The Old World

[This document comprises basic information on the Old World, its lands and its inhabitants, as well as details on the other continents of the Warhammer World. More extensive details of individual realms or creatures can be found in the Study. It should also be noted that it is written by a man of the Empire, and reflects the information, beliefs and opinions which an Imperial scribe would have had when compiling the volume. Lastly, the description of races, such as orcs, and elves, might clash with those from other documents or other worlds. Remember that these are the races of the Warhammer World which are being described, not for example, orcs or elves in general.]

The Old World
by the Venerable Hieronymous of Nuln

ccording to your request, I am to compile a manuscript which explains in details the great realms of the Old World, and its wondrous inhabitants. As Sigmar is my witness I will describe truthfully the lands of the Old World, the southern continents, and the New World. I shall also discuss the eastern lands beyond the World's Edge Mountains: the great steppes of the east, and the mysterious lands of Cathay. Thus I write under the two moons, Morrslieb and Mannslieb. I write of the days long gone, and I write of the days which are yet to come, and those days are the days of Man. We are the inheritors of the twin bounties of wealth and wonder which the Old World has to offer, if we can overcome the evils which besiege us.

Of the Old World

The Old World is bounded by the immeasureable high World's Edge Mountains in the east, by the dark and deep Great Ocean to the west, and by the forbidding Troll Country to the north. To the south lies a broad arm of the Great Ocean, and beyond this, the shores of the land of Araby.

In ancient times dwarfs and elves fought over possession of the Old World and, after centuries of bitter conflict, retreated into their own lands. In their wake came the orcs from the east, who infested the trackless forests and wastes, and ruined the abandoned cities of the dwarfs and the elves. Later, the tribes of Mankind wandered into the Old World and began to dwell there. Incessantly did they battle against the Orcs, and out of this long conflict arose the great nations of men, namely the Empire and Bretonnia, Estalia, Tilea and Kislev.

The Legend of Sigmar Heldenhammer

At the dawn of the Age of Iron, when men first learnt the secrets of forging and metalwork from the dwarfs, the human tribes were scattered, and fearful of the orcs. In those days, the orcs did rampage far and wide across the lands of the Old World. From far in the east they came, slaying and enslaving wherever they went. A great cry went up to the skies, from wretched Mankind: "Who can deliver us?"
An heir was born to the chief of the Unberogens, greatest of the tribes of men, and his birth was heralded by a twin-tailed comet, and by thunder and lightning at night. He grew to manhood, and became a mighty warrior, one who could withstand a thousand Orcs on his own, with none beside him. Orcs slunk back at his approach, and even dwarfs sang his saga.

This was the holy Sigmar, of whom the sacred legends speak. He it was, who crushed the orcish armies in the terrible Battle of the Blackfire Pass. The songs say that over half the greenskins of the World's Edge Mountains were slain that day. Thus was Sigmar founder of the Empire that endures to this day, and the one who first appointed the Elector Counts. He who saved the dwarf king as well as humble men. The holder of the Hammer of Wrath, by which evil is vanquished. By the mere utterance of his name, may the righteous cause every evil thing to be banished. Many other tales are told of Sigmar, the first Emperor, including the account of how he defeated an entire army of orcs, armed only with the jawbone of an ox.

Twice more the twin-tailed comet has been seen in the lands of the Empire. In the year of 1999, when the comet itself destroyed the city of Mordheim, and three hundred years later, when Magnus the Pious, the saviour of the Empire, was born. Each time, the wings of fire in the sky, heralded the coming of great things.

Our Honoured Land - The Empire

Our beautiful empire is the by far the largest, the most powerful, and most magnificent nation in all of the Old World. We, the sons of Sigmar, have a right to be proud. For over two millennia, the banner of the Griffon has flown over Castle Reikschlosse, proclaiming the might of our Emperors.

Altdorf is the capital of our glorious Empire, and the seat of the Emperor. Here all manner of arts and sciences flourish under the patronage of the imperial crown. Here lies the great Shrine of Sigmar and the Engineers' Guildhall, and the spires of the Colleges of Magic rise high above the rooftops of the city. Herein lies the heart of our trade: river barges laden with goods dock and depart here, and our rich markets bustle with traders from as far as Araby.
While Altdorf is second to none in glory and splendour, our Empire encompasses many other places of beauty and awe, besides the capital. The prosperous fields of the Reikland stretch around the capital, and farms, estates, and villages dot the fields, before giving way to thick woodlands.

Nuln is the gem of Reikland, situated above the mighty River Reik. Once, she was the first city of our Empire, and the old seat of all Emperors. Many dwarf craftsmen came and settled here, and work their forges along the Reik, where great oaken barges arrive daily with ore and coals. The great bridge which spans the river is a wonder to behold, and the pride of the entire city. Beyond this bridge, there are no more barges, for the Reik is too wide.
Within the boundaries of Nuln stands the Imperial Artillery School, and many universities for the more studious amongst the populace. Herein rules the Elector Countess Emmanuelle von Liebewitz, who is famous for her masked balls, and lavish parties, which almost rival the splendour of the Imperial Court itself.

Middenheim, the city of the White Wolf, is built upon a towering crag rising up out of the great forest. It is an impregnable fortress which may only be approached by four roads raised up on stone arches. Ulric is the patron god of this mighty city, and his high priest rules alongside the Elector Count. Herein lies the stronghold of the famed order of the ferocious Knights of the White Wolf.

Marienburg, the busy port which lies at the mouth of the Reik, is no longer part of our great Empire. Her wealth is legendary. Here ships from every realm are docked, bringing all manner of exotic goods and luxuries. The pride and pretension of the citizens knows no bounds, and they claim to be the equal in every way of the Tileans, in art and culture.

Talabheim lies in the midst of the forest, in the very heart of the Empire. Here dwell the hardy woodsmen and hunters, who keep their axes and bows by the threshold of their cottages. The city itself rests within a rocky bowl, whose steep, outward sides present wall-like fortifications. Within these natural ramparts stand the sturdy buildings of Talabheim.

Mordheim, that once great city, is no more. Of this place, it is wise to say little. Such was the sin of this city, that a great thunderbolt from the heavens did raze it to be no more than a blackened ruin. Some say this was the Hammer of Judgement, wielded by Sigmar itself.

Ostland, snow-bound and wind-swept, marches with Kislev, and is the bastion of the Empire against Orcs and marauding Chaos hordes alike. Her warriors are well accustomed to war, and know little comfort in their great, timber fortresses.

The Moot is a fat land, rich in pastures and producing much which is good for the tables of our Lords. It is inhabited mostly by halflings, who are renowned for their greed and craving for good food, rather than for their courage.

Solland, the southern-most of our provinces, is remembered only in song, for the rampages of the orc Gorbad Ironclaw rent it asunder beyond all hope of repair. The province was razed and deserted, its Elector Count slain, and his Runefang lost to the orcs. After the war, the few remaining inhabitants were divided between the neighbouring lands, and Solland is now little more than a barren wilderness.

Of Bretonnia

Beyond the Grey Mountains lies the kingdom of Bretonnia, inhabited by the descendants of the Bretonni tribe. It is a great kingdom, next only to our great Empire in power and wealth. Indeed they are our chief rivals in both trade and war. The kings of Bretonnia live in the most sumptuous luxury imaginable. Their stables are filled with the finest warhorses, their weapons are encrusted with jewels, and their silken banners glitter with gold. Yet one should hesitate from mocking a Bretonnian nobleman (his face, at least), for behind the courtly graces is a warrior born and bred to battle. From a very early age the knights of Bretonnia are taught to bear the traditional arms of a knight, to ride and to endure the hardships of war. There are no greater warriors amongst the race of Man (or at least, so say the Bretonnians).

Bretonnia was founded by King Gilles le Breton, whom the Bretonnians hold to be as renowned as Sigmar. He was the first of all knights of Bretonnia, and established their military and political traditions, still followed today: their kingdom is divided into fourteen great dukedoms, from the fair Couronne in the north, to the rugged land of Carcassonne to the south. Each of the poweful dukes commands an army of knights, supported by their squires, and with infantry and archer regiments drawn from the ranks of the peasantry. This way of fighting, though old-fashioned in our Empire, has proven time and again effective, in repelling invaders.

It is the ideal of knighthood which inspires the warriors of Bretonnia. The worship of the Lady of the Lake, their goddess of virtue and honour, is widespread, and sets the code of honour, under which the finest of nobility conducts itself in peace and war.

While most of the Bretonnians are rural folk, there are still numerous walled cities: the capital, Couronne, with its marble temples; Parravon, which guards the Axe Bite Pass; Gisoreux, which protects the reaches of the Upper Grismerie river; Quenelles with its chapels and vineyards, and lastly, the dreaded city of Moussilon, a squalid ruin which is now a lair of evil creatures. Bordeleaux, L'Anguille and Brionne, the coastal cities of Bretonnia, are trading ports, havens for the dreaded Bretonnian war-fleet, and control much of the kingdom's wealth.

Of Kislev

North from the lands of our magnificent Empire, the forests give way to great wind-swept plains, and dark birch glades. These are the lands of Kislev. For one thousand years this kingdom has endured the attacks of the savage Norse, and the incursions of dread Chaos.

During the long winter nights, the men of Kislev, known as Gospodars gather around their log cottages, remembering the glory of the Tzars of old, and the might of the Ice Queens of bygone ages. They sing songs of war and dream of happier times, for their own age is filled with much strife. Kislev guards the borderlands of the north, against the terrible servants of Chaos. Each year the northern border is harder to defend. Each year the toll of death is greater. But to Kislevites, this matters not. North is their home, and if they cannot live there, then they will die there. Kislevites are able warriors, and great horsemen. They tirelessly patrol the northern border, along the forbidding Troll Country, trying to keep the rampaging Chaos warbands in check.

The cities of Kislev are ruled by Tzars and boyars, who all owe their fealty to the overlord of Kislev. Tzarina Katarin the Great, the current ruler of all Kislev, is a mighty Sorceress, mistress of the cold winds and ice of the north. She is known for both her beauty, and her haughty manners, which justify her title of Ice Queen. So suffused is she with magic, that it is said that her flesh is icy to the touch, and she rules her lands with cold efficiency.

Erengrad is one of the greatest trading ports of the Old World. Here the wares of the north are traded with merchants from Bretonnia, Tilea, Estalia, and of course, our own noble Empire.

The city of Praag, the capital of Kislev, has an evil reputation, for during the last Great War Against Chaos the city was overrun with servants of the Ruinous Powers, and twisted beyond recognition. After Magnus the Pious defeated the forces of the Dark Gods, the city was razed to the ground and rebuilt, but Chaos returned. Travellers tell tales in hushed tones, of cries of agony which pierce the night, and faces which appear in the walls of buildings, to consume the unwary with savage ferocity. The citizens of Praag are forced to burn down and rebuild their homes, if they are to retain some small measure of sanity.

Of Tilea and Estalia

South of the Empire and Bretonnia lie the lands of Tilea and Estalia. Cut-throats and sell-swords to a man, Tileans often offer their serves as mercenaries, when no wars are waged in their own country. In this land, each city is a seperate principality, in unfettered rivalry with its neighbours. Every merchant prince looks to himself and his own wealth, and seeks only to stab or poison his rivals (both, if possible), while extending the hand of friendship.

In some cities, the citizens, tiring of their own corrupt nobility, overthrew the princes to rule themselves as a republic. Yet even there, it is the dagger which rules. Despite this, the Tileans are cultured people, expert in all the arts and crafts, and master seafarers. Tilean wines fetch high prices throughout the Old World, and their large fleet of merchant vessels ply the seas, trading with all nations from the north of Kislev, to the scorched lands of Araby. Art, sciences, innovation and music are all strongly supported by the princes of the city states. Their explorers have discovered many lands, and were amongst the first of the human realms to reach the shores of Lustria.

Mention must also be made of Sartosa, which is an island near to Tilea, inhabited entirely by pirates. Though they plague the seas thereabouts, they are a match for the cruel corsairs of Araby, and both are much deserving of one another.

Of Estalia, little is to be said, for it is a rugged place. Within its few fortified cities live hardy people, who make their living with fishing and trade. Jaffar, the Sultan of Araby, once invaded the land, and nearly conquered, but for the great army of knights which came to drive out his hordes. It is said that Estalians are an aggressive and patriotic folk, who will slay a man for mistaking them for a Tilean, or even greeting them in the Tilean dialect by mistake.

Of the lands of Araby

South of Tilea, past the stormy seas of the Black Gulf, lies the kingdom of Araby. Here the decadent Caliphs and Sultans rule cities made of white stone, and their realms are the vast deserts, oases which glitter like jewels, and mountains inhabited by fierce nomad warriors. Several great cities form a loose coalition, though in effect they are all independent states, with their own rulers, traditions, and customs.

The Sheikhs, Emirs and Sultans of Copher live in unimaginable luxury, served by hundreds of slaves who fulfill their every whim, their harems are filled with voluptuous beauties from all across the World, and their treasure chambers with all the splendour and wealth of that distant land. Some of these despots are cruel by their nature, ordering beheadings and mutliation of even the pettiest criminals, while others are great rules, and patrons of science and art.

In contrast, the nomadic poples, who are the subjects of the Arabian rulers, do not build permanent settlements, preferring to travel far and wide in the desert. Some ride not upon horses, but on strange and bad-tempered beasts which never thirst, and appear never to drink. There are also many sorcerers in Araby, who can perform strange works of magic. It is said that they can conjure up spirits, which they call genies, and imprison them in glass bottles. When the bottle is uncorked, the spirit emerges as a vapour, and grows to immense size, to do the bidding of his master. Other tales speak of Wizards, who fly high above the sands on carpets. Believe this if you will.

In the Old World, the Arabians are known to be cunning traders and merchants. It is said than an Arabian can trick even a Tilean into a bad bargain, and I know few more crooked traders than the treacherous Tileans.

The most infamous of all Arabians are the merciless pirates of Copher. The ships of the Old World fear few perils of the sea as much as the Corsairs of Araby. The port of Copher holds many sleek and deadly ships, which pray the seven seas.

Of the Southlands

Of the hot jungles of the south I can say little, for few have dared the southern seas, and even fewer have returned from the 'Dark Continent'. The Southlands encompass vast, untouched jungles and snow-capped mountains. The western coast boasts a number of small Arabian conlonies, which serve as havens for their ships.

The jungles themselves are said to be impenetrable and trackless, filled with all manner of dangerous animals and monsters. All attempts to explore this hostile, steaming hell have failed. The few survivors talk of the last of the great Dwarf Holds, surrounded by feral orcs and cannibalistic human tribes. Other tales speak of a great Elven Fortress, which guards the tip of the Southlands, and the way to the distant east and the lands of Ind and Cathay. But whatever power holds the Southlands, it is welcome to it. Keep your dark secrets and your cursed treasures!

Of the distant kingdom of Cathay

Past the World's Edge Mountain, and across the Great Skull Lands, on the other side of the Mountains of Mourn, and the vast steppes, begin the uncharted lands. Only a single path travels to the east, known as the Silk Road. It runs through the untamed steppes until its destinaction, the fabled kingdom of Cathay. The lure of the Silk Road is great to the merchant houses of Tilea, and the Burgomeisters of the Empire, as well as the traders of Araby. But the road is far from safe: roving bands, nomads tribes, and the vast hordes of Hobgobla-Khan who rule the steppes, are an ever-present threat, and one that must not be taken too lightly. Only one caravan in ten makes the trip safely.

The travellers who return from Cathay tell tales of great golden pagodas, and the inexhaustible armies of the eastern despots. They bring exotic spices and the finest silks, gleaming gold, luxurious porcelain vases, and all manner of strange and wonderful items from the Kingdom of the Dragon, glimpses of the mysterious glory of the distant and rich orient.

They also bring tales of jade cities, and high temples where mysics probe the movemnts of the heavenly bodies, and the positions of the stars, of the scholars who insribe every word uttered by their divine Emperor. Many strange creautres are said to live in the land of Cathay, from serpentine dragons to gigantic living stone dogs, which guard the temples of the multitudinous Cathayan gods.

Records of travellers tell of the one thousand thousand footsoldiers of the Emperor, the mystic brotherhoods of monks who can kill a man with a touch of their hand, and the strange monkey warriors, living high up in Mountains of Heaven. Most of these tales are highly fanciful, but certainly the Empire of the Celestial Dragon must be a wondrous and rich place, but until the trade routes to the east are safe, it will remain a realm only of legend.

Of the Land of the Dead

East of Araby lies a great desert, and amongst the dunes, rise the necropoli, tomb-cities which are said to be the home for the unquiet dead. In that dread desert, beneath the moon's pale gaze, dead men are said to walk. They haunt the dunes and ruined pyramids in the breathless, windless night.

It is told in my most obscure and ancient scrolls, that the Great Necromancer himself, Nagash the Black, ruled here long, long ago, and the land still bears the scars of his clawed hand. Here stand the great pyramids, built to be the tombs of the past kings of Nehekhara. These ancient tombs are said to hold untold riches, and yet only few travel to this most desolate of places, to face the dangers of the ancient necropoli. Entire armies, commanded by their mummified king, march under the scorching sun, to wage war against the living, and each other.

My source of these ancient and evil things is the blasphemous tome known as the the Book of the Dead. Bound as it is by the prayers of the Grand Theogonist and wards of the Light Wizards, I know that it cannot corrupt me, yet I still fear and dare not to do more than glimpse at its cursed pages, where long-dead faces leer back at me. I can barely bring myself to touch the human-skinned covers, or the pages where the rites of Necromancy and the spells of blood magic are written, by the hand of Nagash. For this book comes from the land of Sylvania, and it once belonged to the foul Vladimir Von Carstein, the most infamous of all Vampire Counts, who was defeated by the holy Grand Theogonist Wilhelm at the Siege of Altdorf.

Of Dwarfs

Dwarfs are an ancient race, wide of girth, strong of arm, and stubborn of mind. Unless slain in battle, a dwarf can live to a very great age, as long as perhaps four or five hundred years, though it is claimed that some have lived considerably longer. I can scarcely believe these tales, even though it is not in Dwarf nature to lie.

The mighty World's Edge Mountains have been their home, since time immemorial. Once, a long time ago, might strongholds formed an unbroken chain along the moountain range. Great were the halls and vaults, hewn out of the mountain stone, and grat was the clamour of hammering and song, echoing in the depths. Now, alas, many of the once great holds resound only to the scampering feet of goblins.

Dwarfs are the greatest smiths and craftsmen in the World. Not even elf smiths can match the skill and care of the dwarfs. It was the dwarfs, who in days past, forged the Runefangs, the twelve swords of the Empire, as a payment for Sigmar's help against the orcs. Today, they are the symbols of office and authority of the Imperial Elector Counts.

The dwarf race is as strong and unbending as stone (and some would say as forgiving), and as grim as the mountains in which they live. From Karaz-a-Karak, the most ancient of the Dwarf Holds, the last High King wages a nver-ending war against the orcs and the goblins. Each year, dwarf numbers dwindle. Each year, the war becomes more desperate. Each year, the enemies of the dwarfs become more numerous. In my mind, the wisdom of continuing this struggle is doubtful, even if its heroism is not. But as long as one of their warriors draws breath, the dwarfs will not set aside their axes, or forget their grudges.

In my youth I traveled to Karaz-a-Karak, the seat of the dwarf High Kings to study their lore. For seven years I stood behind the door of the Hall of Remembrance to prove my dedication to learn the dwarfish lore. Finally the locked doors were opened for me, and even then the dwarf Loremasters were reluctant to part with their knowledge, and only taught me because of the long-standing friendship between the Emperors and the dwarf Kings.

I studied the Great Book of Grudges and the Book of Remembrance, where the history of the dwarf race is recorded in the runescript, and the annals of their kings are kept, with each passing day recorded in meticulous detail by dozens of dwarf scribes.

The Book of Remembrance claims that during the ancient times the mighty Dwarf Empire stretched across the entire Worlds Edge Mountains, from the lands of Norsca in the north to the distant Southlands, encompassing dozens of dwarf holds. But those days are now long gone, only a memory recited in sagas sung in the few dwarf halls that still survive. For long before the time of Sigmar, there was a war in the old World.

Dwarf fought elf, and elf fought dwarf. It seems that for an entire age of slaughter continued, and many great battles were fought where both races suffered terribly. The war finally ended when the Dwarf High King defeated the Phoenix King in single battle and the elves retreated from the Old World.

Huge earthquakes and volcanic eruptions shattered the vaults and chambers of the dwarf holds and broke the power of the dwarf empire for all time. Evil creatures from below the bowels of the earth then emerged to challenge the dwarf supremacy of the mountains, and cast them into the precipice of extinction where they now fight.

Of Elves

Elves are an ancient, fey, and rare folk. Some scholars believe that elves are immortal, but I believe that is is the cruel fate of all living things to perish, and even these noble creatures die as time passes. But the elves do live for a very long time indeed. Some of their lords have lived for two millennia, though I hazard a guess that the lifespan of the elf be until he is slain in battle, which wil oft sooner than his natural death. Can it therefore be any wonder, that the elf wears upon his face such a sorrowful countenance and speaks much of fate, and doom?

Physically, elves are tall, slendar and elegant creatures, with aesthetically beautiful features. Their flowing hair is as fine as flax. Their movements are graceful, and their speed is inhuman. To the eyes of a man, the elves appear radiantly beautiful, but the wise should not let appearances fool them, for elves are quick to anger and slow to appease. A mortal man who might, by chance, cast his eyes upon an elf maiden, would think her to be a goddess, and would be incapable of any thought but her, for the rest of the day. The wise do not however, judge elves by their divine appearance alone, but shun these creatures, for beneath the beautiful exterior, lies an enigmatic and mystic psyche.

The minds of the elves are every bit as quick and agile as their bodies, but at the same time, they are inhuman and strange, their mentality completely alien to man. They can concentrate on a single task with terrifying intensity. An elf can quickly master any skill, and far surpasses humans in song, writing, magic, alchemy, architecture, or any other fine art. Elves call themselves the First Speakers, and it is true that their gifts of song and speech surpass by far any of the mannish races.

But such mental discipline comes at a price. Elves can lose track of time and the affairs of the world around them, foregoing rest and nourishment. Indeed, an elf may lose himself for weeks, staring intently at a beautiful painting or sculpture, uncaring or the flow of time, or events around him. Elves are aloof, proud, arrogant, and uncaring of 'lesser' races. In their eyes men are little better than orcs, and more often than once, have come to blows with them.

The elves are divided into several peoples and kindreds. The Great Ones, known as the High Elves, inhabit the great island-continent of Ulthuan, which rests in the Great Western Ocean. Their great capital of Lorthern in the land of Eataine, is the hub of elven trade, and the port of their mighty armada. From here, their fleet plies the waves, to dominate trade and explore the world.

Finubar the Seafarer is their ruler, and he is the most cosmopolitan of all the Phoenix Kings. He lifted the ancient bans which decreed that no ship, save those of the elven fleeet, may ply the seas for three hundred miles around Ulthuan. The city is as far as any non-elf can go. Human traders can taste the pleasures of the most wondrous city of the world (after our beloved Altdorf, that is), and ply their trade in the bazaars and merchant houses of Lorthern. But to try and pass the Emerald Gate is to invite swift and certain death. A ten thousand-strong guard keeps vigilance over the city, and the citadel of Glittering Tower, the beacon which guides elven craft through the straits of Lorthern.

Outside their blessed island, elves are rare, nowadays, and getting rarer. Only in the land of Bretonnia, amongst the hidden glades of the Loren Forest, survives the last kingdom of the elves in the Old World. The Wood Elves of Loren are the masters of the bow, and it is said that an elven marksman can hit an eye of a goblin in the dark. Many strange tales are told in the land of Bretonnia about the Elf Lords of Loren. Troubadours of Couronne sing of a cult of Wardancers, young elves with lethal acrobatic abilities, as well as strange and terrible Beastmasters. Tales also tell of Elves who sing to the trees and plants, shaping them to form homes, and make the paths of the forest misdirect intruders. The most fanciful tales speak of Forest Spirits, of giant trees which walk like men, but these are probably mere fables.

Few men ever venture into the glades of Loren, and fewer still return. When they do, they are found on the boundaries of the forest, their bodies broken and strung on the branches of trees, as warnings to trespassers. Bretonnians have learnt to fear the 'Fayrie Fokk', and leave their woodland kingdom alone.

So Loren rests, shrouded by mists and magic, brooding and forbidding. Be wary traveller, and do not venture to the shadow of Loren. For even if you do not lose your life to an Elven arrow or blade, you might travel for a hundred years amongst the glades, never realising the time that has passed, until you return to your home, and the years take their toll on you in an eyeblink.

Wood Elves live in very few places besides Loren. The Forest of Shadows, and the Drakwald Forest are said to hold small elven communities still. A man should be wary in these parts, for many have died by unseen arrows when they have trespassed into the domain of the elves, even without knowing that they had crossed their invisible borders.

There is said to be a third kindred of the elves, as well, even more sinister than the other two. From across the seperating seas come piratical elf raiders dressed in black, bringing death to the coastal areas with fire and steel. No scholar who I have talked to knows their true origin. Perhaps they live at sea, or come from some other land to the West, past the blessed island of Ulthuan. The Lords of Ulthuan say little of these raiders, but warn us to slay them without mercy. They call these black-garbed elves the Dark Elves, and hint at some ancient schism amongst their people which led to their downfall. It is said that over a millennia ago, these Dark Elves sacked the city of Remas, in the land of Tilea, razed it to the ground, and took thousands of prisoners to be carried off to slavery. It is proof of how the race of elves is capable of great cruelty and evil, despite their apparent civility.

To me, the elves are a fascinating, complex and dangerous mystery. But I shall rejoice when they are no more, for then all that remains shall be left for Man. These are the last days of the elves, and their sun is setting - glorious, blood-red, and ultimately dying.

Of the Lands across the Sea

Across the Great Western Ocean, south of the bleak lands of the northern shores lies the hot and uncharted land which is called Lustria by the scholars of the Empire. Many fortune-seekers travel there, and, though few return, they bring tales of steaming-hot jungles and strange inhabitants, of howling, dusky warrior-women and of the lizard-men which dwell amongst ruined temple cities of immeasurable antiquity.

I have seen the dissection of one of the corpses and witnessed its strange and unwholesome appearance. They appear to be giant lizards of sorts, walking on two feet like men, though they are far taller and have heavy musculature, and their blood is said to be cold and venomous.

Their temples reputedly hold vast riches such that the Emperor equipped an expedition to bring back the wealth of distant Lustria to the Empire, where it could be put to good use in the service of his most Imperial Majesty Karl Franz. That was many years ago and there has since been no word of the fate of this expedition.

Of the Encroachments of Dread Chaos, and the Enemy Within

Even here in my own chamber, protected by the Templars of Reiksguard and by the prayers of the most pious priests of Lord Sigmar, I shiver with fear when I write of the unspeakable beast, the abomination, the enemy of life, the dread power men call Chaos.

It is claimed by the foul demonologists that our world is but one of many, and all of us exist in the world of shadows as well as in the real world that we can see. They say that our shadow-selves live in the strange and unfathomable place known as the Realm of Chaos, the shadowy, immaterial adobe of demons. Known also as Aethyr, the Warp, the Underworld, the Utterdark and by many other names. Here time has no meaning and the events of past, present and future meld into one, chaotic existence. Some debate that this is not one dimension but many, an infinite number of alternative worlds where everything is possible and every variation of human history is played out as decreed at the beginning of time.

North from the borders of Kislev, past the rugged Troll Country, lies the hellish Realm of Chaos where the daemons roam, servants of Entropy and the Long Night. These creatures consist of thoughts only, and these thoughts are terrible.

The Realm of Chaos is a home to many terrible entities of cosmic power. I tremble as I write down the names of the Four Great Gods of Chaos. I dare not speak their names aloud, for their servants can see and hear anything that is said anywhere, and the wise do not draw the attention of the denizens of the dark to themselves. Therefore I shall write them down and pray for your souls.

There are four vile and loathsome Dark Gods of Chaos - four brothers of darkness. The first of them is Khorne, the Great God of War, the Lord of Skulls. He takes many shapes: A gigantic blood-stained hound, a bestial warrior, his hands dripping with blood, a brooding king sitting on a throne of skulls. In his hand is a sword, upon him, brass armour, and he sits on a great mound of skulls that stretches around him eternally. His bellow of rage echoes throughout time and space, and it is he who brings the curse of war to the unhappy world.

Next is Tzeentch, the Great Conspirator, the master of the mutable timestream. He is the Sorcerer of Chaos. And his sphere of influence is change. He is the Ever-changing One, the master of magic, and mutator of Mankind. His followers infiltrate the human society, forever plotting, biding their time, waiting for the moment to rise up against law and order.

Nurgle is the nauseating Lord of Plague. He is described as a vast mountain of rotting and corpulent flesh, ridden with all the diseases in the world. In his physical form Nurgle is a mountain of filth and corruption. But these words scarcely do justice to the true foulness that is Father Nurgle, the lord of physical corruption and disease, morbidness and hopelessness. It is he who unleashes the horrific diseases that take such a terrible toll on the inhabitants of the Old World.

Lastly there is Slaneesh, the keeper of hidden vices and terrible passions, the Lord of Forbidden Pleasures, the decadent Prince of Chaos. Slaanesh is said to be neither man or woman yet both, and that to see his physical perfection of his form is to be damned to love him forever with passionate and undying intensity. His followers and demons cavort naked with the fallen, driven forth to new and agonizing pleasures by his stinging whips.

There are many other lesser powers of Chaos; lesser gods, godlings, demons and demi-gods, but only the Four Great Powers are known everywhere in the known world. They are worshipped throughout the world in different guises and names, but always they stay the same, as do their goals. Many mortals serve the demonic overlords of Chaos. From the north come the black-clad warriors of Chaos followed by the barbaric tribes that worship the gods of Chaos. These are the enemy without, the dark armies that gather on our borders.

Most insidious are the followers of Chaos within. In the lands of men there are reviled and sick heretics who worship the Chaos gods in secret. Despite the efforts of the order of Witch Hunters, their influence grows daily. It grows in secret, and many powerful and influential men secretly throw their lot in with the Ruinous Powers, hoping to gain great power and immortality as their reward. In deep cellars and hidden temples these despicable and insane men perform hideous rites and living sacrifices to appease their dark masters. Each year they are said to be numerous and powerful.

Many of us believe that we live in the dusk-time of the world. I fear that they might be right. Sigmar forgive me, for these are heretical thoughts, but the shadow of the north has grown so huge that I see little hope for survival. Sigmar preserve us and deliver us, for our world has grown very dark indeed. Perhaps I have doomed myself by what I have written, but I have sworn to write the truth for scholars who come after me, and warn them of the danger.

Of the Power of Magic

Long ago the study of magic was forbidden in the lands of the Old World, and all men and women who saw visions or could perform miraculous deeds were (quite sensibly) burned at the stake. But during the Great War against Chaos, Magnus the Pious, the uniter of the Empire, lifted the ancient ban against sorcery, and established the Colleges of Magic. From that day on the Empire has been served by a corps of Battle Wizards.

The Aethyr, or the Wind of Magic, encompasses eight strands of Magic: The Fire Lore or Pyromancy, Gold or the Lore of Alchemy, Amber the Wind of Beasts, the Shadow Wind and the Jade Wind of Life as well as the purple Wind of the Dead. These are the disciplines of sorcery as they are taught in the Colleges of Magic today.

But though many do not know it, all magic originates from the realm of Chaos. In the furthest north, say the scholars of the Colleges of Magic, stands a colossal gateway to the dimension of nightmares and demons. From the gaping maw spews forth unnatural winds and mutating dust. This energy coils around the world like an immense serpent, and it is this power that the wizards employ when they are casting spells.

Those with the gift (or, indeed, curse) of second sight can perceive these eight energies as they emerge from the Northern Wastes, and coil over the world like a serpent strangling its prey. Humans specialize in one of these strands of magic, and there are schools of sorcery which specialize in each of the colours of magic.

Of the Monstrous Beings

Many of the grimoires show pictures of frightening beasts. Of Giant Octopi that lurk beneath the waves; of Great Kraken which emerge to consume entire ships before sinking back to the dark depths of the ocean. Of the strange Jabberwock, said to eat beautiful maidens. Of the Winged Folk of the southern isles, and the serpentine Wyrms of the East. Of course, a rational scientist such as myself does not believe in things such as these.

But there are other beasts which do exist, as I have seen with my own eyes. The zoo of our most beneficent Emperor here in Altdorf holds many strange and terrible creatures which can be brought to war: Griffons with the bodies of lions and heads of fierce eagles, steaming winged horses called Pegasi, giant snakes brought by Arabian merchants from the Southlands, Hippogriffs which nest in the crags of the Massif Orcal, great lumbering beasts of Araby known as elephants, and many more.

Dragons are the most ancient of the creatures. Under the World Edge Mountains and stone mounds the dragons are still said to slumber. Even Kalgalanos The Black, the father of all Dragons is rumoured to have his lair beneath the bowels of the earth, with the mountains as his spine, waiting for the doomsday, when the dragons will be roused from their slumber, and soar above the clouds once more.

Of Orcs and Goblins

The orcs and goblins are the bane of all civilized races. These creatures have hides of greenish hue and are hideous in appearance. Their beady eyes glow red in the dark and their foul fangs protrude from their gaping mouths which utter such grunts as pass among them as language. They converse among themselves as much by blows and cuffs as by words and it is a wonder that they can make or do anything at all. Indeed, their weapons and artifacts are of the crudest kind, yet effective enough to wreak havoc in every land.

Their encampments are squalid in the extreme and, every so often, the tribes gather and migrate in great hordes across the land, waging war which is their greatest delight. Indeed, it is said that orcs in particular live for war. goblins, their lesser cousins eagerly follow and serve the orcs. The names of many tribes are known, such as the Festering Scabs, the Iron Claws, the Red Eyes and the Broken Tooth, and these tribes are swayed by their shamans who wield strangely potent magical powers. It is they who invoke their idols and raise up warlords and set the tribes in motion, stirring up great Wargas, or wanderings of which the Kislevites speak.

Orcs are constantly fighting amongst themselves to establish the rule of the strongest. Thus there are endless layers of leaders and warlords, each vying for power. Thus much of their energy is spent fighting amongst themselves. It is claimed that there is no orcish word for equal.

There is no counting of the numbers of orcs and goblins which infest the barren places of the world and no matter how many are slain, there are always more. Certain other creatures slink and grovel around the orc encampments such as Trolls, who are foul and ghastly beyond description, and the Snotlings who infest the dungheaps in their multitudes.

Do not, however, underestimate the power of the orcs. For sometimes, when led by a Warlord who is inspired by his idols, the horde becomes unstoppable and will cut a swathe through the realms of men, dwarfs and even elves. Great cities have been laid low by the orcs and many fine things have been overthrown and trodden into dust.

Of the Ratmen of the Underworld

One of the most persistent legends in the folklore of ignorant and uncouth peasants is that giant rats who walk on two feet in the manner of men. It is said that their vast empire stretches for untold miles beneath the earth. Allegedly their society is divided into several Great Clans, each ruled by powerful Skaven collectively known as the Lords of Decay. Most of the time they fight amongst themselves like rabid rats , but sometimes they set their bickerings aside and wage war against other inhabitants of the Old World. When the rat-host goes to battle, they muster the innumerable hordes of the lesser Warlord Clans.

There are lunatics and madmen in the Great Altdorf Asylum who claim that they have escaped from the slavery of these rat-men, and others who say that even as we speak they are preparing a great war against Mankind. I have never seen such creatures, and as the learned professors of Nuln have shown, irrefutable scientific proof exists that these creatures are but a sham and a hoax. I have included here a parchment which is said to been written by one of these creatures known as Skaven. I have brought it before you, for the sake of completeness, despite my firm belief that it is but a clever forgery.

These Skaven are but a figment of imagination, and there are enough real dangers in this grim world of ours. Let your thoughts concentrate on the tasks at hand and not on babblings of old senile saga poets. According to these questionable reports, each of the Greater Clans has its own armaments and foul methods to wage war. The Clan known as Moulder are powerful Beastmasters and use magical warpstone to breed and mutate ferocious fighting beasts. Clan Eshin are feared assassins and stealthy murderers. It is even rumoured that one of their number assassinated Emperor Mandred. Clan Skryre are known as Warlock Engineers, masters of an insane blend of magic and science. The Clan Pestilens are also known as the Plague Monks. They are disciples of disease and initiates of infection. It is told that their clans hold a great book called Liber Bubonicus which lists all diseases known to man and many unknown besides. As instructed by their god, the Plague Monks are dedicated to spreading disease and plague amongst the cities of men.

In the land of Tilea the men of that land tell tales of the great city of Skaven hidden deep in the rotting heart of the blighted Marshes. This city is called Skavenblight (Tileans are not known for their originality) in the legends. Herein lies the temple of the Horned Rat, the foul Chaos god of Skaven, and here multitudinous millions of Skaven hordes scuttle, plot, fight and murder, each vying for supremacy. No man has ever seen this city, an like most I believe it is just a myth, for the Blighted Marshes are impenetrable and poisonous, thus giving rise to the legends of the Skaven City.

Such is our World, reader, and one in which I am proud, but also fearful, to live.

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