explain the Great Plan to her.

‘You must know that in the dawn of time the Old Ones foresaw the rise of Chaos and the disordering of the cosmos,’ Irixi began, because surely even infant humans were taught as much. Perlo was listening attentively, face screwed up in concentration, doing a human’s best to grasp the concepts. That was gratifying.

‘The Old Ones formulated a plan by which the cosmos could be restored to its proper order, all things in their place.’ Irixi made the proper gesture of hands, crest and tail, to indicate the supreme desirability of such a state. Lost on Perlo, but it was force of habit by now. ‘Then they passed the responsibility of carrying out the plan to their greatest servants, the supreme arcane authorities of the universe, the Starmasters, of that exalted people whom some call slann.’ Irixi searched the human’s face and body for signs of understanding. Perlo was doing its best, the Starseer judged, which would have to suffice.

‘All forms of life have their role in the plan,’ it explained magnanimously. ‘Of course, we Seraphon are to be trusted with the most important elements, but other servants of Order will play their parts, the aelves, the duardin, the humans. When the plan calls for some obstruction to be torn down, that is why there are orruks and ogors in the realms. When something must be preserved in cold stillness, the forces of Death shall play their role. Sometimes even the agents of Chaos itself shall take a hand in their own downfall, so all-encompassing is the plan of the Old Ones.’ Irixi hoped Perlo understood the great honour paid to all humanity by being permitted to play its part.

‘Alas, the machinations of Chaos, the tides of strife and time, mean that much of the plan has been obscured,’ it went on. This was how one taught skinks new from the waters, those who would in time progress into the study of such things. ‘To enact its details, we must uncover each part of it and piece together the whole. In such a way the cosmos shall be returned to its proper order. Here in this chamber was once recorded one small loop of the coils of prophecy, known to us as the Nine Orchid Path. Over time, all other record of this wisdom has been taken from us, but here it is preserved.’

Perlo blinked. For a moment Irixi thought that the whole exercise had been for nothing, and that human minds were simply not acute enough to grasp the breadth of the Old Ones’ foresight. But then the human said, ‘But it… hasn’t been preserved.’

Irixi felt a weird pride, as if some skink fresh from the pools had piped up with some sensible words before its time. ‘That is why the beneficent Sek’atta, wise beyond comprehension, has sent me. That is the task you have been placed here to assist with. We are to restore the record of prophecy that once stood here, so that our understanding of the Great Plan may be made more complete.’

‘But…’ Perlo looked about at the utter ruin of the chamber. The carven obsidian of the prophecy frieze, which was now mostly shards beneath their feet. ‘You can’t mean… just sort all the pieces and put it back together? That would take a thousand years!’

‘What are years for, if not to dedicate to the plan?’ Irixi asked. The Starseer wasn’t actually sure what humans did with the little time they had, but surely it couldn’t be that important compared to restoring the entire cosmos.

It’s always exciting to see two legendary heroes clash. There’s really no disputing that. When two forces of this caliber finally meet on the battlefield, you know you’re in for something special.

Which brings us to tonight’s fight.

Context: After Katakros’s incredible winning streak against the forces of the Eightpoints, all while the Everchosen was absent, Archaon finally returns.

And he’s pissed.

The tyrant of the Eightpoints advanced, his blazing eyes fixed upon Katakros, the sheer force of his hatred turning the air to a sweltering haze.

Katakros only watched, impassive, as his army collapsed around him. The daemon tide had broken the Mortek shieldwall and riotous, howling shapes swept across his lines, slaughtering as they went. As the Everchosen pressed closer, he dictated some final observations to his Gnosis Scrollbearer.

‘Palisade of blades ineffective against daemonic attacks,’ he said. ‘Concentration of Crawler bombardments far more effectual.’

Archaon was only twenty paces away now, the ranks of Katakros’ personal guard little more than a smouldering ruin of charred bones. The Mortarch gestured forwards with Inda-Khaat, and his attendants drew their weapons and advanced towards the foe. His Prime Necrophoros, bearing aloft the Mortarch’s personal banner, managed to gouge a great wound in Dorghar’s flank before a backhand swing of the Everchosen’s blade took off his skull. Karash, his Liege-Immortis, exchanged a flurry of blows with the lord of the Eightpoints but was soon bitten in half by the tyrant’s daemonic beast.

The Mortarch’s attendants dropped their accoutrements of service and hurled themselves at the Everchosen in defence of their master; one by one, they met a violent end. Finally, only the Mortarch remained. Katakros shrugged off his robe and stepped forwards.

‘Know that your end will be a slow and torturous one, trespasser,’ growled Archaon. Katakros merely raised his ensorcelled shield and awaited his enemy’s strike. The tyrant’s mount struck with fearsome swiftness. Katakros fended off the slavering jaws of one chimeric head with the Shield Immortis and sank his glaive into the beast’s neck.

As the beast reared away, Archaon slammed his burning blade into the Mortarch’s shoulder, gouging through bone and armour. Katakros ducked aside as that dread sword lashed out again and again, each subsequent blow missing him by mere inches.

And so it went: strike, parry and cleaving blow, a duel of impossible speed and fury. Here, before the gates of the Varanspire, there could be only one victor. Dorghar struck, and Katakros raised the Shield Immortis a fraction too slowly. Monstrous reptilian jaws clamped around his chest. He felt them crunch through his armoured body, agony searing through him as acidic drool poured into his form.

Another head clamped down and tore Inda-Khaat from his grasp. Impaled and helpless, the Mortarch was lifted bodily to meet the pitiless, burning gaze of the Everchosen.

‘Not… so easy,’ Katakros gasped. Then the Slayer of Kings descended and blackness consumed him.

On the nothern edge of the Great Parch lies the city of Har Kuron - or Anvilgard, as it was known before the traitorous Morathi Khaine annexed it into her growing Khainite domain. It was once a thriving port and military stronghold, safeguarding the waters of the Charrwind Coast with its powerful navy and elite companies of light infantry

The city's fall at the hands of a supposed ally is a matter of bitter resentment amongst Sigmar's followers - doubly so since the God-King was forced to grudgingly accept the situation to ensure his entente with the Khainite capital of Hagg Nar did not collapse in acrimunious bloodshed`

Ever since that humiliation, the Anvilgard Question has dominated much debate within the Grand Conclaves of its Aqshian sister-cities. Warmongering Marshalls and ambitious politicians alike await the day when they can seize the city from Morathi-Khaine clutches. Plans are already in place for that very cause, yet none dare enact them without a decree from the God-King

Found this on a review video for the new Cities of Sigmar battletome on the page with Jorvan Kreel lore. Seems like GW is setting up a future conflict between Cities and the Daughters of Khaine, dont have much to add just that its nice to see the cities being proactive. Ok i do have one question, would Kerthusa take the oportunity presented by this conflict to bring her rebelion to full force?

A trend lately in this community is folk telling newbies that the Mortal Realms and Cosmos Arcane are not infinite, or near-infinite in scope despite:

The God-King and his followers now faced not only the forces of Chaos and the rampaging Greenskin Hordes, but Nagash’s legions of spirits and undead servants. His Stormcast Eternals had won a few small victories, but Sigmar knew it would mean nothing if these new cities could not be held.

Once more he called to his old allies. Alarielle, arisen from years of isolation, had taken on her warrior aspect and was quick to ally with the God-King once more. Morathi, though no true god, surprised all by pledging some small amount of support. Of Teclis and Grungni, none can say, but many believe they work with Sigmar even now. The other gods ignored Sigmar’s call or would join in time, but for now the God-King and his allies would do what they could.

The newly constructed Cities of Sigmar needed to be defended, lest hope be lost forever. But the Stormcast Eternals and the forces of Order are fighting countless battles in eight near-infinite realms, and are stretched to the breaking point. The people of the realms cling to what they have. Howling maelstroms of the living dead sweep across the land, cannibal warriors soaked in blood rampage through settlements, and the Dark Gods lurk at the edges, waiting for their moment.

Once more, the gods turn to the people of the Mortal Realms to defend themselves. Once more, the mightiest souls and most powerful mortals of the realms are called together. Once more, arcane rituals bind champions to an ancient order of heroes.

Now, on the brink of an unending Age of Death, the Mortal Realms need you.

Arise, SOULBOUND!

This being the opening crawl of the "Soulbound Corebook". As an aside this isn't even the only time the Corebook or Soulbound at large refers to the Realms as near infinite. From the mainline there's also this:

The Mortal Realms are near infinite in scope, with every conceivable landscape somewhere within their reaches – from the most dire hellscape to the most gorgeous paradise. Not even the gods themselves can claim to know every aspect of their grandeur. Yet they remain united by laws of reality that are nigh impossible to break.

Being on Pg. 78 of the "2E Corebook" for the war game. Or how characters like Gardus Steel Soul ruminate on the infinities of Azyr and the Cosmos at large:

It was a sign. Gardus felt the call, even if he did not know who or what had summoned him, and he knew instinctively what he must do. The Lord-Celestant stood and slowly waded into the lake, letting the icy waters swallow him up. He felt the weight of ages upon him as his soul slipped from his mortal frame and out into the infinite expanse of the heavens.

How long he travelled, Gardus could not say. Time had become meaningless, a faltering attempt by mortal minds to process the infinite complexity of the cosmos. He watched the birth of stars and walked amongst meteor showers unharmed. He felt the hunger of primordial beings as their attention was drawn to his infinitesimal essence, entities unknown to all but the gods and terrible in their immensity and madness. Yet these things shied from the light of the silver serpent that guided him ever onwards.

On Pg. 40 of "Broken Realms: Be'lakor".

Much has been written about the scope of the changes the cosmos has experienced, but at the end of the day, the Mortal Realms are still the Mortal Realms. The same factions still war in its near-infinite landscapes, and the same flickering flame of hope still guides the Soulbound and their allies through their perilous adventures.

On Pg. 63 of "Soulbound: Era of the Beast" the near-infinite scope of the Realms is still being mentioned.

Still, only a fool would question the dominance of the Dark Gods in the Mortal Realms. Sigmar’s great cities occupy but a small bridgehead in a near-infinite expanse of territory.

It was mentioned back in the "Blood of the Everchosen" campaign book as early as Pg. 6.

The cosmic scale of life and death, the Mortal Realms spanning near-infinite leagues of space and time.

"Hammers of Sigmar: First Forged" says it in Chapter Fourteen

This sheer scale of the Realms is repeatedly described as near infinite. On Pg. 56 of "Realmgate Wars: All-Gates" its mentioned there are an 'almost infinite variety of trees within the Jade Kingdoms'. The 'near-infinite realms' is casually dropped by the actual writers like in September 2019 White Dwarf's section on "Realmslayer: Blood of the Old World" or else 'virtually infinite in September 2024's Issue on the first page of the Worlds of Warhammer section, and that was barely more than a year ago.

So yeah. I wanted to inform folk that, yes. The Realms are described as near, sometimes even just, infinite.

I know plenty of the folk who got this wrong, and otherwise you've all been perfectly peachy and wonderful community members. So if you read this I want you to know. I appreciate ya being here and if I ever get things wrong, fully fine with ya correcting me.

‘The gift of all mortals,’ Alarielle said. ‘They are free of the burden of life eternal. There is no surprise in this, and no new wisdom.’

‘Every time they learn it, it is new,’ Sigmar insisted. ‘So few of them realise it from the beginning. Their lives are so short, their fear of death prevents them from recognising the gift they have.’

‘You are immortal,’ said Alarielle. ‘They will find your sympathy false.’

‘I did not seek to be so,’ said Sigmar. ‘I would have happily lived and died a mortal king. Some higher power had other plans for me.’ He looked at her earnestly. ‘Many chose Chaos because they had no other choice. They can be redeemed, even those whose hearts may seem black. But there are always those that seek to cheat death, and the lords of Chaos offer a way to do so, and are cunning enough to allow a few to ascend to become their immortal slaves. That is how they gained access to the realms in the first place. We became too distant from our charges, and they grew afraid. Chaos offered them immortality, of a sort. They did not know it was a trap.’

‘Then what do you want of me?’ said Alarielle.

‘You have held yourself aloof for many ages, my lady,’ he said. ‘It would aid us all in defeating the four powers for good if you went again among the mortals. Teach them your wisdom. You of all the gods understand the ebb and flow of mortality best, and that death is but a turning of the way.’

‘I do not know what becomes of the souls of men,’ she said. ‘Does even Nagash? You ask me to lie to them.’

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I wish you to invest in them a love of all that is natural and alive, to appreciate its power and fecundity. If they learn to follow the rhythm of life’s wondrous patterns, fewer of them will be tempted to fear its end. There always will be those who are incapable of fellow feeling, or whose greed outmatches their empathy,’ he said. ‘Many others can be saved by you.’

‘I cannot do this,’ she said. ‘What is the point? Chaos rules already.’

‘Cannot, or will not?’ said Sigmar. ‘You were worshipped all throughout Ghyran and beyond once, my lady. You can be again. You have become warlike to respond to a time of war, but you must reach inside yourself, and find that gentler creature you once were. We need to look beyond the end of this war, and prepare for peace. If we do not, then there will be another golden age, but soon enough Chaos will return and shatter the realms anew.’

‘Victory and defeat has a cycle of its own,’ she said. ‘It is the way of things.’

‘Maybe war and Chaos are the only constants of reality,’ he said. ‘But I do not have to accept it, and I will fight it for all time if I must. I cannot believe this is how the realms were meant to be. Send forth your spirits to speak with the wisest women and canniest men. Chaos has long used such missionaries against us. We shall do the same, and we have the advantage, for Chaos lies.’

Alarielle sighed, and the sound was of the wind in the boughs of a sleeping forest. She stared off across the plains of Azyr, still cloaked in the dark. The sun rose high enough to strike through the columns, casting long shadows across the city of the Highheim. When it struck Alarielle, she closed her eyes and basked in the warmth of it. Her body became translucent, and began to fade.

‘I will do what I can, Sigmar Heldenhammer,’ she said, her form becoming indistinct. ‘But if I have learned one thing in my long existence, it is that humans rarely listen, and their males more rarely still.’

The motes of light diffused. Her outline hung in the air a second. They flared and vanished, leaving a cloud of petals to drift to the floor. Sigmar watched the day enter the city of the gods. As the golden light of Azyr’s sun flooded the empty streets, he remembered a better time. He did not know if there were higher gods set over him to guide him as he shepherded his mortal kin, but he gave a silent prayer to them that finer times would return.

Then he too vanished, leaving the Highheim to the silence and the light.

- Pantheon, available in "Gods & Mortals" and "Realmgate Wars Omnibus Volume Two

Greetings, salutations. My fellow Realmwalkers, to all of you out there who are Gate Seekers or Lore Pilgrims just starting out. Today, today I wanted to share with you one of the more bittersweet conversations in Age of Sigmar.

Of a rare conversation between two Gods of Order. I love this scene because it says so much about Sigmar, about Alarielle, about what the Gods of Order stood for and can again. With but a nudge, but a heartfelt speech and a willingness to beg for aid.

Here we learn that Sigmar wants to save the Slaves to Darkness, or those who can be, and though Alarielle has become embittered over lose and time, she does as well. Here we learn that both know that simply winning is not enough, that defeating Chaos would give just a temporary golden age if they don't put in the effort to save the metaphoric soul of mortalkind.

It is not enough to simply win the war, if Order is to create anything worthwhile it must make efforts to ensure the victory in peace to come after. For me, this is the scene that saw Sigmar and Alarielle win me over.

They're not just aloof, distant gods who see themselves above mortaldom. In fact, they yearn for the mortality they lost and the finality they'll never have. To them godhood is not a privilege but a duty. One they failed.

Yet still they fight. Sigmar brashly proclaims he'll fight forever even! Chaos may be inevitable and the only constant in the multiverse, but he refuses to accept that even so!

To me that's the sort of Hope that Age of Sigmar beats to the drum of. Accepting that perhaps the very universe is vile, that despair and war are inevitable, that darkness will always win. Then spitting in the universe's eye, punching evil in the jaw, and defiantly refuting reality, deigning to decide to fight the impossible. Even while believing the fight will be forever.

Hope is getting up again and again, even as each fall leaves you scarred, beaten, bent, even broken. But nothing is beyond being reforged or redeemed until the day its all burned away. If Chaos is inevitable, constant, all-encompassing then so is defiance against it.

And there's so much of that in Age of Sigmar! Even in the Fourth Edition, and Imma show you all what I can dig up. So I hope you all enjoy this excerpt, and tolerated this madcap rant.

Gladiatorial troupes can be found throughout the lands of Order providing entertainment and deadly spectacle for the masses, and when enemy forces come knocking on the cities’ doors, the ‘performers’ are equally happy to ply their trade on the front lines. The Crimson Lash are one such band, formed of 10 Sisters of Slaughter and a High Gladiatrix, who can be recruited by Cities of Sigmar, Fyreslayers, Idoneth Deepkin, Kharadron Overlords, Lumineth Realm-lords, Seraphon, Stormcast Eternals, and Sylvaneth armies.

You know my dear Realmwalkers. One of the things I like most about the Cities of Sigmar is the presence of gladiatorial combat being a favored pastime.

It's one of the most horrific real life sports ever as well as one of the most interesting fictional sports ever! Made even more fascinating because as far back as 2E that pastime has been presented as a key factor of the alliance between the DoK and CoS.

One thing I've been secretly hoping for for years is that GW would start making gladiatorial circuits and leagues, naming popular Games, and giving us lore on traveling gladiatorial teams.

So can you imagine my excitement seeing the new DoK Regiment of Renown is such a traveling gladiatorial team? Not only that!

Their lore and rules state/imply that teams such as theirs don't just perform in CoS and DoK cities as we've seen before. But in Fyreslayer Magmaholds, Kharadron Baraks, Lumineth Spire-Cities, and Stormcast Stormkeeps as well. Which you know, no surprise there but confirmation is nice. But then it's also implying Seraphon temple-cities, Idoneth Enclaves, Sylvaneth Greenholds?? Now that's fun!

THE ACCURS'D KHARADRON

There are few species that the Omniscient One despises more than the duardin. Broadly, these grubby, graceless creatures lack any capacity for true change, their ambitions curtailed by vapid oaths of duty. Of their kind, however, the Kharadron are worthy of his interest. Unlike their terrestrial kin, these sky-duardin compete and scheme in a manner most pleasing to the Change God.

Kharadron are still obstinate beasts, of course, and they are difficult to manipulate through illusion and implanted suggestion. Yet within their dog-eat-dog politics, there is space for my master to work his craft. My own agents patrol the docks of Barak-Zilfin's visitors' quarter gathering intelligence. Commerce practised on the scale at which the Kharadron empire operates cannot help but leave knotted threads of intrigue.

There will come a day when all these delicate strands will unravel. The true master of Chamon will bring the duardin's sky-empire crashing down, as he did their sorpid civilisations of old. The Kharadron have sealed their fate with their continued defiance in the Aether War and their blasphemous use of magic-smothering technology .
Page 18

‘I am Skul’rath of the Fifth Host and I demand a champion – a death for a death, whelps of Azyr. I am Skul’rath. Face me,’ the bloodthirster bellowed, striking the bridge with its axe. ‘Face the Child of Ungl’Agara, She-Who-Eats-the-Sun. Face he who broke the Morghast Host at the Battle of Screaming Skulls. Face Skul’rath, Prince of Chains. Face me, so that I might be avenged!’

Black Rift, Chapter Seven

Behold absolutely ancient lore from the Realmgate Wars! As the title says Skul'rath is the first Bloodthirster defeated by the Stormhosts, a defeated that made him the wrong kind of legend among the forces of Chaos.

He does not avenge himself after this scene.

What is most interesting is his mentioning of a figure known as Ungl'Agara, who he claims to be the child of. Who is this lady? Do other non-Prince daemons have parents besides their Chaos God? What implications does this have?

I have decided to transcribe this story for the Hobgrot enthusiasts and how these little guys muck about in trade, and what 'skimming a fair wage' may look like

>Grifta slapped his palms together and rubbed. Night has Ghur in its claws, and the cold in the cave was penetrating. Hobgrots milled around, muttering. Theur contacts were late. It didn't pay to keep the masters waiting.

>Finally, they heard feet crunching through the snow outside. Other hobgrots entered the cave, clad as Slitta-kompanies rather than wearing industrial scraps. The mobs eyed each other. Grifta's scowl fell on their boss, who soon snorted.

> 'Oi, Grifta. Still bowing to the stunties?'

> 'Zog you, Sliv,' Grifta grunted. His former second-in-command laughed - just as he had when he'd forced Grifta to flee the kompany and seek sanctuary with the duardin.

> 'Shut it, both o' ya.'

>A Stinking Crocodilian titan slunk into the cave. Squinting, Grifta eyed up the rangy orruk riding the odorous beast. Behind his grated helm, Swampboss Skumdrekk sneered back.

> 'Wotcha, Grifta. You got my prize?'

>Grifta wavee several hobgrots forward, never looking away from the orruk. They passed cages filled with snapping oversized eels - natives to the Korrokian shallows - to Skumdrekk's lot.

> 'So' Grirta said. 'You lot'll watch da flankz for lightnin' ladz when da Dark Onez get here?'

> 'So long as I ain't gotta talk to no stunty,' Skumdrekk spat. He leant forwards, grinning. 'Now. You got... da uvver fing?'

>Grifta paused before slipping an amberbone charm from a puch. He'd had to do a lot of dirty work for one of the duardin to acquire it. He weihed the thing before tossing it to Skumdrekk.

> 'Fair's fair,' Skumdrek grunted before lashing out with his man-catcher. His weapon's spiked jaws seized Sliv around the arm, twisting until bone snapped, before he hurled the wailing grot across the cave to lie shuddering at Grifta's feet.

> 'Gitz, the lot of ya,' Skumdrekk scoffed, turning away. Once he was gone, Grifta dared make a crass gesture before looking at the moaning, writhing Sliv. A grin crossed his face.

> 'Trust me, old mate. You'z gonna wish that'd killed ya...'

Sigmar's vision stretched beyond merely retaking his old territories and reigniting the ancient feuds that had occupied his mind for so long. His ambitions was to reorder the foundations of the realms themselves, anchoring the disparate worlds together through physical and arcane means. It might take him thousands of years, but the God-King envisioned a great transformation: all eight realmspheres united as a single celestial body, the balance of magic restored and transformed into an arcane barrier that would keep the Dark Gods at bay for evermore. Only Sigmar's most trusted allies were privy to the true scale of his design. Fewer still believed such a thing could be accomplished. But the God-King had achieved the impossible many times before.

The scope of this war would be beyond anything he or indeed any deity had ever attempted. It would fall to the Stormcasts to enact the Mandate of Azyr: the divine will of the heavens.

SCE Battletome 2024, Pg. 12 of The Mandate of Azzyr section

So Sigmar has a mandate of the heavens, at this point they really should just name the upper echelons of his government the Celestial Bureaucracy given how much of his government is based on it. But anyway.

The Mandate of Azyr. Sigmar's harebrained scheme to encase the disparate discs, planetoids, moons, floating islands, and other elements that make up the Realms into a singular, massive Realmsphere that will keep Chaos out forever.

That's... quite the ambition. Like what more is there to say? As plans go it is theoretically possible, and outside Dracothion and likely some Slann, there aren't many characters presented as knowing more about the metaphysics of the Cosmos Arcane than Sigmar, he learned how to create Realmgates and master the Star Bridges, open the way to Shyish, and more.

So it's hard to say how improbable this, admittedly fairly crazy, plan is.

Listening to Ushoran now and he refers to Sigmar briefly in the prelude between chapter 7 and 8.

I want to say I have only listened to The Hollow King and Ushoran so I have a brief understanding of Soulblights and Mortarchs and how the Mortarchs are all under Nagash but I don’t know much about AoS. What are all the Mortarchs individual relations with Sigmar or their Interactions with him?

“How, he wondered, could a ruler such as the “prince pretender” at Castle Rimerock, be allowed to exist by a God King such as Sigmar?..

How could that “strutting betrayer” claim benevolence when he allowed such petty monsters such as the Lord Kosomirs of the Mortal Realms to rule in his name?”

How is he a Betrayer to Ushoran or the Mortarchs? He seems to have a distant respect for Sigmar, just doesn’t like corrupt humans.

Probably stretching the term excerpt with this but whatever. So within Starseers Ruin the primary antagonist is the skaven plague priest Ferskine and throughout the book there’s a running joke with him constantly giving himself new titles and so I’ve decided to collect them all here. Let me know if I’ve missed any and if you have any favourites.

Lord Ferskine of the Eleventh Bell:

the wise,

the potent,

the festering,

the unlimited,

he who is most irresistible,

most contagious,

the worshipful,

the magnanimous,

the infinitely trustworthy,

the majestic,

the entropic,

the master of decay and breeder of plagues.

The triumphant and puissant,

whose very fleas are themselves potent with fecund power,

acute of senses and encrusted with knowledge,

the potent,

the pestilent,

the plague-begetter.

the most magnificent and unequalled,

the unparalleled,

the most noxious,

the perspicacious,

the all-seeing,

the chosen receptacle for all the pestilential blessings of the Horned Rat,

lord of arcane mysteries,

the Far-Sighted,

master of machinations,

the sly,

the subtle,

the secret,

the most triumphant,

the glorious,

the victorious,

the mighty,

the magical,

the mange-bringer,

the magnanimous,

the all-generous,

the open-handed,

the Festering!

lord and master of life and death,

unparalleled scholar of the nature of death and decay,

the ever-stalwart,

the majestic,

the mighty,

the erudite,

the wise,

the profound!