Warhammer: Age of Sigmar

The Forces of Order

As Sigmar hurls his warriors into battle across the Mortal Realms, a new age of war has begun. Everywhere, from the Brimstone Peninsula to the Vale of Shadows, the Stormcast Eternals battle against the legions of Chaos. But they do not fight alone…

Long has the God-King Sigmar planned his vengeance upon the Chaos Gods, mustering his strength and building his armies from the sanctuary of Azyrheim. In ages past, Sigmar was ever the first into the fray, wielding the divine fury of his magical hammer, Ghal Maraz, against the mightiest of monsters and the deadliest of the Chaos God’s servants. But the Age of Myth came to an end, swept aside by an Age of Chaos as the Dark Gods saw the wonders that Sigmar had discovered and claimed them for their own. For years unnumbered, Chaos has reigned…

Now vast Stormhosts of warriors, mighty heroes changed beyond measure and granted the power of demigods, stand ready to battle in his name. These are his soldiers in the war of reconquest that will see the Mortal Realms freed from the tyrannical clutches of the Chaos Gods.

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The Stormcasts

A new breed of hero fights for the Mortal Realms. These souls have been reforged into legends, each the embodiment of a living tempest sent from Azyr by Sigmar himself. They are the Stormcast Eternals, the God-King’s wrath made manifest, and they were created for but a single purpose: war!

The heavens roar and the sky crashes, split by searing bolts from above. With a flash of lightning and a rolling thunderclap the forces of the Stormcast Eternals plunge into battle. Borne by the tempest, these gifted warriors launch their assault, weapons wreathed in arcs of celestial energy. The attack is as swift as it is brutal. Razor-edged blades and heavy hammers rise and fall, a shield-shattering onslaught that batters down all before it with the fury of the heavens unleashed.

The armies of the Stormcast Eternals are comprised of the most formidable champions of Order in all the realms. Raised up by the God-King from their former lives, fiery warrior kings fight shoulder to shoulder with stoic castellans and bellicose priests, each hand-chosen for immortality after a lifetime of fighting against the armies of Chaos. In fair Sigmaron they survived their Reforging upon the Anvil of Apotheosis, leaving their previous incarnations behind, before their tall and broad-shouldered new forms were clad in gleaming sigmarite armour stronger than any steel. The sight of their frowning, impassive masks is known and feared across the Mortal Realms, as are their lightning-charged weapons – tools of war forged by the Six-Smiths that can smash an orruk’s bones to pulp. For those saved from disaster by the Stormhosts, it is easy enough to mistake them for avenging angels sent by a stern and vengeful god.

Though the Stormcast Eternals count only heroes amongst their number, they do not fight as individuals, but as a coherent army. They go to battle not only in massed ranks of infantry, but also in echelons of heavy cavalry, winged hosts and hurricane-swift hunting parties. Each warrior has his own place and specialisation, his skills often enhanced by a loyal beast of Azyr that shares his hatred of Chaos.

In becoming saturated with the magic of the tempest, the Stormcast Eternals can blaze into reality in bolts of celestial force. Once a Stormcast Eternal has taken form upon mortal soil, however, he cannot ascend once more without either passing through a portal to Azyr or dying in battle. When such a warrior is slain he is not truly lost; his body, weapons and armour will discorporate in a heartbeat, transmuting into a crackling cloud of energy that flashes upwards in a blur. When this soul-stuff reaches Azyr, it is drawn back to Sigmar’s vaults, whereupon it is eventually reforged into the Stormcast Eternal that had come before.

The Price of Immortality

There is not always time for the Reforging to run smooth; after all, these demigod warriors have no time for respite. Many who undergo the mystical transformation lose a part of themselves in the process; each time they return to Sigmar’s forge, there is a higher chance they will emerge altered in mind as well as in body. This is troubling in the extreme for the Stormcast Eternals, for under their shining battle armour they are still in part human, with all the hopes, fears and ambitions that come with that birthright. Some find their flaws rising to the surface – the sudden destructive impulses of the Blackhammers, for instance, or the Hammers of Sigmar’s inability to accept failure. Many Stormhosts, the Celestial Vindicators foremost amongst them, feel a burning need to wreak revenge upon those who enslave the people of the Mortal Realms. Others find lightning crackling from their gaze when their ire is raised, or thunder rumbling under their every word. Some haunted souls whisper that to be reforged too many times is to relinquish one’s former existence altogether, becoming a creature of celestial energy that is both less than human and far more at the same time. The truth is not yet known.

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The Sylvaneth

They are the gale that howls through forest canopies. They are the fury of the wild places. They are the stabbing thorn and the tearing root, the grinding rock and the choking vine. They are the sylvaneth, vengeful forest spirits of terrifying power, and to those who despoil their lands, they are death.

The sylvaneth are the offspring of the goddess Alarielle, Queen of the Radiant Wood. They are beings of nature, creatures of life magic whose flesh and sinew are crafted from the living boughs of the wyldwood.

The relationship between the sylvaneth and the Mortal Realms is wholly symbiotic, as are their bonds with each other – all the children of Alarielle are connected by the haunting spirit-song that courses through them. The unifying energies of this strange melody bind the sylvaneth together as one people.

Fey creatures of the wilderness, the sylvaneth can appear capricious or cruel to some. Their motivations seem inconstant, their deeds whimsical and strange. The sylvaneth are not moved by mortal desires such as expanding their borders or amassing plunder. Instead, they are driven to safeguard the natural cycles of the Mortal Realms no matter how weird or dangerous those might be, and to cleanse the land of that which taints it. The sylvaneth can thus prove difficult allies, for their goals and motivations often conflict with those they are fighting alongside.

Though sometimes misunderstood by mortal allies, the sylvaneth are good and noble beings, staunch enemies of Chaos. During the Age of Myth, the sylvaneth claimed places of natural power all across the Mortal Realms. It was these places they fought and died to defend during the Age of Chaos, battling with wild determination even as their Everqueen fought her own war against Nurgle in the Realm of Life. Despite their efforts, the sylvaneth were driven back, until only scattered pockets of resistance remained. Their doom seemed assured. Yet extinction was not to be their fate…

Long were the withering years, and great the miseries that the sylvaneth endured. Their endless song grew mournful, and much was lost that could never be replaced. Rotblight took the Spire of Emerald Dreams. The City of Fronds was burned to ash. Crawling things wormed through the Pristine Heart, and brought dreaming Lilandyr to ruin.

But every waning has its bloom. Every death brings life anew. The cycle turns and turns again, and hope springs up once more.

From amidst the bloody loam of war it grew, a seed of power beyond belief. By magic it had been purified. By the lives of beloved ones it had been saved. By the hand of a champion had it been sown. And now, in the darkest hour, that seed became a goddess.

Alarielle was reborn, and her children rejoiced. No bitter and waning thing was she, but a goddess of war, full-formed and at the height of her powers. With her coming, the spirit-song swelled. Harmonies rose and twined like the branches of some mighty tree. It was a song of vengeance, a song of rebirth, a song of rage. It was a song of war, and from its spiralling chorus, the sylvaneth drew strength.

All across the Mortal Realms, the sylvaneth raised their heads. New life filled them, and with it new purpose. Shimmering life-motes lit the soulpod glades. The thrum of fierce joy and vengeful anger filled Alarielle’s children. They would be victims no more. Now, the wyldwoods would be roused to wrath. Now, the invaders would be driven out and the lands cleansed of taint. Now, the sylvaneth would rise again.

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Kharadron Overlords

Far above the highest mountain peaks, a new power has arisen. In secrecy they have grown strong, developing new technology and weapons of war. Guided by their Code, the Kharadron Overlords have sent forth their sky-fleets, commanding them to return with riches, or not at all…

Kharadron Overlords

Trailing streaks of vapour, the sky‑fleets of the Kharadron Overlords burst from the cloud cover. Like some shoal of deep-sea predators, armour-plated craft angle towards their quarry, drawing ever nearer before the ships’ decks suddenly erupt into deafening life. Roaring bombardments of cannon fire are unleashed. Sleek fighter craft race ahead of the main fleet, swooping down on screaming attack runs. Behind them in arrowhead formation sail the Frigates, their bows obscured as forward guns flash again and again, raining death on foes below. The ground shakes as the first grudgesettler bombs impact; geysers of flame, shattered earth and the broken bodies of the enemy are flung skywards. The largest of the airships – the Ironclad – glides low, mechanical ladders extending as the bold Arkanaut Companies ready themselves to deploy.

Soon the roar of ordnance is joined by the rapid clatter and crack-burst of small arms fire, a sound produced not by crude black-powder weapons, but aethermatically powered carbines, rotary guns and decksweepers. As volley fire from the Arkanaut crews and elite Grundstok Thunderers rakes the foe, the sky cavalry dives downwards. With spherical aether-endrins strapped upon their backs, the daredevil Skyriggers race into the battle, lowering their whirring saws and skypikes to strike down the last of the opposition.

Kharadron Overlords

The Kharadron Overlords are a faction of the duardin unlike any other. Since unlocking the secrets of aether-gold, they have forsaken their mountain holds and taken to the skies. There, guided by their Kharadron Code, they have not merely survived the Age of Chaos but thrived. Now that Sigmar’s armies have returned to the realms, the Kharadron have decreed that the time is right for them to end their isolation and join the fray once more.

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From flame-filled holds and deep mountain vaults, the Fyreslayers march to war. With axes ready and war cries on their lips, they charge into battle, the power of the mighty warrior god Grimnir flowing into them from glittering golden runes hammered into their ruddy flesh.

As the Age of Sigmar begins amid the crash of thunder and flash of lightning, the Fyreslayers look toward the roar of battle. Their patriarchal Auric Runefathers sense the promise of more gold waiting to be won by blood, while their priestly Auric Runemasters feel the spirit of Grimnir stir within their people. It is a time of great promise for the Fyreslayers, and a chance to honour their god with enemies vanquished and oaths fulfilled. Runes burning bright within their flesh, and axes held tight in calloused fists, the Fyreslayers gather their strength for this new age of battle across the Mortal Realms.

The Fyreslayers are the descendants of the warrior god Grimnir. Covered in corded muscles, each Fyreslayer is a natural warrior, determined in battle and skilled with an axe, but they are more than merely gifted fighters. By the flickering light of their forges, their Runemasters craft runes from the magical substance ur-gold, believed by the Fyreslayers to contain the essence of Grimnir. When they hammer these sigils into their flesh, the molten energy of their god courses though their veins. Bodies shimmering with golden flame, blows glance off their skin without leaving a mark, while their own axes strike with thunderous power.

Since the Age of Myth the Fyreslayers have travelled the realms seeking ur‑gold. Spreading from the first vast subterranean magmaholds of Aqshy, the Fyreslayers took root among the realms. They amassed gold, mined from the earth or gathered from the ruins of fallen empires, seeking out the rare pieces of ur-gold hidden among this precious bounty. By far the most gold comes from coin earned in battle, and the Fyreslayers will fight for any who can meet their price. They are much sought after by warlords and kings for their service, for their fury in combat and unbreakable word are legendary across the realms.

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The Seraphon

For aeons unrecorded, the seraphon have waged a savage war against the forces of Chaos. As the Age of Sigmar dawns, their armies descend from the heavens to strike a vengeful blow against the Dark Gods and bring order to the Mortal Realms once more.

Summoned to the battlefield from high Azyr by the vast intellects of the Slann Starmasters, nimble skinks, predatory saurus and hulking kroxigor materialise from searing coronae of celestial energy – the very stuff of the stars themselves.

Long ago, the slann and their seraphon armies ruled a vast and mighty empire connected by glimmering temple-cities. Their sacred duty was to protect the world from the Chaos Gods, whose very existence is anathema to the profoundly rational slann. In that duty they failed.

Impossibly ancient, only the slann have survived through force of will alone. Beings of immense magical power, they have restored their armies, remembering them into existence. Creatures of flesh and blood no more, the seraphon are wrought of star-magic, true beings of Azyr.

As Sigmar’s Storm breaks across the Mortal Realms, the slann heed the call to arms. Like arrows of light falling from the heavens, the Starmasters arrive upon the battlefields of the realms, summoning their seraphon armies from distant memory through sheer magical might. The roars of martial saurus echo across the battlefield as they tear apart the enemies of order. Skinks beyond number illuminate the skies with blazing projectiles. Ripperdactyls swarm the enemy, plucking them screaming from the battlefield. Monstrous Bastiladons lay waste to entire armies. Then, as swiftly as they arrived, the seraphon vanish once more into the stars. Legends are born in the wake of their attacks, but the true purpose of these mysterious, reptilian warriors is known only to the slann.

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The Forces of Chaos

For years uncounted the Mortal Realms have been ground beneath the heel of the Dark Gods, subjugated by the scions of Chaos. As Sigmar’s righteous warriors bring a glimmer of hope to the downtrodden, Daemons, Beastmen and Chaos Warriors ready for the fight.

The Mortal Realms have become the plaything of the Chaos Gods, a blighted reality where Daemons frolic and warbands of Chaos worshippers wage cruel wars of persecution against the battered remnants of once free peoples.

From the burning plains of Athgrand in the Realm of Fire, where bands of Beastmen root out scattered survivors of the tribes of men who cower there, to the pinnacles of the Glass Mountains of Hysh, where the sorcerer covens of Tzeentch erect altars of arcane wizardry, the dominion of Chaos is savage, brutal and nigh complete. As Sigmar launches the first blows of his war of liberation, the Dark Gods stir and their servants rejoice. Against the upstart warriors of the Stormcast Eternals and the misguided outcasts who rally to their cause is arrayed the greatest power in history: the forces of Chaos.

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Master of Chaos

Archaon is the shadow of Chaos cast across the Mortal Realms. Warriors beyond number kneel before his dark majesty, and warlords and kings whisper his name in fear. For Archaon is the Everchosen, greatest of the Dark Gods’ champions, and the doom of all men.

The indomitable will of Archaon the Everchosen grips the Mortal Realms like a mailed fist. Countless men live and die at his command, straining under the yoke of Chaos. None can equal the vast numbers vanquished or enslaved by Archaon, for every victory wrought by Chaos upon the Mortal Realms belongs to him.

Archaon is the Exalted Grand Marshal of the Apocalypse, and it is he who the Dark Gods have charged with conquering the realms. During the long centuries of the Age of Chaos, it was his cruel mastery of war and irresistible might that led to one savage victory after another for the Ruinous Powers. At his side march the feared Varanguard, and the terrible sorceries of the Gaunt Summoners are his to command. Wielding his legendary daemon sword the Slayer of Kings and mounted upon the three-headed daemon beast Dorghar, the Everchosen soars across the battlefield. Those foolish enough to cross blades with him soon seed the ground with their blood, for his combat prowess is unmatched.

Archaon’s presence is such that he unites the howling armies of Chaos, transforming the myriad warriors of the Dark Gods into a single brutal force of domination. Before his wrath, all resistance is soon crushed.

Despite his many victories, however, Archaon craves yet more. An endless thirst for conquest seethes within his heart, driving him on to fresh wars. The ragged remnants of the Everchosen’s enemies are hunted to extinction as his armies scour the far reaches of the realms for new foes to fight and nations to destroy. Soon there will be nothing left of the Mortal Realms but endless landscapes mutated by the touch of Chaos.

Seven of the Eight Realms already languish under the tyrannical dominion of Chaos. Mighty monuments to Archaon’s glory loom over ruined cities, bone-covered plains and broken mountains from Aqshy to Shyish, the ominous banners of the Everchosen snapping in a wind thick with the stench of death. Only Azyr, the Celestial Realm, remains unscathed. Its lord, the God-King Sigmar, long ago sealed its gates to protect it from the Everchosen’s armies, after the Chaos general drove back the legions of Azyr and shattered their alliances. Archaon has sought the destruction of Sigmar and his kingdom for centuries, his warriors battering on the Gates of Azyr to no avail. An ancient enmity exists between these two great champions, and Archaon has taken pleasure in the knowledge that every soul he has claimed, every civilisation he has drowned in blood, Sigmar has borne witness to from his city of Sigmaron. Now that Sigmar’s lightning-forged Stormcast Eternals have launched their war against the Ruinous Powers, a new age of battle has dawned – one the Everchosen welcomes with dark joy. At last, Archaon sees his chance to complete his war of annihilation.

As the Storm of Sigmar rolls out across the realms and the Stormhosts descend upon bolts of crackling lightning, Archaon rides out to meet them, and the united hosts of Chaos are his to command, in all their dark and terrible glory.

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A plague upon the realms

The Children of the Horned Rat take many forms, amongst the most foul of which are the Clans Pestilens. These zealous skaven are disciples of disease, foul harbingers of decay who hurl themselves into battle with frenzied ferocity.

The Virulent Processions of the Clans Pestilens flow across the Mortal Realms like rivers of living filth. First come the rats, a matted carpet of squirming, squealing horror that spills from every crack and crevice. Behind these unnatural vermin billows the smog, towering clouds of jaundice-hued fumes that rot everything they touch.

Rolling through the pervasive murk come terrible sounds. Rusted bells peal, their echoes reverberating from every direction. Chittering voices raise shrieked prayers to the Horned Rat, the lurking god who gnaws at the roots of the realms. The skin crawls at the shuffle and scratch of a million scrabbling claws, drawing closer with every passing moment.

These ominous harbingers alone prove enough to put some armies to flight, whole tribes turning to flee from the onrushing horror that flows towards them through the smog. Enemies brave enough to stand their ground are first struck by the horrific fire of the Plagueclaws, sprays of diseased filth raining down upon their lines to rot flesh and spread rank contagion. Flesh bruises and bloats. Blisters spread across tainted skin. Bones rot and organs turn to foul slurry in moments. As the screams of the sick and the dying ring in the polluted air, the Clans Pestilens surge from the miasma.

The land blackens beneath the scurrying footclaws of countless Plague Monks. Plague Furnaces creak and groan as they are heaved into battle, vast censers belching fumes as the Plague Priests standing atop them screech exhortations to their mad-eyed Congregations of Filth. Plague Censer Bearers careen headlong towards their horrified enemies, corrosive fumes spilling from their dread flails. At the heart of the swarms stalk the looming Verminlord Corruptors, daemons of the Horned Rat who desire the ruination of every living thing in the realms. Against such horrors, there can be little chance of victory. Even the mightiest opponents are soon reduced to rat-gnawed corpses as the Virulent Procession sweeps onward.

The rancid hordes of the Clans Pestilens wish to see the Mortal Realms wither and decay. But this is not their only goal, for they are engaged in a holy war, a diseased crusade that has lasted for years beyond count. Upon the command of the Horned Rat himself, the Clans Pestilens seek the Thirteen Great Plagues, and will allow nothing to stand in their way.

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The Lord of Skulls

There is no room for beauty or compassion in the black heart of Khorne, for his only desire is to see the realms burn in the fires of war. The Blood God’s volcanic wrath cannot be tempered, and his favour can only be gained through ceaseless slaughter and a worthy tribute of skulls.

Khorne is the mighty Blood God of Chaos, rage incarnate and lord of slaughter. He is the destroyer of worlds and the manifestation of hatred, and by his will thousands of civilizations have been butchered. Khorne’s mortal followers and his legions of daemons carve gruesome paths across the Mortal Realms. For the glory of their god, they spill the blood of all who stand before them and reap mountains of skulls for the Skull Throne.

Khorne’s kingdom is in the Realm of Chaos, where for an endless expanse of time the Chaos Gods have battled for supremacy. Although the dark powers of these hellish deities have ever ebbed and flowed, mighty Khorne has remained dominant. Khorne is paid tribute with every drop of blood that is spilt in battle, and whenever great wars are waged, Khorne’s immortal being is greatly strengthened. The unending battles that consume the Mortal Realms only serve to empower the Blood God. Whether the fallen are the heroes of just causes or the servants of evil, Khorne cares not – all that matters is that the blood continues to flow.

Within the Realm of Chaos, Khorne’s domain is a blood-stained, volcanic wasteland at the centre of which is the Brass Citadel. Here Khorne resides, enthroned atop a mountain of skulls, his baleful gaze scouring the Mortal Realms as he looks for worthy foes against whom he can unleash his followers. Where his wrath is drawn, daemonic legions spill from the void and his chosen mortal armies – the Bloodbound – drown the lands in gore.

Amongst mortals Khorne is described in infinite fearsome ways, though most Khorne worshippers depict their deity as having the head of a monstrous war-hound. He is covered in baroque armour and with immensely muscled arms he wields his favoured blade. This ornate sword – which has been called Ender of Worlds, Allslaughter, and countless other titles – can cut through armies with a single hateful swing, and when imbued with the entirety of Khorne’s wrath it can rend reality itself.

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Tzeentch almighty

Anarchy incarnate, the god Tzeentch is known by many titles, including the Changer of the Ways, the Master of Fortune, the Great Conspirator and the Architect of Fate. Tzeentch’s domains are magic and guile, for he is the god of sorcery and deceit. Schemes, plots, and machinations are his delight.

Tzeentch is one of the Greater Chaos powers, a brother god to Khorne, Nurgle and Slaanesh, and often an ally to the pantheon’s newcomer, the Great Horned Rat. Even amongst gods, Tzeentch is the undisputed master of the arcane arts, for magic is the most potent of all agents of change. This does not mean Tzeentch is above sullying his hands with war – rather that he much prefers to win battles through guile and sorcery over brute force. He favours the cunning over the strong, the manipulative over the violent. In his true shape, Tzeentch is the most outlandish of the Dark Gods. His skin crawls with constantly changing faces that leer and mock any who dare to gaze upon him. As Tzeentch speaks, these faces appear and disappear, some repeating his words with subtle differences, or perhaps providing mocking commentary to cast doubt upon the original words. Ever shifting, nothing of Tzeentch feels definitive – even his purpose is unimaginably complex, his schemes beyond the ken of mortals. Yet Tzeentch’s growing ascendancy after Sigmar’s return to the Mortal Realms and the battles of the Realmgate Wars hints at plans long nursed to fruition. Embedded deep within Sigmar’s grand cities, mortal cultists work in secret to advance his unknowable goals, while Tzaangor tribes raid the ancient places of the realms in search of lost treasures and esoteric knowledge. Should the need arise, Tzeentch sends his daemonic hosts forth in all their scintillating glory, to sear the land with the coruscating flames of change.

The Great Game

The never-ending struggle of each of the Chaos Gods to gain dominion over the others is known to Tzeentch as the Great Game. To the most masterful of schemers, this game offers not just endless amusement, but also boundless opportunities. Not only does Tzeentch constantly seek to further his own ambitions, but he is equally voracious in his desire to manipulate or counteract the best-laid plans of his rivals. Through convoluted machinations Tzeentch has subverted his brother gods time and again.

The Realm of Chaos is Tzeentch’s playground for the Great Game. There, he instigates infighting – a pursuit of which the god never tires. One of his most infamous deeds in the Great Game was to beguile Khorne’s greatest Bloodthirster, Skarbrand, into attacking his patron. It was Tzeentch’s magic that crystallised the cycles of Nurgle’s Garden and, although few know the full tale, it was Tzeentch’s plotting that led to Slaanesh’s absence. The battles for control of the Mortal Realms have only added new challenges to the Great Game.

Tzeentch’s plots are manifold, but none are simple. Revelling in complication, Tzeentch’s plans can appear contradictory to those few observers able to detect his influence, for he is patient and willing to wait long centuries for his obtuse intrigues to bear fruit. And Tzeentch is fickle, prone to adding elaborate intricacies to his own plots, or perhaps introducing obstacles to impede them. Indeed, the Architect of Fate rejoices in the construction of each plan as much as he revels in watching it unravel.

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The Forces of Death

Across the Mortal Realms tendrils of pure necromancy creep forth with the inevitability of death as Nagash, the Supreme Lord of the Undead, rises once again. An ancient evil, Nagash seeks utter dominion not just of Shyish, the Realm of Death, but all of the Mortal Realms.

The undead are a force unlike any other, a numberless foe spurred on by the implacable will of their master, Nagash, overlord of the Amethyst Realm. Across each of the embattled Mortal Realms this chill influence can be felt, permeating the very ground as the dead forsake their tombs to rise again. Their one true purpose is to impose the merciless, uncaring order of the dead upon all existence, driven towards this cruel goal by the unbending and immortal will of their relentless master, Nagash.

The armies of death are vast beyond measure, for war within the Mortal Realms has been waged relentlessly since the Age of Myth, and the corpse-mounds of ancient battles serve as recruiting grounds for the forces of Death. Endless armies of Deathrattle Warriors stride forth to do their master’s dark will, bleached bones clattering and grinding with every step. Mouldering corpses left to decay on abandoned battlefields are reanimated to become the shambling, mouldering hordes known as Deadwalkers. Spectral hosts of wraiths and shades haunt the fell places of the world, cursing the unwary to a terrifying demise.

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Flesh-eater Courts

Hidden among the ruins of the Mortal Realms thrive the Flesh-eater Courts. Bound by the madness of their Abhorrant Ghoul Kings, throngs of mordants live out their pitiful lives feasting upon the corpses provided by the endless war and strife of kingdom after kingdom.

In every corner of the realms, nightmarish tales are told of the Flesh-eater Courts. When war and famine ravage a land, its most desperate and determined people survive in any way they can. Giving in to hunger, they turn upon the fallen, the weak, and even each other in their quest for sustenance. Retreating into the shadowed ruins of their towns and cities, these cannibal cults devolve into hideous parodies of society, kept alive on a diet of rancid flesh and bone. Even then these creatures are worthy of pity, for their transformation into ghouls is not yet complete; only once a cannibal partakes of an abhorrant king’s feast do they become what is known as a mordant.

The kings themselves are bestial vampires who rule over swathes of the Mortal Realms by the strength of their ragged courts. Completely delusional, they have become known as abhorrants by the rest of their bloodsucking kin. Abhorrant Ghoul Kings are so lost in their madness that they believe themselves to be mortal monarchs. When they come to a place infested with cannibals, they see not monsters, but starving peasants and soldiers eager for the hand of a beneficent master. Each abhorrant king brings with him more than just dark rulership – they also spread their contagious madness. Weak minds are quickly turned, but even the strong-willed soon see the king as he sees himself. Before long, those that once hid in shame from the light stand tall, armoured in delusion. In a mockery of civilisation, the king brings them into his court, dubbing the pale horrors that bow and scrap before him his mordants.

By the will of the abhorrants do the Flesh-eater Courts congregate in the realms. Gathering up feasts from among the living and the dead, they rend apart their enemies and prepare the fallen’s flesh for their lord’s culinary pleasure. Some among the mordants might even be blessed to sup the king’s blood – in their minds drinking wine from their master’s table. However, the thick crimson draught brings with it a terrifying transformation. These creatures arise as drooling horrors, slaved utterly to their new master, and bereft of what remained of their sanity. In time, a few of these ‘blessed’ ones might even ascend from mordants to join the vampire ranks of the abhorrants, and if fortune favours them, in turn found their own courts, thus spreading the madness of the Flesh-eaters.

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The Forces of Destruction

As Sigmar launches his war of reconquest against the legions of Chaos, other powers are also waging relentless wars across the Mortal Realms. While orruks fight and brawl for the atavistic joy of battle, the ogor tribes battle to glut their insatiable appetites.

From one end of reality to the other, the clamour of war is heard as the Chaos Gods attempt to maintain their domination of the Mortal Realms, no longer unopposed thanks to the heroic intervention of Sigmar’s Stormcast Eternals.

But not all creatures in the Mortal Realms are cowed by the dominion of Chaos – some instead rejoice in the thrill of never-ending warfare and the chance to test their mettle against a foe as relentless and unbending as themselves. These are the forces of Destruction, warriors for whom the concept of Order and Chaos mean nothing and only might makes right.

As the Age of Sigmar dawns, orruks and grots, ogors and Aleguzzler Gargants all have their part to play – whether it is to crush the legions of Chaos or thwart Sigmar’s grand designs is yet unknown.

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The Ironjawz

A booming roar rolls out across the Mortal Realms. Like an avalanche of hardened muscle and jagged-edged metal, the Ironjawz rampage through their foes. They are the biggest and meanest of the orruks, and under their massive choppas, empires and kingdoms are smashed to rubble.

Ironjawz are hulking brutes, always eager for a good scrap. As the largest members of a race infamous for their ferocity, they live only for war. Nothing is so pleasing to the ear of an Ironjaw as the sound of battle, of blades on armour and the screams of the dying. Taller and far broader than a man, they loom over their opponents, their battle-scarred hides encased in beaten iron armour. Fighting is everything to an Ironjaw orruk, for their small, brutish minds have room only for thoughts of wanton violence.

Under the vicious leadership of their bosses, mobs of Ironjawz stampede to battle. As they charge into the wild chaos of combat with weapons held high, the air vibrates to their long, deafening war cry of Waaagh!. Might makes right among the orruks, and none are as mighty as the Ironjawz. Over centuries of war, the races of the Mortal Realms have learned well to fear the coming of the Ironjaw warclans. The lost Empire of Shardlun, the wasteland where the Six Hundred Kingdoms once stood and the sunken Spires of Vys are all legacies of the Ironjawz. A green tide of ferocity, Ironjaw hordes rampage across the Mortal Realms in their countless millions, looking for armies to fight and cities to tear down, until all corners of the realms echo with their fury.

The Ironjawz are only just beginning their great war. It was during the Age of Chaos that they rose to power, thriving on the constant battle. Like the slowly growing rumble of a predator’s growl, the Ironjaw warclans grew and expanded, until their mobs covered the lands. They fought against the beasts of the realms, human enclaves, other orruks, the armies of Chaos, and any others that crossed their path. For every battle they won, they grew in size and strength, and for every battle lost, they came back and fought all the harder. Soon, other orruks started to follow the Ironjawz about, reckoning that wherever there were Ironjawz there would always be a good rumble.

Now a new age of war has begun, heralded by the crash of Sigmar’s Storm, and the Ironjawz can smell violence in the air. The orruks’ great two-headed god, Gorkamorka, has sensed it too. Eager for the coming carnage, he has sent a champion to lead the Ironjawz and their clans. Gordrakk, the Fist of Gork, is uniting the orruks under his pitiless gaze. For the first time in an age, the orruks are gathering in massive numbers for a Great Waaagh!. It will be an army so vast it will drown the realms in teeming greenskin armies until all that remains is smouldering ruins and shattered land.

In the vanguard of the Great Waaagh! will be the Ironjawz, earning their place among the clans by cracking skulls and smashing faces. At their head ride hulking Megabosses atop massive Maw-krusha mounts, surrounded by huge mobs of massive, ironclad Brutes. Charging past the Brutes, bellowing Gore-grunta cavalry barrel into the enemy, their eyes wild with battle lust. In their wake, crazed orruk shamans spew forth sorcerous energy, and rowdy Warchanters thump out a rhythm of destruction like the beat of mighty war drums heard in the distance. The races of the realms are starting to realise that the Great Waaagh! is stirring, and that the rumbling they feel shaking the land is the Ironjawz coming their way.

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The Bonesplitterz are the wildest of all orruks. With the furious energy of the Great Green God Gorkamorka bouncing around within their thick skulls, they have little time for anything that doesn’t involve hunting the giant beasts of the realms for the Waaagh! spirit they believe rests in their bones.

The feral spirit of Gorkamorka fills the minds of all orruks when they gather in great numbers, making them even more savage than normal. This Waaagh! power is characterised by roiling green energies, and is rightly feared by all who face the greenskins. The Waaagh! is especially important to the Bonesplitterz. When other orruks get caught up in the mania, it is only for a short while – usually as long as there are things to fight. The Bonesplitterz, however, constantly feel it thrumming through their bones. For them, it is a way of life, and their whole clan is focussed around venerating its energy.

The Bonesplitterz believe the Waaagh! is a living thing made up of unruly beast souls, which can be captured and caged in broken bones and crude tattoos. Under the guidance of their Wurrgog Prophets, the holy leaders of each warclan, the Bonesplitterz hunt monsters across the Mortal Realms to claim their wild spirits.

An orruk does not choose to join the Bonesplitterz, but instead is chosen. Sometimes, when the spirit of Gorkamorka gets into a greenskin’s head, it just refuses to leave. This drives the orruk into a feral frenzy as the god’s energy rattles around in his skull. Other orruks find the these manic boys strange and unsettling because of how they’re always talking to themselves or hitting other orruks with rocks in which they claim to have seen the face of Gork. In time, they either wander off or are violently kicked out of their warclans. After leaving their old tribes and bosses behind, portents and signs sent by Gorkamorka guide these savage orruks to the nearest Wurrgog Prophet. Under the leadership of these shamans, the boys become Bonesplitterz and set out to spread the power of the Waaagh! across the realms.

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Beastclaw Raiders

Beastclaw Raiders are the harbingers of dark months and dead seasons. When the sun hides its face in fear and the winter winds sweep down from the sky, mortals pray to their gods for salvation. For these are the times of frost and snow, when ravenous ogor tribes stalk through the freezing darkness.

Out of slate-grey snowfall and howling gales the Beastclaw Raiders ride. Monstrous hunting parties atop huge mounts, they pillage the land, crushing and devouring everything their path. With the crude brutality of their assault comes a howling icy wind, cast forth from snow-heavy clouds and the ogors’ own frigid war-beasts. Soon, nothing remains of the enemy but a wasteland of cracked ice and frozen bones, and the raid moves on, looking for fresh prey. This is the way of the nomadic Beastclaw Raiders, who do not fight for land, empire, or the glory of the gods, but care only about their next meal.

Every Beastclaw Raider is a fearsome fighter, each one more than a match for half a dozen Freeguild swordsmen, Greenskinz orruks or Bloodbound warriors. They are corpulent creatures covered in thick slabs of muscle, and each stands twice as tall as a man, a looming mountain of hunger and ill-temper. Such is their strength that, with a single meaty hand, an ogor can crush an orruk’s skull or throttle the life from a Dracoth. Beastclaw ogors are so immensely tough that they wear little in the way of armour for protection. Their bulk allows them to suffer scores of stabs, cuts and blows without feeling the effects, laughing and bellowing through pain and injury as they continue to kill.

Each Beastclaw Raider tribe is known as an Alfrostun. These wandering armies are led by the oldest and most powerful ogor of the raid, known as the Frostlord. He is a hunter chieftain who stalks across the Mortal Realms seeking out prey. Under his command are hulking Mournfang packs, mammoth Stonehorns, and frost-wreathed Thundertusks, the beasts making the ground tremble with their advance. In the wake of these monsters and their riders, other creatures appear. Drawn to the Alfrostun by supernatural cold and the promise of prey, they emerge from the darkness – the snarling Frost Sabres and the savage Yhetees.

The size and strength of the ogors and their beasts are not the only weapons they bring to the battlefield. At their backs blow the winds of winter, magical storms of ice that ravage those who stand against them. The ogors call these sorcerous blizzards the Everwinter, but they go by many titles: the Wyrdwind Icestorms, the Breath of Gorkamorka and the Frostfeyr March, to name but a few. Each Alfrostun must forever stay ahead of this cold. They ride on the edge of the storm, taking advantage of its first gusts of wind and frosts, but never lingering long enough for the full brutality of the Everwinter to catch up with their warriors.

With the Everwinter as a constant companion, each Alfrostun scours the land for meat, gathering up all they can with gluttonous fury until they are forced to move on to fresh hunting grounds. Great kingdoms and sprawling continents bear the scars of the Beastclaws’ passing, and many once-thriving and fertile places have been reduced to wastelands of ice by the coming winter that follows in their tracks. Countless peoples have meet their end in the bellies of the Beastclaw ogors, devoured along with their now-dead civilisations. For the ogors are a force of nature that never stops in its relentless hunt for more prey – raiding, ravaging and waging war upon the realms without respite or mercy.

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