“Winter is coming…

…and the dead come with it.”


In the long millennia after the fall of the Sundered World, empires rose and fell, civilizations crashed as waves against the beachhead of eternity. Everything was in flux, and nothing survived. Chaos ruled the land, and the Dark Gods were rivaled in power by only one.  For at that time, there was only one constant, and its name was Death.

Mighty Nagash, Lord of all Dead and Creeping things, was in his ascendency at this time, and his power grew in scale. Vast hordes of the Unliving walked the land, and the Lords Vampyric flew upon wings of rot and blood and bone. When the servants of Nagash met the devotees of the Fourfold Ruin, their battles broke the earth and sky. But nothing can resist Chaos forever.

By base treachery and cowardice was Nagash tumbled from his Throne of Shadows, and when he fell his power was broken and scattered across the land by the Lords of Black Ruin. The power of Death was dispersed, and though over long eons Nagash sought out every element of his strength, he did not regain it.

When the Age of Sigmar began, things began to stir once more. Powers woke that had slept for ages past in every corner of the Realms, hiding in the Darkness and the Cold.

From the Icy Wastes comes a menace, a fragmented shard of the power of Nagash’s Shyish. It is inevitable, pitiless, neither good nor evil. It simply… is.

It has no identity, for how can pure power be set a name? Many have tried and failed to name it. To the orruk tribes of Kunga’s Spine, it was called the White Killa. The aelfs of Naasare name it Frostbyte. The dawi of the freehold of Kazi-ka-Ural simply called it “Thag”, That Which Slays Without Honor. They are all gone now.

No name can ever truly encompass the… thing we speak¬† of here. It has been known by many, but none describe it for what it truly is. But once again, as so many times before, those who will soon die before it have given it a name.


“Winter is coming…