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I have a bunch of lore that I have written for the setting of my Age of Sigmar collection. I had these over on another forum but I figured I would share it here. I hope you enjoy.

Arranoc, the last of the Shimmering Isles is a great metropolis of tree and stone spanning the entire surface of the original island. The span of life goes ever upwards as the life magics at the Well of Renewal fuel the city’s growth. Great buildings formed of twisting branches of interwoven trees grow and calcify by the hands of skilled life mages. to become the foundations for a new generation to build upon. At the heart of the city is the Temple of Renewal from where the Well flows out into the surface forming five mighty rivers that flow to the edge of the island to fall off into the lands below. The life giving power of the Well is the base upon which the ruling council of Druid Kings controls the workings of the city and the dealings of its inhabitants. Obedient only to the Everqueen, they keep a watchful eye of the servants of other gods that have come to occupy the Outer Kingdoms of Arranoc.

The Radient Queen founded the city in a marvel of life magic during the Age of Myth. Casting soulpods throughout the forests around the wellspring to nurture their growths. From these soulpods grew the foundations upon which a torrent of life magic flowed and formed new shapes at Allarielle’s command. New structures would be formed to then be worked and finished by the work of her forest folk. Well after the Everqueen left this place the sylvaneth worked tirelessly in the great effort left to them to use the life magic of the Well of Renewal to expand the city at an ever growing rate throughout the ages. As new sediments were added the source of the Wellspring grew further from the surface until many miles stretch between the source and the towering tree that forms the Temple of Renewal.

It was then that the forces of Nurgle began to overwhelm the shoal of surrounding sky-islands and the ultimate choice was made. Convening in the central temple, the ancients and wizen branchwraiths gathered and leant all their songs to a spell to save their home. Opening a vortex of pure aetheric power from between the Realms the created a point at the bottom of the island the focused into a portal between the realms. With random whim the powers fling the Island between the Realms. For centuries it might dwell in Chamon and gain denizens like the duradin who now dwell in its lower reaches. In sudden shifts the island will travel between many Realms before settling on a particular place to rest for variable amounts of time. This is how the sylvaneth who survived thrived during the Age of Chaos booming in numbers and new soulpod groves grew all over the island. The realms through which the Arranoc travels always leave a mark on the Well of Renewel and when the new annual Season of Renewal begins the island changes according to the magics affecting it. Only once during the end of the Age of Chaos did the island travel to the Realm of Azyr. Here it stayed for many years, its inhabitants moving to and from the island to colonize the Shimmering Forests with new soulpod groves. In exchange men, aelves and duardin were allowed to move into the outer city that had been wrought by the hands of the forest folk of the aeons. As is the way of mortals these peoples began to make their mark on the Island forever changing it in their own ways. The Aelves found conflict with the sylvaneth forest folk who would on whimsy forget the alliances and slaughter who villages of innocents. They decided to approach the duardin and their high sorceress forged an agreement for cohabitation within the catacombs and dark halls the filled the underside of the island. The Azyrite duardin found ancient clans dwelling deep below the island. These duardin had founded a temple to Grungni from where grew an engineering school that would come to control the industry of war that protects the island’s walls with firepower drawn from their forges. The men who came to the island soon began to grow orchards of fruits and bounties unheard of in the realm of the heavens. Their populace booming the humans began to encroach on the inner island where the syvaneth came to a standoff to prevent the desecreation of a soulpod grove. It was here that Dramareth, Son of Durthu, brought the humans to an ultimatum. Either they heed his wisdom of face his wrath. The gathering sylvaneth soon outnumbering the Azyrites exponentially. The message clearly displayed for the Azyrite guests a council was formed between the Ancient Treelords and Branchwraiths of the sylvaneth and the Druid Kings who ruled the outer kingdoms. At the central temple of of Allarielle built atop the Wellspring of Renewal the council gathers and deliberates on the laws and settles cases between the races such as claims on land. Often times the sylvaneth will win the deliberations as Dramareth looms over the gathering making his presence known.

When the age of chaos ended and the new cities sprang up all around the realms, the island began to shimmer, and it left Azyr behind and began the violent transition to a new realm. When the denizens of from Azyr began to panic and disorder descended on the cities of the outer kingdoms, it was then that the cults of Tzeentch struck. Having long infiltrated the city the magisters spread word of a corrupting god who would give power to the upstart mortal druids who sought to worship at the altar of the wellspring. Soon clandestine cults spread all throughout the human cities and the fire of revolution were stoked leading to a full third of the druid order falling to chaos. The remaining Druid King beseeched Dramareth to aid the human kingdoms in their hour of need and a grim concession was made. The ancients gathered and decided a ‘great prunning’ was to be enacted. Within the druid order a secet police was instructed to investigate every practioner of magic on the island. From the Druid Kings to lesser garden thralls to the High Sorceress of the darklings. All were suspect of chaos and hundreds were put to the sword their remains thrown over the islands side unable to return to the wellspring to take part in the cycles of life and death on the island. A twisted branch of battlemage assisted by hungering spite-revenants hunts those accused of heresy and chaos magic. A coven of aelf witches also roams the island in search of the taint of chaos. They have put entire villages to the flame as well as corrupted soulpod groves. The fires of Tzeentch left the scar of the Inquisition upon the island. Great stretches remain barren as a testament to the power of the wyrdfyre cults that sought to cause total anarchy in the forest-cities of the outer kingdoms. The power of the wellspring is pushed to its limits, so the regrowth process is slow in most of the afflicted areas. Deep within many abandoned groves and in dark caverns twisted beastkin dwell waiting for the return of the Feathered Lord so that they can one day burn the forests down and replace it as an island of twisted nightmares constantly in change as to better please their insane god.

Years of the shifting from realm to realm left its toll on the Azyrite kingdoms left on the island. The Council rules with and iron fist on the surface policing the mortal populations for taints of chaos. The underdark controlled by the both darkling houses or duardin clans, the upper reaches were given over to the darklings as the duardin favored being near the magic marvel that is the the realmgate near the bottom of the island. This clear division is upheld by a mutual understanding that to stand together is better than to fall divided. Little love exists between the two races but when the Marshal calls for muster the darkling phalanxes and duardin artillery trains show in great strength. Stormcasts from the Hallowed Knights have dedicated a detachment of warriors to protect the wellspring as a token to the Everqueen and a show of solidarity between the Sigmarites and the followers of Alarielle. They stand guard within the temple something the Inquisition views with suspicion claiming the influence would sway the faithful from Alarielle’s worship.

Boledrian cast the runic seeds for a tenth time with the same result. Always the specter reigned above the Lady. Death over life. No divining with runic seeds was ever the same, with slight variations in the scatter. But this was different. The seeds told the same story every casting.

"Death will reign", creaked a figure from the shadows of the dark night. The voice belonged to the malicious spite-revenant that was his near constant companion.

Boldrian gathered the seeds and glanced about before rising, his worn robes tinkling with a profusion of amulets and talismans. An Inquisitor needs his insurances.

The narrow path upon which he stood was framed by great twisting trunks and branches of trees grown to form the structure of the storefronts and tenements that occupied this district of the city. Mostly refugees from the lands below; Azyrites mostly but many from Ghur where the Great Island had come to rest recently. Boledrian knew that with refugees came despair, and with despair came the breeding ground for the changling cults to recruit. The castings kept pointing him to this district with its eternal twilight under its twisted canopy.

Boledrian knew of the struggles that afflicted this district. A rise in a new plague outbreak that took one in five with a horrible death at the end. Swiftly the druids had reacted to the outbreak; loosening the Sisters and their malevolent spite allies, much like his spirit-path walking companion. After the pogroms that followed the denizens of these slums knew better to be near at Boledrian's approach.

He cast his shadow long down the road, sending a feeling to hear the spirit-song of the deranged tree-kin that acted in a way as liaison in this hunt for the tree-folk, though so far it had been of little help in acquiring information aside from occasionally terrifying their prey until Boledrian would end their miseries with a crossbow bolt of pure silver-elm. The creature remained distant to his callings, never giving voice to its intentions. He did not know if it was agent for the Sylvaneth or simply a mad spirit following him for its own inscrutable means.

As he made his way along the cobble-roots of the street a chill wind began to pick up. Slowly and silently the wind picked up into a low-moaning wail. The leaves and hanging talismans rattled and made apparent to Boledrian that something was askew. Hefting his rough worn crossbow with the action locked he made a slow advance down the road.

Though not a skilled practitioner in magic, he had developed a particular witch-sight that allowed him to track instances of magic to their source. In this particular instance, with this particular wind his witch-sight left a sickening feeling in his gut. Unfortunately, the spirit-paths his Sylvaneth companion traversed were invisible to his sight. He knew not if the vicious spite played tricks on him to unease his resolve or if it was something else altogether different.

Upon his waist the icon of Usirian began to glow a brilliant amethyst light as it confirmed what Boledrian had suspected. As he made the next step the gale picked up in such intensity that he was forced backwards off his feet and onto his back, his breath knocked out of him. The wail reached such a deafening volume that Boledrian's ears rang until the point of his eardrums bursting.

Flailing breathless and deaf to the world, the druid-seeker was unaware of the mists the swiftly filled the roadway and brought with them a chill that reached the bone. Boledrian grasp at his side, feeling a broken rib as he made it to his feet and became aware of his surroundings. He tried yelling but found his voice mute. He screamed and screamed but was unable to hear anything. Clawing at his deafened ears he caught sight of movements in the mists.

Not in the mists, but the mists themselves. Raising his head to look upwards he saw twenty feet in the air a wailing spirit of a woman. A banshee. A foul servant of the Great Necromancer had manifest and brought with it a host of tormented spirits. Ghastly hands reached for him, their screaming voices falling on deaf ears as Boledrian tried to flee but found himself trapped. With but one option left he grasp at the assortment of trinkets and icons he had about his person until he found upon a small seed that glimmered with an iridescent shell. Quickly he tossed the seed while muttering an incantation of growth. With a sudden and violent rapidity thorned brambles burst from the ground and seized on the wailing spirits one by one in a way that no corporeal thing should. Almost as suddenly as the vines had burst and grasped the host of spirits were the vines withered and died taking the spirits with them.

It was in this moment that Boledrian dove through the momentary opening and managed to land with a trained aim behind him. Without a moment to fire the host of spirits was descending towards him again he cringed back and gave into his primordial fear of death. As he sank to his knees in the face of a physical manifestation of his fate a tittering song began to play in his head. Though deaf he heard a mocking laughter hidden in the song. Out of the walls of branch and bole and canopy above came forms that gave voice to the song in his head. Creatures as much a part of the forest as it was part of them, that had given into the primal urge to kill and slaughter without need or want but simply the necessity of it. He found the creature that had secreted him since his assignment to this case and gazed with his witch-sight into its intention. Nodding he removed a series of vials from a bandolier about his chest which he threw into distance. As they shattered a red alchemical smoke rose into the air. Soon the Sisters would arrive, and they could curb the spites more malicious tendencies from getting to the innocents. The creatures descended from the canopy above and grasped futilely at spirits, occasionally raking and unfortunate soul when it manifests into solidity. Out of the walls of the very buildings they charged at the spirit hosts, clawing like crazed maniacs at the air in hopes of rending through a spirit as they made to attack. The banshee had begun to keen another song that was soon to reach its deafening crescendo as a javelin burning with green witch-fire struck her in the heart.

As the banshee gave its death wail and began to discorporate so too did the other tormented spirits that she had brought with her into this realm. The green witch-fire spread to the rest of the host and soon nothing remained that would have given evidence to what had happened. Disbelieving at his own survival, Boledrian stared where the spirit host had almost taken his immortal soul when the Sisters of the Thorn approached him. It was their sisterhood that acted as executioner when the Inquisition has need of a heavy hand. The sisters were all aelf maidens who had made covenant with an ancient being of the island or, so the legends said.

From their glowing fey-stag mounts the Sisters watched Boledrian for what seemed like punishingly long moments before the lead Sister raised her staff and a warm sensation began to overcome his ears. After it abated he began to slowly hear sounds again.

"Stand and be recognized," commanded the lead aelf with a voice that pierced his weak hearing.

"I am Boledrian Winterleaf of the High Council's Inquisition," he said with a weak flourish that displayed his badge of honor on his chest.

"Very well," the aelf witch said as she lead her mount to leave.

"We must find the coven of death witches at the heart of this Sister, you cannot just let these kinds of occurrences keep happening. I have cast my runic stones twelve times this night and each casting is precisely the same, telling that Death will reign over Our Lady."

At this the witch turned back at glared deeply into his eyes. The pupiless gaze bore deep into his mind and soul searching for the truth. Having found her answer she raised her staff and the other riders halted. With curt hand gestures she sent several of her sisters off in different directions and returned her gaze to him.

"We will aid you Druid but know this: our magic comes at a cost and we demand a greater title of children this year to compensate. Do you agree?"

"Of course, I agree, she-aelf. As by the oath sworn by our two orders. Now tell me what the root of all this death magic in these wastrel streets is?"

"A blood-leech has left its taint on this death magic; do you not see it with your witch-sight?"

"No, I have been a little uneased by my experiences of late," he retorted back.

"There is a trail, if one is keen enough to follow," she baited him.

Stifling his hurt pride for the miraculous return of his hearing he decided not to return insult. These aelfs were stranger than normal aelves and that was saying much. He knew they would muster forces wherever their whimsy might have sent for aid. But as with all their deal it came at a price. A price in innocence that would be high this year indeed. Those children taken are never seen again and no one ever sees them go. Simply vanish.

His spine chilled to think of his childhood and the myths that gave him nightmares as a child. "Let us begin then, lead the way sister."



The leader and two of her sisters lead Boledrian and a few of the lingering spite-revenants who seemed to be now literally shadowing all his moves. Of the five none where the one who hid from his perceptions. These were its drones, those so lost in the pursuit of prey that they were little more than shells of sylvaneth filled with the wrath of a wild beast barely held by the leash.

Boledrian would say that fear was part of his world and that he made a living of it, but that would be a lie. His career as an Inquisitor had been one of desk work and very rarely was he called upon for a raid. This was different, and his warrant was for a very real man, no ghost or ghast.

As the aelves lead the way to the presumed vampire's lair, a troupe of sisters arrived and rode to speak with the leader. After a curt exchange the riders split and rode down two adjoining streets. This had been the fourth such exchange in the past ten minutes and their pace had slowed considerably. The road had opened onto a plaza with a bubbling spring in its center. The water gave a slight luminous glow as it came out of the roughhewn pillar at the center of the shallow pool. The cobble-roots were worn around the circular area from a telling history of foot-traffic over the ages.

Of the other two roads that met in this square, the Sisters were present cordoning off those avenues. The lead Sister turned over her shoulder and gestured for Boledrian to approach. As he drew close he felt the hairs on his neck rise at the otherworldliness of these aelves, her eyes boring into his soul, seeking the truth as she had before. She was testing his resolve to ensure that he would not be a hinderance in the face of such things as the dead or the changlings. Though these beings were terrifying he knew the Sisters and even the spites were his staunch allies in this hunt.

“This is the residence deeded to Rand Sosenhal, the man whose name appears on your warrant. Suspect of Death worship a crime punishable by death,” she said gesturing to the door they faced.

From within there were no signs of habitation, without the refuse set outside or lights in the windows. As Boledrian cautiously approached the doorway he felt rather than heard the spite-revenants moving into position within the very walls of the building. Ready to strike when they deemed fit. Only if he could understand their spirit-song like he could other Sylvaneth then he would know what awaited him. With growing trepidation, he reached the door with a pair of dismounted sisters at his back, their staffs held at the ready.

With the third tackle he had the door off its hinges and the trio made quickly into a darkened parlor furnished with antiques from across the realms. He could make out the craftsmanship of at least three different Chamon artisans among them. A wealth belied by the façade outside was obvious for all guests to see. Though Boledrian doubted he would get a guests’ welcome once he met his host. Rand Sosenhal had made a fortune on the tormentuous periods in which the Island moved to new realms in which he could profit from acquiring priceless artefacts and pieces of art that he would then sell for a profit among collectors. The perfect position for a heretical cult to grow out of. Most of Boledrian’s past season of renewal was spent investigating Sosenhal and were his expenses came from and where they went. When he had set out earlier that evening he felt the strongest conviction he had felt in his life. Now that he was in the home of his first prey he felt a great weight of dread overcome himself. He was not sure if it was merely the presence of so many spite-revenants with their susurrating voices that always accompanied them or his trepidation at being at the end of the hunt.

He felt it in his bones, a deep hunter’s feeling that he knew his prey was close and he would make the kill. He had but one choice, he could not freeze up in the face of Death again as he had in the street. Cultists and daemons were one thing but the recent rise in Death cults had upset the strange form of balance that had formed in these tumultuous times as the Island shifted Realms so frequently. A recent Blink into Shyish had upset the natural balance of the Well of Renewal, or so the Ancients had claimed as they dispatched this latest series of warrants against men and woman like Sosenhal who had unique places of power in courts of the druid-kings of the Outer Kingdoms. Hundreds would soon meet a similar fate as his prey. He felt it in his bones.

The witch-sight showed the trail much more vividly in the halls and parlors of Sosenhal’s manse. Death magic permeated the place, proof of Sosenhal’s heresy. The Sister had mentioned a vampire’s taint on the summoning magic and that never boded well for men like Boledrian with hot blood in his veins. The trail led down a flight of cellar stairs that led to a sturdy ironoak door. Clearly Sosenhal was hiding something he wanted protected.

Reaching into a pouch on the small of his back under his cloak, Boledrian removed a small metal flask he carefully unscrewed and dashed its contents on the door. With another incantation of growth, the door began to bloom in all forms of colorful lichen that gave way to full fungal growths and mushrooms that deteriorated the door within a few moments. He stepped back to allow the spores to settle before he moved through into an antechamber with racks of hanging robes on either side. Many were missing giving evidence of what lay beyond the drapery that divided the antechamber from the main room.

The two Sisters moved gracefully from the entrance with their staffs held at the ready, a murmuring incantation on their lips. Boledrian followed with his crossbow held at the ready. Given the shadows around its perimeters the room was of the same constitution as the rest of the structures in this district with calcified wooden growths forming the foundations for the home. The center of the chamber was lit by a single brazier that blazed with an amethyst fire. Arrayed around the brazier were circles of kneeling, purple robed figures each taking part in a soft, whispering mantra that sent chills through Boledrian’s spine.

At the head of the ritual was a man with a portly figure and the bearing of a noble-born Azyrite. He bore a scepter crowned with a gibbering skull in one had who’s eye glowed with ghastly balefire. In front of the cult leader was a large stone sarcophagus that bore strange sigils engraved into its sides. The top bore the image of a resting man with his arms crossing his chest. A pungent reek that reminded Boledrian of a decaying corpse filled the air with its overwhelming aroma. As the lead figure noticed their entrance he shouted in alarm at his follower who ceased their chanting and began to rise to face the interlopers in their ritual.

The cultist drew a motley assortment of weapons from beneath their robes as they stalked to form a semi-circle around the trio. Casting his glance at the two Sisters who had accompanied him he knew they would be able to hold their own. Each began to sing out incantations of powerful life magic. Taking his opportunity Boledrian saw his chance. With the Sisters preparing their spells, he brought his worn crossbow to his shoulder and took aim at the cult magister. He took a deep breath like he had so many times in his practice. His mind cleared of outside influences and it became just him, the silver-elm bolt and his prey at its most vulnerable. As the bolt flew towards its target, it burst through the magic veils that protected him from harm. The silver-elm bore the purest of Azyr’s magic within its branches which found great power against the forces of Chaos and Death. Much to the unsuspecting magister’s chagrin, the bolt passed through his defenses and burst into his chest. As the wound opened blood began to pour onto the sarcophagus as he leaned over it as if to give his last bit of life forces to the evil thing that rested within.

As his attention returned to his surroundings he first noticed the shifting shadows that flittered just out of sight giving him confidence that they would soon be victorious. The Sisters had summoned forth a brambling briar with thorns long as a man’s forearm that sought out the cultist like a hungering beast. As the first vines grasp about their prey they began to constrict with bone breaking strength. Like powerful constricting snakes they bound around the cultists cutting deep gouges in their flesh and ripping limbs from torsos with their titanic strength. The cascades of gore drawn from the corpses of the slain momentarily rained down coated the room with sprays of life blood.

Out of the shadows and the very walls themselves came an insane spirit-song that was reminiscent of manic laughter. Spite-revenants began to stalk from the gloomy perimeter of the room even as several dropped from the ceiling to land amidst the rearmost cultist. Even in the face of such overwhelming odds the cultists seemed unfazed by the deaths of their comrades or even their leader. In response to the insane song of the spites they began a low sonorous dirge that seemed to fill the room. As Boledrian readied a second bolt of silver-elm, the spites launched their attack. As their spirit-song reached new heights they tore into the rough line of cultists that had turned to face them. The spite-revenants gave into their natural tendencies as they clawed and tore into their prey. Such wild abandon was not new to Boledrian but still it unnerved him.

He simply gazed at the unbridled slaughter before him. The wall of brambles had cordoned the two dozen or so cultists into a knot that the revenants tore into with gory abandon. Great fountains of gore followed every slash of claws, ropes of entrails and ripped organs being tossed aside like refuse. As the spites made their way through the cultist Boledrian stared in wonder as they simply allowed the spites to rend and tear their bodies asunder. Casting a glance at the floor he saw for the first time the sigils that had been carved into deep channels to allow the blood that had been spilt to pool around the sarcophagus.

A dry, rattling breath filled the chamber overpowering even the keening song of the spite revenants as they reveled in the gory remains of the cultists. The Sisters drew up in front of Boledrian as the lid of the sarcophagus slid to the floor with a heavy thud of finality.
Amethyst fog rushed out of the sarcophagus as an ancient creature rose from within. Piercing animalistic eyes singled Boledrian out in the chaos of the melee. It was a withered creature, long cursed with the Soulblight though malnourished from eons of confinement. The bloody carnage that had been wrought about the chamber had fueled a ritual that had awoken this creature from its slumber. With a creak of bone and stiffened ligaments the vampire raised its arms and with a rasping voice intoned a fell incantation. Wisps of the raw Death magic that emanated from the creature quickly speared out striking half a dozen of the nearest spite-revenants. They fell to the floor in agonized screeches as their heartwood began to wither and their bark turned to dust.

As Boledrian readied his loaded crossbow to fire at the fiend it launched itself with load creaks and pops of joints thrown into violent action. The spite-revenants responded in kind launching a viscous assault on the vampire. The questing vines of the Sisters’ magic wrapped about it only to wither and die from the potent curses enscrolled across it’s taut and leathern skin. With both the Sisters locked into maintaining their enchantments he had to act fast. Aiming for the Soulblight’s black heart he fired the silver-elm bolt as true as any shot he had fired from the weapon.

With a flash the pure celestial magic imbued in the silver-elm dissipated across the blood-leech’s wards. As the light cleared from his eyes he saw the first revenant lunge at the creature only to be swatted to the ground in a broken heap. Three more leapt upon it vengefully clawing at its head, arms, and back. The creature cried out as one revenant’s claws found purchase and tore a great gouge in its robes and back.

Issuing a bestial roar, the vampire wrenched the spite-revenant from behind him, smashing aside several more to make itself more room. The spite’s struggles were ended swiftly as the vampire tore its head from its shoulders in a fountain of amber sap. Throwing the ruined corpse into the onrushing spite-revenants, the creature vaulted an unnatural height into the air over the Sylvaneth landing lightly near Boledrian and the pair of Sisters. Forgoing the wall of choking brambles, the sisters summoned forth a coruscating ball of lightning that smashed into the vampire and sent it sprawling backwards into the waiting revenants. The treekin piled atop the creature as their spirit song reached new heights of madness and fury.

Boledrian readied his next shot as the Sisters moved to his side already summoning forth a new enchantment of crawling briars that sought to pin the vampire down. As the vampire gouged and clawed at the revenants the thorns struggled against the creature’s wards. Drawing in his breath he aimed for the creature’s eye and fired.

Crushing the heads of two spite-revenants together, the ancient fiend caught the silver-elm bolt in its head. The weight of the thrashing revenants and twisting vines held vampire pinned as the pure celestial magic within the wood burned within its skull. A wave of power rushed from the creature as it emitted a horrifying scream in its death throes. Rummaging through his various pouches and talismans he produced a small pouch which he cast at the melee. The vines continued to struggle against its wards as a flash of brilliant light blinded everyone who was not prepared for it. Frantically blinking to clear the after images from his sight, Boledrian moved to aid the two Sisters as he noticed a familiar presence moving towards him. It was the revenant who had shadowed him, bearing a pair of heads in his hands the cult leader Sosenhal and that of the ancient vampire still pierced by Boledrian’s bolt.

As the Sisters made to reign in the spite-revenants, Boledrian accepted the heads from the treekin, knowing that it meant great respect that it offered him the trophies. A strange pride welled in his stomach as he turned Sosenhal’s head over considering all the carnage he had witnessed and the selfless destruction the cultists had given of themselves to bring the fiend back from the grave. Such zealotry was on the rise in Arranoc since the last Season of Renewal had seen a flood of Death magic after the last shift out of Shyish. Wyrdfyre Cults and the Harbingers of Decay were one thing the city could handle, but the necromantic powers that had seen graveyards empty and druids to go mad and turn to the dark arts. The Inquisition needed all the help it could get.


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The path of elevation within the Druid order is a long ordeal that many cannot accomplish the intricate enchantments and mastery of life magic that would grant them access to the Wellspring of Renewal. Being near to the source within the Temple restores a beings soul and fills them with vitality hence the power the ancient treelords possess anywhere on the island though the almost never leave the confines of the great tree the temple was built within. Those druids that cannon grow within the discipline of life magic often fall to dark magic in its many forms either corrupted by the dark gods or the death god Nagash. It is the job of the Inquisition to seek the fallen druids out and put and end to their affront to Allarielle and her gift of life to Arranoc.

Arborious (hahaha) is a necromancer of prodigious skill who has spread the worship of Nagash death cults throughout Arranoc. He fell from the order when he found a forbidden tome that spoke to him in his dreams promising him immense power greater than any other in the order if only he would read its pages. For long nights he withstood its temptations until he finally gave in and furiously read its foul pages. He became mad with the knowledge of necromancy he had learned and he gouged his own eyes outs in grief at the futility of his own existence. He willingly gave himself to Nagash and was gifted with powerful necromantic abilities. The dead rise at his command as he chants the passages that were burned within his memory by the foul tome leaning heavily upon a staff of Sylvaneth heartwood.

The Greenskin hordes of Gorbag One-Eye have raided the outer kingdoms of Arranoc for many long years since the shift to Ghur that saw the island supplanted unto a great plain of endless grasses. From here the nomandic One-Eye clan raided the kingdom of Eindil on and reveled in the destrucition the had wrought when with sudden and fateful defiance the island shifted out of Ghur back into the skies above Shyish. As restless spirits and the corpes of those they had slain rose and began to devour all within reach the Greenskins withdrew into the ironoak fortress at the heart of Eindil's capital of Tor Eindor From here the cunning Gorbag raided the surrounding country side and towns on boar back hit and run attacks that slowly dweldled the deadwalkers numbers and with the passage of Arranoc back into Ghyran the Greenskins found the dead a threat no longer and Gorbag One-Eye fortified Tor Eindor into the Black Fortress and crowned himself the One-Eye King. Raiding the neighboring kingdoms has become Gorbag favored pastime as his hordes have grown more numbers as the seasons pass. Even the Greenskinz seem to benefit from the Wellspring's blessings as their numbers have only grown as they have found good fighting upon Arranoc.

Deep under the surface of Arranoc a mutual bargain was struck between Darkling exiles and Duardin prospectors. The Thrall hosts would dwell close the the surface and aid the Duardin in protection against their mutual foes as well as ample trade. The Darklings interact with the surface races acting as trade intermediaries between the Duardin and Sylvaneth whose ancient Oaths date back farther than the Darkling occupation of the upper reaches. Lumber and foodstuffs move down as rare and potent magical minerals move upwards in an ever moving economy. The desire for ostentation among the noble house of both the Druid kingdoms and Sylvaneth groves has ever driven this industry as the Duardin ceaselessly mine the ever regrowing earth as it bathes in the potent life Magics of the Wellspring.

Darkling Covens worship forgotten twin aelven goddesses of magic and seduction Hekarti and Atharti whom bestow the sorcereseses with dominion over the Darkling thrall lords and the darkest of magics. They use the worship of these Goddesses to hold the Darklings in a state of theocratic militarism that breeds fanatical devotion from their followers. Seen as holy emissaries whose words and actions are divine writ. In truth these cabals of sorceresses use the gifts bestowed upon them by Twin Goddesses to manipulate and control their followers.

The Duardin Clans view these practices with suspicion and work hard to keep a fair distance from the foul workings of the untrustworthy aelven sorceresses. Priding themselves in their craftsmanship the Duardin of the Lower Reaches make some of the finest jewelry and cut gemstones in all the mortal realms. Given the nature of Duardin perseverance the ever regrowing earth in which they dwell has become a source of ludicrous wealth. Most Duardin who do not pursue a life as a craftsman or artisan become one of the gromril covered warriors of the Iron Breaker Corps. These warriors excel in the close range warfare of the tunnels as they must also contend with several tribes of grots and occasional incursions from the surface realm in which the island deposited itself. Seen as their Oathbound duty to the Sylvaneth who saved them during the Age of Chaos the entirety of the their military strength is based in defensive emplacements along the lowest levels of the mighty Karak situated around the massive lodestone. The lodestone in which the ancient Sylvaneth wizards imbued the power that causes the island to transition from realm to realm. Considering this their ancestral duty they zealous defend their home time and again as flights of gyrocopters make strafing attacks aided by slightly Sylvaneth who move in great flicks on wings of leaf and branch. Often these aerial conflicts last for only a short time before the would be attackers are repulsed but occasionally the Gyro-Corps become overwhelmed and the Sylvaneth take too many losses and retreat and it becomes the job of the Duardin to defend their halls. Often times working in tandem with Darkling Hosts to out maneuver their foes and pin them into narrow corridors or into specifically designed chambers that allow for large formations of infantry to assemble which in turn is surrounded with dozens of levels of firing platforms from which the combined range might of both Duardin and Darkling are rained onto the would be attackers. It is here that most incursions are repelled and broken.

Though in the rare occasion a force will make it to the surface as is what happened when the Change Hosts of the Feathered Lord assaulted Arranoc four hundred years before the return of Sigmar to the mortal realms. The Feathered Lord had turned his eye to Arranoc after the island-continent had passed through Chamon in a blinding display of alchemical reaction torn arcoss the skies above the Fell Labyrinth, a Silver Tower ruled by the Gaunt Summoner know as Prince of Stolen Breaths. It was through this proxy that the Greater Daemon rallied a massive horde of followers both mortal and unborn to assail the glittering font of magic pouring into the Realm of Metal. As the myriad hosts of Tzeentch converged upon Arranoc, the natural chaotic nature of these forces hampered their initial approach. As the Druid-seers and Darkling sorceresses went mad in their droves, often bursting into spontaneous mutations that roiled until they expired the daemonic screams of the Aether-Eaters could be heard from the highest boughs to the deepest caverns. The skies around Arranoc tore asunder as a flood of daemonic entities poured upon the surface as the disc riding warriors and bands of Tzeentch warriors clinging to larger daemonic discs assailed the defenses of both the Upper and Lower reaches. Never had such a foe fell upon the island during its travels and the Darklings, Druids, and Sylvaneth were unprepared as their homes were burned with mutating changefire and the innocent were butchered, tortured, and mutated beyond recognition. The Sylvaneth rallied quickly and forced the Changehosts back wherever the drew closest to the Wellspring. Locked in here they were unable to help the Druid-Kingdoms as they were ravaged by the Aetherguard-Eaters and the cabals of insurrectists who have permeated the Druid orders all over Arranoc ran anarchically over the kingdoms leaving wanton destruction in their wake. These bands moved so sporadically that that hit and run attacks sallied forth by the Druid kings were met with ravaged desolations and no sign of an enemy to being completely outmaneuvered and over run my hordes of cackling daemons.

In the Lower Reaches the Duardin drove the attacks back time and again until a massed formation of daemonic flesh bound to metal harnesses moved its way in from all directions. The remaining flights of defenders were quickly over run and the war in the tunnels began in earnest. Using the masterful defenses designed into their Karak the Duardin performed a slow retreat threat saw many brave warriors fall but brought the greater number of the invaders into the central bastion before the gates of their inner city. Here with no where else to retreat the Duardin rained death upon the screaming beastmen and chanting acolytes. As smoke and blood filled the battlefield the Ironbeaker Corps advanced from hidden tunnel entrances and the entrance of the mighty cavern was demolished by a team of irondrake sappers, encircling the greater part of the changehost. As the walls of gromril shields slowly made their way into the mass of panicking enemies the back of the attack was broken and a hasty retreat from the chaos forces cause pandemonium as foam mouthed tzaangors trampled entranced acolytes and steel clad Barbarians hacked their way trough the press to the entrance. With the general route the fighting went on for days as the Ironbreakers cleared the tunnels and work began to rebuild. As they made their way upwards to aid their Allies the Duardin came across scenes of horrifying struggle every where as evidence of the cruelty of both the Chaos worshippers and Darklings alike. They finally converged on the Darkling stronghold are which the last of the Thrall Hosts were making bloody sport of captured invaders. After a tense exchange was made both folks mobilized for war and marched upon the surface. From the Outer Kingdoms the combined forces worked in tandem clearing daemonic forces and biting vast stretches of tainted forest. The destruction intensified around the last hold of Tor Anlieador. Here the majority of the Prince of Stolen Breaths forces had converged. The final holdout of the once mighty kingdom was a flame wreathed shell but still the Magic’s of its defenders held. In a rushed assault the duardin and Darklings drove deep into the rear of the chaotic host. Lead by thousands of Executioners and a flight of dozens of black dragons the Darkling broke the back of the daemonic host as the duardin rained death on the flanks and pressed forwards to form the center of the battleline. The chaotic change fires ravaged both sides of the conflict forcing holes in the shield wall of duardin and aelven warriors as they were taken down by mutated and tainted friends. The madness of the battle outside the walls drove the last defenders of Tor Anlieador sallied from their gates as thousands of mounted warriors charged headlong into a barrage of mutating fire. Druid warriors flew above protecting their warriors were they could though many a rider was wracked by change often becoming a single mass with their mounts, flailing and smashing into the daemonic lines. Duels between Tzeentchian daemons and mounted Mages tore across the sky as their natural powers became imbued with the growing flux of power from the Wellspring. To the magic users present they knew what this foretold. As the fighting reached its apex and the High Sorceress forced her way through the last of the Daemonic Herald bodyguards of the Gaunt Summoner, the Wellspring poured forth a font so great that the Aelven mage began to glow with infused power. With a whispered curse the daemon sorcerer was cast in dark fire it’s very essence feeding the flames. As it’s souls stuffs were quickly burning away the creature spit an evocation and in a blinding flash attempted to escape back to its tower but at that last potent moment Arranoc shifted to Ghur disconnecting the daemonic creatures from their master in Chamon. I’m hysterical mania the horrors and flamers threw themselves at the last of the defenders. Driving the last of the Darkling Sorceresses to the ground and breaking the back of the Demi-gryph charge that had driven so far into her enemy host. As the daemons seemed only to replenish their ranks and in some areas swell in such numbers that they over ran the shield walls, a keening shriek peeled across the field. The changefires that had wracked the fortress of the Druid King died down and the last vestiges of order fell away from the lines of battle a great host of trees poured from the horizon. Bursting from the earth like a maddened cornered beast the forests of Arranoc attacked. As the forest moved in the Sylvaneth burst forth in their tens of thousands. A wholesale slaughter began in earnest as the island moved to purge the taint from it self. Whole communities were put to the torch and whole populations impales upon vengeful talons. Eight of the nine High Druids were executed in their collusion and vast numbers of aelves, humans, and duardin were slain for every the suspect of taint. It was this devastating invasion that has led to the current politics and economics on Arranoc. It’s peoples existing in a tense peace as various secret policing forces purge chaotic cults, Nagashi death cults, and greenskin infestations in the dark.