 The age of myth had been long, and many had prospered. The mortal realms had thrived, accomplishing feats of science, scholarship, and progress, that those who had survived the passing of the world that was, could have never dreamed of. Everywhere the bastions of civilization grew strong and true. The wilds were tamed, magic was harnessed and balanced, trampled by the stamp of an order it had never known. In doing so, Sigmar had united under his banner a pantheon of order, gods from across space and time, and for a while it was good, life was good, creation prospered. But from outside all things, through the tiniest cracks in reality, the gods of chaos watched hungrily, not content with the destruction of the world that was, not satisfied with the glut of souls they had supped upon with that planet's passing, they now desired the unfettered possibilities the mortal realms represented. They were in luck too, as the disparate and willful characters of Sigmar's fractious alliance began to feud as the twilight years of the age of myth drew to an end. They began to pursue their own paths, to strike out upon themselves for gods are willful beings. The dark pantheon was patient, but their time was at hand. No then, that these are my further dreams, torments of the night hours I must pen for the sake of simply prying them from my subconscious, that herein lies the tale of the end of the age of myth and the ascendancy of the age of chaos. In the space beyond space, in time beyond time, in the nothing yet everything places where reality boiled liquid in tempestuous magical currents, the dark gods of chaos had not been idle. In the realm spheres they saw opportunity for dominion undreamed and eagerly did they covet them. Unlike the world that was, whose sundered polar regions allowed the influences of the dark gods to pour into that planet, the realms represented no such easy access. So, with the patience only a deity could muster, they inveigled their tendrils into the realm spheres through the tiniest cracks in the scheme. Sigmar and his pantheon had spent the long span of the age of myth uplifting all within their reach to heights of civilization, fashioning their utopias from the clay of the mortal realms. Their works were mighty and wondrous and to be duly lauded, but they were not as comprehensive as they may have liked to believe. Even gods are fallible, it seems, for everywhere in the secret corners of the worlds lurked the remnants of ancient tribal traditions, rituals and beliefs that gave veneration to primal powers far, far older than the pantheon of order. Wearing the glamour of venerable, if detached deities, the gods of the dark persistent, gradually extending their reach and wrecking secret quiet evils upon the mortal realms. The martial contests of tribes in Gur and Akshi grew bloodier. The harvests in Gairan swelled unnaturally, with plants growing into strange and quietly unsettling forms. In cities across Chaman and Ulgu, the wealthy and powerful gathered under the cover of night to indulge in dark desires. And in the soaring libraries of Hish, scholars produced texts and treaties even more arcane and delved into studies even more dangerous than any their predecessors had. Slowly, as the gods of order feuded and withdrew, the gods of chaos in the deep, dark waxed stronger and stronger. Their corruption seeped into the bones of the realms, eating away at the heart of civilization like the foulest of cancers. When the storm of the dark pantheon broke upon the mortal realms, it was akin to nothing experienced within the span of all creation. Its beginnings were humble, but a case study it would seem, for the slow rot that the influence of the gods had brought to the realms. In Akshi, the realm of fire, a warlord arose amongst the barbarous tribes of the Great Parch. Naming himself Korgaskul, he was a paragon of the violent barbarians that had long dwelt in those inhospitable wastes. Those of the firelands had always been bloodthirsty and fierce, but this new warrior took this tendency to height's unforeseen, rampaging across the Great Parch in an orgy of ritualized bloodletting that only continued to escalate, collating into a magical storm of such disturbing intensity that the cracks of reality began to fracture and split until, finally, the long gestating birth of the chaotic ascendancy was wrought. An innumerable horde of chaos, demons, mortals, beastmen, monstrosities all poured across the plains of Akshi as unto a tide, an army, an apocalypse that dwarfed anything the realms had ever seen. And Akshi was not alone in their dread attentions. Nurgle, the plague god, had long coveted Gairan, the realm of life, and unleashed a pestilential swarm upon it, his demons spreading corruption at stunning speed through its once verdant reaches. Alariel, the Everqueen, had spent the latter years of the age of myth in seclusion and contemplation, and now attempted to resist the taint she realized, signs of which she had ignored. As more and more of her loci of power were captured by the shambling maggot kin of the plague god, she was forced to withdraw, warding herself deep in the veils of Ethelweird. In Hish, the realm of life, domain of the twin elf gods Tyrion and Teclas, their luminous subjects fell to their own hubris as demons born of their pride and arrogance burst forth, turning the elven weapons against their creators in a calamity Hish would forever remember as the spire fall. The demonic pageants of Slaanesh rampaged from the realm of light through to its mirrored twin, Ulgu, realm of shadow, forcing the knight clad Milirian and his mother, Dire Marathi, into an endless game of deception, fonts and sallies and fonts and sallies, with the hosts of the Dark Prince. The invasion of the forces of purest evil was not without a figurehead, no, far, far from it. At its head, a stride beast ripped from the blackest midst beyond imagination, Archeon, the grand marshal of the apocalypse, exalted of the Dark Pantheon, the ever-chosen himself. It was said he was once of the world that was, a man, immortal, exalted above all others by the favor of the primordial minds of chaos, and in that world's destruction, he alone was spared by his patrons, that he may lead their armies anew. His brilliance was unparalleled, his might unmatched, his power unspeakable. Archeon sundered civilizations that had stood since the dawn of the age of myth with nearing a thought. There was no quarter given merely a choice, supplication to the might of chaos or death. Countless millions pledged themselves to the Dark Pantheon that their lives may be spared or eagerly damned their souls for an eternity, for the sake of the promise of power. The kingdoms of Elves, Men and Dwarden fell as wheat before the scythe. The work of the Pantheon of order was rendered to dust before the unstoppable tide of the ever-chosen's hordes. Everywhere Sigmar saw his allies fall or retreat or vanish from his side, those previously thought loyal to him turning inward to protect what little of their realms they could retain. The fragility of the Pantheon of order was known to Archeon, and he had been well informed by sundry spies and demonic whispers, that the cracks needed only to be manipulated before they broke completely. The ever-chosen personally led an invasion of Shaiish, the realm of death, fully clad in the knowledge that Sigmar and Nagash were tenuous partners at best. He wagered that the god king would not risk the forces of Azir to come to the aid of the dead. In this he was perfectly correct. Sigmar was nowhere in sight, and the forces of despair and ruin brought untold destruction to the afterlives of Shaiish. When Nagash was ultimately able to drive the chaos armies from his kingdom, it came at a steep cost, both to his own resources and power, and to his respect for Sigmar. Resentment to the great necromancer felt exacerbated old suspicions about the value that the god king placed on their alliance, and upon his works, festering into a burning hatred that Nagash began to see as utter betrayal. In truth, Sigmar had found his army stretched impossibly thin, in a desperate attempt to hold whatever bastions of civilization he yet could. Crucial to this was his own realm of Azir, but even more so were the all points. The bridge to everywhere and all wheres. The all points was the nexus of realities that formed the fulcrum of the mortal realms. While most realm gates will serve to connect one realm to another, from the all points it is possible to traverse the span of each and every realm instantly. It was, and is, the single most important place within the totality of creation, and they who held it could hold reality within their grasp. For the long years of the age of myth, the all points had been a font from which all learning and progress had flowed, the means by which Sigmar's pantheon had spread order throughout the newborn realms. Now, with the hordes of the dark gods rampaging across each and every one of these realities, the all points had become the focal point for order's desperate resistance. From there, the frantic alliance could redistribute its beleaguered armies to rapidly counter chaos incursions in any realm they needed, even as all of them cried out for aid. Sigmar's azirites, led by the god king himself, held back a chaos siege of the all points, waiting day after day for aid from the shayesh arkway that led to the realm of death. But only for the great necromancers promised reinforcements to turn upon the hapless defenders in a gory display of petty retribution. While it was repulsed, Sigmar flew into a rage he had not felt since the death of the world that was, thundering out of the all points despite the pleas of his mortal generals, cutting assways through shayesh in a forlorn attempt to exact retribution upon his erstwhile ally. Seeing the ruination of the pantheon of order finally complete, Archeon baited Sigmar by gathering his forces in numbers previously not seen, rallying in the endless fire planes of Akshi in a brazen concentration of military might. The ever chosen was gambling that the enraged god king could not resist so obvious a target, and to the despair of ages to come, he was perfectly correct. The grand alliance of order that Sigmar led to what became known as the battle of the burning skies was grand indeed. Serried ranks of azirites marched in step with batteries of dwarden war engines, clans of bellicose uruks, hosts of the living dead, elven archers and creatures far stranger than any mortal eyes had laid sight upon in centuries. It was an army to shake the foundations of the realms, yet a raid before it was one greater still. The hordes of the apocalypse incarnate, the promised doom of chaos eternal. Archeon led at the fore, surrounded by his elite Varangard and flanked by the greater demons of all five chaos gods. Angrath, exhorted of Cahorn. Keathannus, a lord of change. Luxius, high keeper of slanesha's secrets. Feculox, blightmaster. And an avatar incarnate of the great horned rat. No possible quarter could be given and none was asked for. The battle that was joined sundered the very earth and cleaved the sky. For Sigmar wore a crown of thunderheads and smote the enemies of order with the rage of a world-ending storm. Entire legions of the foe, demonic and mortal alike, were swept from their feet and pulverized beneath the frenzied destruction of the god king. Seven times he threw back the chaos charge, seven times he led his own, an avatar of violence and righteous justice standing colossal against the hordes of madness. One by one the demonic tetrax he felled. For all their monstrous power and warped pride, these paragons of deity's most wicked tasted realm death at the hands of Sigmar and his mighty hammer, Gal Maraz. Yet there remained one more, potent beyond even the might of a greater demon, and he had yet to make his move. Sigmar knew his chance had arrived when he saw the wings of Dorgar, steed of the apocalypse, darkened the sky to bring forth Archeon ever chosen. Sigmar also knew that though he divine and his foe nominally mortal, the sword of the grand marshal, the slayer of kings, cared not if it carved man flesh or god stuff. It was just as lethal to both. Best perhaps then to stay out of range of such a blade. Thinking his next move cunning, the god king wound up his arm and with a single movement, damned himself and all reality. Gal Maraz flew straight and true, its passage broke the barrier of sound, its path blasted through all that stood in its way. It clove a course through the lost and the damned, straight towards Archeon's three eyed helmet, and then, right before the moment of impact, it vanished. The ever chosen's glamour was revealed, and his laughter boomed across the battlefield for all to hear. Gal Maraz flew still, yet now through the realm of chaos itself, through each and every mortal realm, across all time and all space. Sigmar despaired as it passed from his sight, the full enormity of his failure and the ever chosen's deception revealed at last. Gal Maraz was lost, its passage smashing open yet more holes in the skin through which even more demons fountain forth. Without his hammer, that which had been with him since his mortal existence, Sigmar found his power waning, and the victory of the ever chosen spurred his hordes into a frenzy of unrestrained violence as they spied, total victory closing in. Seeing no other choice, the forces of order fought a desperate retreat, evacuating their remaining armies to the realm gates that led to heavenly azir, all the while the ringing of Archeon's laughter crashing through the skies of now lost Akshi. Sigmar raged further, cursing his allies for weakness and betrayal, scorning the valor of his own generals, all of which those closest to him knew, were but the rantings of one who had failed, not only himself but his people. The back of the pantheon of order was broken, the alliance of Sigmar thoroughly shattered. The god king could only watch as Archeon, victorious upon the fields of Akshi, rampage through the passages between worlds to seize the all points, crushing the last of its valiant defenders under an iron shod deluge of chaos warriors. The mortal realms were now at his whim, and Sigmar took the only course left to him. He sealed each and every realm gate that led to azir, closing his celestial kingdom off from all others utterly. Order had fallen, and all reality shook to the howling of the thirsting gods. The age of chaos began as it would continue, in fire, bloodshed, and cruel oppression. The dominion of the dark gods was total. Azir and Sigmar may be denied to them, a haven of order amidst a roiling sea of chaos, but they had seven realities out of eight, and countless new mortal subjects over which to extend their influence, corruption, and dominion. In every realm, across every generation, Sigmar's name, Ney, order's subjects, were cast into the mud to grovel at the heels of their new overlords. Too readily now did those same subjects turn coat, casting their lot in what the dark gods as every evil within their hearts. Every vile thought that stained their souls was now openly permitted. Ney encouraged as a path to power over others. Man, demon, and monster rampaged across each and every land, claiming plunder, slaves, and petty kingdoms for their own, or simply reaping destruction and murder so that they may draw the eyes of their particular patron. It was not just the subjects of the pantheon that sported, but the gods themselves too, as all sought to claim realms for their own little playgrounds. Through corrupted realm gates, their malign power seeped into reality, warping and twisting the very land itself. This was not simply magic, nor even the power of the demonic. This was pure, untrammeled chaos, the raw stuff of the unreal. And as the years ground passed, its influence became ever more wicked and pestiferous. The domains of mortals began to take on the appearance of the hellish netherworlds of dimensions undreamed of, even more surreal, ever more dangerous. The domains of the plague god, Nurgle, for example, warped from once verdant fields and forests to fetid swamps and fens, cauldrons of the diseases and viruses, the hideous deity, blessed upon thee, tormented and bloated denizens of his territories. The holdfasts of Cahorn saw rivers turn into literal torrents of blood, streaming through the earth that had become as arid and hard to the point it resembled and began to become actual brass. The thousand empires of pain and death that constantly sported under the now ever red skies of Akshi were a micro and macrocosm for the ideal world of the blood god. The lands that fell under the influences of Zinch, the changer of the ways, became fractal nightmares, mazes of the mind and the body, multicoloured hellscapes where a million eyes pulled you a million ways as your soul decayed, trapped within never-ending labyrinths. For the now scattered few of the mortal realms who yet retained their freedom, the age of chaos was a time of struggle and hardship beyond ken, where the minions of enemies beyond fowl lurked perpetually just out of sight. It was also, for the hardiest and most resourceful, a crucible where new societies and cultures, ways of life evolved out of desperate necessity. In Chaman, assaulted on all fronts by Zinch the changer of the ways, bands of normally conservative Dwarden folk hastily developed technology that permitted themselves to flee to the skies in ramshackle airships attached to the first Endren spheres and athermatic energisers. It was not a flight without cost, for the armies of Zinch gave pursuit. The Dwarden arrow fleets were beset by the winged beasts native to the Chamanic stratosphere. Eventually, however, they would develop new sky holds to replace the Karaks of old, banding together in mutual defense packs and trading agreements until, after centuries of development and competition, they banded together in an accord to form the Karadron code. In the ruins of the Lantic Empire, the ghoulish flesh-eater courts began to flourish in the blasted wrecks of castles. They, still believed, were whole and glorious, the very desolation they squatted amongst, fueling their delusions even further. Deep within the roiling oceans of the realms, the secluded Aydaneth Deepkin flourished, unseen and undiscovered by the Dark Pantheon, staving off attacks from mutated chaotic sea beasts. In Gur, the Lords of Chaos raised fortresses in the ever-changing landscapes, only to find themselves sport for the tribes of iron jaw and bone-splitter Uruks, whose natural resistance to the warping energies that spewed forth from the realm gates saw them often flourish in the competition with the forces of the ever-chosen. Despite these small victories, however, they were isolated and by far in the minority. The Dark Pantheon was ascendant, and even in locked away Azir, they sought to extend their influence. Sigmarite witch-hunters abounded in the cities of the celestial realm, rooting out cults aplenty, endemming chaos worshipers to grisly public executions. The Seraphon, those mysterious reptilian beasts of heavenly magic, struck from highest azir upon unsuspecting mortal populations, whom their sland star masters had deemed were a threat whose futures will come to bear terrible fruit. All populations would disappear or be discovered in states of gory ruin. Even as his realm remained almost wholly pure and untainted, Sigmar was not idle. Long had been the years he had dwelt in guilt and anguish, mourning the loss of his grand endeavor, and the death of hope with the passing of the age of myth. Longer still had he closed himself off from the mortal realms, for he could not bear to see the devastation that the dark gods were wrecking, and to hear the cries of those who begged him in his heaven for salvation, only to be silenced a moment later as it soared of dark iron silenced their pleas forever. In time, the guilt turned to a slow burning fury, at the injustice of the chaos gods, at the defilement of his great realms, at the affront they were to all that was good and pure and just in the cosmos. He worked now upon a grand project, a final gambit to free the mortal realms from the clutches of his enemies, and as he did, he observed that chaos, as is its want, was beginning to falter in its dominance. Finding themselves utterly ascendant with no enemies left to conquer, no empires left to shatter, the gods turned to sporting with each other. At first, this was small in both scale and number, isolated feuds between warbands, spats between demonic cohorts, but they escalated in both capacities, and fast. Whole chaotic armies began to clash as the gods greedily sought to extend their authority even further, their once united alliance was gone, replaced by their eternally chaotic natures as kin and enemies both, and so they sought to dominate one another, and claim primacy. Their subjects now pawns in an interneesine feud from outside's time and space, now simply perpetuated the violence of an age on one another, as often as they did upon their slave charges. In the case of the Skaven, this was taken even further, the politicking and suspicions of the Council of Thirteen reaching such a point as to boil the entire race over into a civil war that rent their Under Empire into a thousand thousand petty empires, depriving their deity, the great horned rat, of the precious worship he needed to compete with his chaotic brethren. Of all the pantheon, it was Cahorn, the blood god who waxed strongest, improved the most bellicose, his desire for more death and more bloodletting leading to more carnage and slaughter, all through which he swelled with monstrous power. In the realm of chaos itself, his blood legions despoiled the Garden of Nurgle, smashed the crystal maze, and threw down the pleasure palace. As his fellow gods rallied their own forces to combat their kinsmen, Sigmar realized that there had never been a more opportune time, nor such a moment of dire peril. For should one of the Chaos Gods ever succeed in becoming the victor of the great game they all played, creation itself was at risk. In a mythic resonance with the battle of the burning skies, Sigmar cast forth a weapon, his finest creation, his last hope. But it was not his last hammer. Arriving upon the storm itself, a typhoon of heavenly magic that shook the mortal realms with its crashing peels, his greatest warriors were unleashed. The storm cast Eternals. The Age of Chaos came to a close with the booming of the God King's Thunder and the clash of a zeorite hammer upon shield. The Dark Gods would tremble, for they beheld the beginning of the Age of Sigmar, until such a time as I may be granted further visions of such nature. Ave Imperator. Gloria in Excelsis Terra. This video and this channel were made possible thanks to the very kind donations and support from my Patreon subscribers. If you'd like to help support the channel, head on over to patreon.com slash Oculus Imperia. 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