Prologue: Smoke on the Horizon.
The Ravaged Coast breathed in fire.
Aqshy’s eastern frontier, long battered by the twin agonies of elemental fury and arcane decay, smoldered once again beneath bruised skies. Ash drifted across the land in slow, hypnotic spirals. Magma crusted over the bones of forgotten warbands. The storms—half flame, half madness—never ceased. Here, the land did not simply burn. It remembered being burned, and it held a grudge.
From the edges of the Adamantine Chain to the cursed thresholds of the Gnaw, rumors spread across the Scorched Outskirts like sparks on oil. Something new had come to the coast. Not an army. Not a war. A purpose.
In a fissure-veiled crater surrounded by twisted ley-lines, Emberkin the Incandescent made his descent.
Daemon. Changecaster. Devotee of fate’s most volatile god. Emberkin did not march under banners, nor call forth vast legions. His warband, the Flameborn Cabal, was a congregation of daemonic pyromancers, capering horrors, and fire-wreathed zealots drawn to his obsession.
And his obsession was absolute: to be seen.
In Emberkin’s mind, the Architect of Fate had not simply overlooked him—Tzeentch had denied him transcendence. Where others sought conquest or carnage, Emberkin sought witness. He would not ascend through incremental mastery or obedience. He would become undeniable. His answer was the Emberpyre—a towering construct of raw emberstone and impossibility, a pyre not for enemies. but for himself.
He would burn.Gloriously. And through self-immolation. in perfect wyrdflame. he would seize the gaze of Tzeentch and be made anew.
But the Ravaged Coast is no empty stage.
As the first stones of the Emberpyre were laid, others stirred. Smoke carried more than ash. It carried intention. It called warbands like blood calls sharks. Some felt it as prophecy. Others, as opportunity. A few simply smelled a good scrap.
They came. Ironjawz marauders, roaring for violence. Seraphon warriors, gliding down upon burning winds. Vampiric knights, dreaming of dominion and redemption. Stormcast champions, falling like thunderbolts. And in the crawlspaces of this doomed land, the Skaven, ever watching, ever scheming.
The coast was no longer silent.
And as the embers danced and the Cabal’s chants echoed across the blackened sky, Emberkin smiled beneath a mask of flame. Let them come. Let them rage and claw and fall. Let them bear witness.
Chapter 1: Red Skies and Green Fury.
It began with smoke—and laughter.
The high passes of the Adamantine Chain, long thought impassable to large-scale warbands, shuddered as iron boots cracked stone. From the shattered west came Da Embercrack Boyz, orruks with crude armor scorched black by their own campfires, their shields stained red with fermented squig blood. Their arrival was anything but quiet. Trees were felled with roars. Boulders shattered under brutish competition. Somewhere between bellows and belches, a war party formed.
At their head was Grakka da Flamebelcha, a weirdnob shaman with soot-stained robes and a crown of melted scrap. Beside him stomped Gorbad, a grinning brute of a boss, his fists already bloodied before the battle began. They came to the Ravaged Coast not for glory, nor strategy. They came because something was burning—and they wanted to punch it.
They found what they were looking for.
Emberstone veins split the rock in molten lattices, and upon them danced fire that was not fire—wyrdflame, imbued with intention, intelligence, and malice. In its glow shimmered the Flameborn Cabal, weaving spells in forked tongues, conjuring horrors from their own shadows. At their center stood Emberkin the Incandescent, robes in constant motion as if licked by flames, his many eyes closed in fevered communion.
The orruks charged anyway.
The clash came in the central valley, where emberstone melted boots and banners alike. Orruk ardboyz and brutes surged into daemonic lines, their battle cries echoing like avalanches. Grakka hurled bolts of roaring green energy, his staff crackling with unstable Waaagh! energy.
Emberkin, unmoved, cast his spells with practiced serenity—until Grakka unbound one.
It was a massive incantation, a masterfully orchestrated teleportation spell intended to reposition the Cabal’s elite: Bal’zhur, the Crowned Ember, a daemonic burning chariot armed with a scorching fusillade of magical fire. Emberkin wove the spell effortlessly with fate-altering consequence, and yet. with a thunderous cackle. Grakka’s elemental magic unraveled it mid-cast.
Bal’zhur shimmered—and then exploded in blue flame, left stranded and exposed. Seconds later, a tide of Orruk Brutes charged over the ridge and smashed it into molten fragments.
It could have been the turning point.
But the Cabal had more than one trick. Flamers of Tzeentch unleashed incandescent torrents. Pink horrors split, and split again, reforming even as their pieces bled. Emberkin stepped forward himself, channeling arcane entropy into a beam that carved through an orruik brute line like a hot knife through squig fat.
Grakka’s laughter gave way to snarls. Gorbad bellowed orders as the tide turned. By battle’s end, the orruks had been forced to retreat. beaten but defiant.
And as they limped from the pass, dragging their wounded and roaring all the same, Emberkin returned to his ritual circle. The Emberpyre grew slowly behind him, emberstone glimmering in the fading sun.
“Let them come,” he whispered into the ash. “Let them scream.”
The pyre would need more fuel.
Chapter 2: The Stars Burn Cold.
Where smoke rises, the stars take notice.
From beyond the molten jungles and obsidian ridges, something ancient stirred. Chak’Tal, a coalesced saurus “Oldblood”, rode atop his towering carnosaur, its breath steaming in the sulfurous air. Behind him, aggradon riders and saurus warriors paced with patient violence, their reptilian eyes narrow and glinting. The Seraphon had arrived.
They came not to claim, nor to dominate—but to correct.
The Ravaged Coast trembled beneath corrupted energies. Emberstone seeped through the crust of reality like a fever blister. Magic writhed unchecked, and fate itself bent in unnatural directions. The Seraphon, those celestial architects of balance, sensed a rift forming. The Flameborn Cabal was the axis of its unraveling.
So Chak’Tal descended from the stars, his will honed like the weapon he was bred to be.
Their target lay in a valley choked by boiling smog, the air too thick to breathe and thick with warp-taint. Here, the Cabal had begun constructing ritual fires—twisted braziers pulsing with volatile emberstone. If lit, they would not only empower Emberkin’s rituals, but create conduits through which the Emberpyre could draw upon the realm’s ley-lines.
The Seraphon would not allow it.
With mechanical precision and bestial might, Chak’Tal’s forces charged from the high ground. Saurus warriors in phalanx formation advanced through volcanic sludge, their shields shimmering with starlight. Aggradon riders crashed into daemon horrors who capered madly around the central braziers, their laughter cut short by blade and fang.
The Flameborn Cabal countered in kind. Emberkin’s cultists loosed firebolts, and horrors danced through unnatural warp-twists, but the celestial clarity of the Seraphon cut through them. The air shimmered with ancient runes. The Cabal’s attempts to ignite the braziers faltered.
Chak’Tal himself led the charge through a fog of ash and ether. His carnosaur roared, the sound part thunder, part prophecy. With a single bone-crushing lunge, it devoured a flamer whole, searing wyrdflame still dripping from its maw.
Emberkin stood at the far edge of the battlefield, watching impassively. His daemons were faltering. His formations unraveling.
But he did not engage.
Instead, with a flare of magic, he called his remaining forces back—a tactical withdrawal, not routed but retracted. His eyes never left the central braziers, now claimed by saurian defenders. He had lost the valley, but not the war.
The Seraphon did not pursue. To them, the ritual site was secured, the corruption cleansed. Victory was achieved.
But victory is not permanence on the Ravaged Coast.
By the next dawn, the smog had already returned. The emberstone had begun to regrow like a wound reopening. And far to the east, Emberkin murmured new equations in fire and fate.
The stars had burned bright.
But the flames were far from gone.
Chapter 3: Frenzy in the Ash.
The Seraphon may have driven back the daemons, but they had not cleansed the coast.
The land still bled emberstone. The winds still howled with unreality. And not all threats could be foretold in the stars.
No sooner had Chak’Tal’s forces fortified the smog-choked valley than the mountains shook again—this time, not with daemonic sorcery, but with crude laughter and the rhythmic pounding of iron boots.
The Embercrack Boyz had returned.
Beaten, but never broken, the orruks had reassembled with the stubbornness only the Ironjawz possessed. Grakka da Flamebelcha, his pride as scorched as his robes, led the charge, riding high on a surge of Waaagh! energy. Beside him thundered Gorbad, wielding a stolen braziershaft as a club. Their goal was simple: find the lizards who dared to take their fight—and break them.
They met in the central ridge, where skull-littered ground shimmered with emberstone heat. The air was thick with tension and stench alike. The Seraphon formed ranks; the orruks didn’t bother.
The battle began not with a war cry, but with a roar from Chak’Tal’s Carnosaur, plunging into the advancing orruk line like a meteor. Aggradon riders surged behind him, their mounts snapping and slashing.
But the orruks answered in kind. Brutes crashed into saurus shields with bone-crunching force. Ardboyz swung crude blades with gleeful disregard for strategy. Grakka himself hurled arcane blasts, green lightning crackling from a severed daemonic horn he had claimed from the last skirmish.
The two forces clashed in a storm of blood, tooth, and steel. It was not a battle of magic or prophecy, but of pure, snarling muscle. For every saurus that held the line, another was dragged down by a brute too angry to fall. For every orruk that cackled through a wound, an aggradon bit deep into bone.
But the Seraphon, once again, proved unyielding.
Chak’Tal, ever the living weapon, surged through the fray with calculated fury. His carnosaur trampled through brutes like wheat, its tail flinging orruks aside like broken dolls. The Seraphon moved as one, cold, focused, divine.
By the fourth turn of the sun, the Ironjawz began to falter. Laughter turned to curses. Bravado gave way to bruises. Gorbad was last seen being pulled from a pile of corpses, swearing vengeance through broken teeth.
Da Embercrack Boyz withdrew—not defeated in spirit. but spent in body.
Still, their wake was clear.
The battlefield, though held by the Seraphon, was shattered. Fires smoldered in places no ritual had touched. Reinforcements, meant to arrive from the west, turned back, unwilling to navigate the Orruk-churned paths.
The Flameborn Cabal, watching from afar, did not mourn the orruks’ losses.
They celebrated their chaos.
The Emberpyre would need cover. Confusion. Delay. Distraction. In this. the orruks had done Emberkin’s work for him.
And somewhere, behind his flaming mask, the changecaster whispered again—“Let the fools fight for scraps. I will burn a throne.”
Chapter 4: Blood Oaths in the Dark.
The Seraphon held the pass, the orruks limped away, and the daemons whispered in the shadows.
But the Ravaged Coast did not rest.
The wind carried secrets, and one of them reached the ears of the undead.
From the east rode the Knights of the Long March. crimson banners snapping in the blistering wind. hooves clattering like drums of judgment. They came not as a tide, but a spearpoint—vampiric aristocrats armored in ruin and pride. Their blood-red helms bore no sigils of allegiance, save for that of their disgraced heritage. exiles of the Crimson Keep. seeking redemption in blood and ember.
At their head rode two figures. eternal rivals bound by unspoken hatred. The first. cloaked in silence and iron. was known only as the Earl of Execution. his sword a whisper of doom. The second, his rival and tenuous ally, bore a banner torn in half—a symbol of their fractured standing before Prince Vhordrai.
Their goal was not conquest. It was audience. Somewhere in the Ravaged Coast, it was said, the Flameborn Cabal was preparing a ritual of catastrophic significance. If true. and if seized. such power might win their return to the Crimson Court—or the destruction of it.
They rode into the ash-drenched deadlands and found the Cabal waiting.
The ground they fought upon was littered with bones and emberstone—an abandoned outpost now cracked open by warp energy. Here, Emberkin had woven subtle geometries into the terrain itself. Sigils glowed in the stone. Fire pulsed beneath it like a second heart.
The Knights charged.
Blood knights cut through horrors like scythes through weeds. Their lances shimmered with necrotic power, their armor deflecting flame and spell alike. The air rang with the clash of sorcery and steel.
But the Cabal did not waver.
Emberkin unleashed a storm of wyrdflame. His horrors split and reformed, doubling and redoubling with each blow struck. The changecaster shifted probability in his favor, bending fate in favor of critical charges and unexpected resistances. The battlefield itself turned against the undead.
Still, the knights endured. The Earl of Execution dismounted and carved a path through a mob of blue and brimstone horrors, his blade trailing shadows that did not match his movements. He fought not to win—but to draw attention. To distract.
And it worked.
While the bulk of the Cabal’s forces focused on the knightly assault, a small Soulblight scouting force slipped away from the fray. Moving through lava-fissures and ruined catacombs, they infiltrated a hidden chamber beneath the site—one layered with glyphs and bound in flame-wrought iron.
What they discovered confirmed their fears—and exceeded them.
The Emberpyre was. real. A multi-tiered construct of channeling stones, emberstone shards, and living fire. It wasn’t just a weapon. It was a vessel. A catalyst. A tomb by design, but for a death that would lead to transformation.
Emberkin meant to burn himself alive within it.
Not in defeat. But in glory.
The Soulblight scouts returned just as the knights began their retreat. Casualties were high. The Earl’s cloak was in tatters. His rival was bleeding from a rent in his cuirass. Yet their eyes burned brighter than ever.
They had found what they came for.
And they would return.
Not as disruptors. But as contenders.
Chapter 5: Lightning Before the Pyre.
The storm came not from the skies, but from within.
By the time the Dagger Stars descended, the Ravaged Coast was already steeped in smoke and strife. Emberstone deposits had begun to fracture the crust of reality. Wyrdflame danced in ritual arcs across old fortresses. Madness took root in the hearts of mortals and immortals alike.
The Stormcast Eternals had waited. Watched. Studied. But now they struck.
They were a vanguard chamber sent from Sigmar’s own vaults—silent warriors reborn in lightning, clad in crackling sigmarite. Their commander walked the Path of the Storm. His face, like his purpose, was veiled behind a storm-etched helm.
They did not fall from the heavens this time. They marched from the foothills, guided by aetheric signs and hidden maps drawn in seerstone. Their target: a newly exposed emberstone cache, heavily guarded by daemonic forces and ritual sentinels. Word had reached them of the Emberpyre’s construction, and though the true purpose remained unknown, they would not allow such power to go unchallenged.
The Cabal’s sentries awaited them in layered defense: daemonic patrols, shimmering ward-flames, and a summoned host known as the Sputtering Tide—a swirling mass of pink, blue, and brimstone horrors bound to Emberkin’s will.
They collided with the fury of two storms.
The Stormcast struck with divine precision, their shields forming a wall of thunder that broke the Tide’s advance. Bolts of celestial energy lanced through the twisting masses of Tzeentchian horrors, each one detonating into shrieking doubles, then into crawling flames. For every horror they slew, more emerged—but the Dagger Stars did not falter.
The Tide collapsed, not from lack of number, but from the sheer relentlessness of the Stormcast assault. Ranged volleys from vanguard-raptors with longstrike crossbows rained into the Cabal’s ranks while liberators pushed through crumbling ritual circles to desecrate emberstone idols.
At the battle’s heart, the Stormcast commander cleaved through daemonkind with a blade that sang with thunder. He left no prayers in his wake—only silence and conviction.
The Flameborn Cabal, caught unprepared for such raw force, withdrew before the last light of Azyr dimmed from the field.
It was a victory. A clear one.
But it brought with it a dangerous side effect: hope.
The Emberpyre’s construction had been delayed. Its defenses had been wounded. And across the Ravaged Coast, word of the Stormcast victory spread like wildfire.
Some rejoiced. Others feared.
Emberkin did neither.
From within his ritual sanctum, the changecaster watched the flames of the Emberpyre flicker and recalculate. He had lost ground—but not his path. The structure still stood. The stars had not yet spoken the final word.
And in his hand, a single shard of emberstone shimmered with unreal heat, refracting futures that had not yet come to pass.
The pyre would burn.
And it would need more fuel.
Chapter 6: The Ash Betrayal.
The time had come.
The Dagger Stars. steeled by victory and bloodied resolve, prepared to deliver a final, killing blow. Their commander—silent and stormbound—had seen enough. With the Emberpyre partially constructed and its defenses weakened, this was the hour to strike. If the pyre could not be wholly destroyed, it could at least be shattered. slowed. or denied its master.
But they could not act alone.
The coast was too vast, its paths too treacherous. And so, the Dagger Stars turned to an unlikely ally—Skitterwarp Elektrikus. a warlock-engineer of Clan Skryre, whose circuits sparked with genius and treachery in equal measure.
Skitterwarp came bearing gifts: warp-charged stormfiends, corrosive warpfire projectors, and a cunning assault plan—one that would cut straight into the Emberpyre’s heart. He spoke with twitching enthusiasm about tactical superiority, mutual benefit, and the chance to dismantle a shared threat.
The Stormcast did not trust him. But. they needed him.
Together, the unlikely alliance descended on the Emberpyre’s crucible—a hellish crater of emberstone veins, warded glyphs, and swirling magical thermals. At its center rose the half-formed pyre: a spiraling engine of fire and fate, alive with volatile purpose.
The battle began with thunder and warp.
The Dagger Stars struck with celestial precision, smashing into horrors and tzaangor alike. Liberators held the line while raptors sent volleys from afar, lashing out with strikes that cracked reality. Meanwhile, Skitterwarp’s hulking stormfiends blasted warpfire into the deeper defenses, their clawed arms whirring and sizzling.
For a moment, it worked.
But. it was never meant to last.
As the Stormcast pressed deeper, relying on timed reinforcements from Azyr to collapse the Cabal’s flank, something went wrong.
A pulse of warp-lightning shot through the battlefield. Arcane currents twisted into sigil-geometry and exploded in a riot of light and shrieking dissonance. The skies above the battlefield twisted, and the connection to the Celestial Realm fractured.
No reinforcements came.
The Stormcast, forged to descend from the heavens, found themselves stranded.
And Skitterwarp?
He was gone—retreating into his warp-tunnels, giggling, hauling packs laden with stolen emberstone shards! His sabotage had worked perfectly. The warpfield had not only cut off Stormcast support, it had drawn the Flameborn’s attention away just long enough for him to plunder the site unseen.
Caught in the middle of an ambush, with emberstone collapsing around them and daemons surging from the flanks, the Dagger Stars fought a desperate, grinding retreat. The battlefield became a cauldron of searing magic, broken vows, and screaming flame.
The Flameborn Cabal, under Emberkin’s seething direction, unleashed waves of wyrdflame to wash over the battlefield. For every two steps the Stormcast gained, they lost three warriors. Destiny spiraled out of their grasp.
In the end, the Emberpyre remained standing, though scorched and cracked.
The Stormcast fell back, carrying their wounded. The Cabal held the field—but not unscathed.
And deep underground, Skitterwarp Elektrikus whispered new blueprints to himself in the dark, humming plans only he could understand.
From the ridge above the pyre, Emberkin the Incandescent raised a single burning hand to the sky and spoke aloud to no one.
“Let them scheme. Let them hope. Hope burns so beautifully.”
Epilogue: Smoke, Not Silence.
The Scorched Outskirts did not fall quiet when the fighting stopped.
There was no silence—only the sound of the wind carrying away the screams, the hum of emberstone still pulsing beneath the blackened earth, and the distant thunder of new forces approaching from the edge of the world.
The coast had changed. It had been bled, burned, and twisted—but not broken. Every warband that stepped into the flame had been changed in turn.
The Dagger Stars, once aloof and watchful, now bore the marks of betrayal carved into their sigmarite. Their lightning had been stolen from the sky by the machinations of a Skaven traitor, and many of their finest warriors’ souls trapped between realms. Yet their commander did not falter. He simply turned east, toward the shifting boundaries of the Gnaw’s Edge, where ley-lines snapped like ropes under strain and the land itself howled with mutation. The Stormcast would not forget. Nor would they forgive.
The Seraphon, led by Chak’Tal, had claimed victory in every battle, but the stars had shown them a bitter truth: precision was not enough. Even their purest judgments could not stabilize a realm that refused to be still. Still. they marched. The Gnaw’s Edge seethed with corruption—and the stars called them there.
The Knights of the Long March had vanished into the night, but not in defeat. The Earl of Execution, cold and brooding, now possessed knowledge of the Emberpyre’s design. To him, it was no longer a weapon to be destroyed, but an altar to be claimed. Perhaps even a path to glory of a different kind—one Prince Vhordrai could not ignore. The vampires whispered new oaths as they rode east, seeking darker pacts.
Da Embercrack Boyz, despite repeated beatings, remained a force of entropy. Grakka da Flamebelcha claimed the last battle as a personal triumph, despite having fled it with singed eyebrows and a cracked staff. But they were not gone. Where the smoke flowed, so too did the boyz—laughing, charging, breaking what they didn’t understand. The Gnaw’s Edge promised more fighting, more glowing rocks, and more things to hit. They were on their way.
Far below, beneath shattered tunnels and screaming stone, Skitterwarp Elektrikus tapped emberstone crystals against rusted metal, his warplightning organics twitching with glee. The betrayal had been perfect. The loot abundant. But the Emberpyre was only the beginning. Beneath the Gnaw lay older things. deeper energies. Things the daemons did not understand—but that he would harness.
The Emberpyre, though damaged, still rose behind Emberkin the Incandescent, its flames guttering but not dead. He stood on its highest tier, arms outstretched, eyes closed to the storm-wracked sky. Every defeat had been foretold. Every victory, earned. He did not see himself as set back.
He saw himself as sharpened.
The ritual was not over. It had only begun. And the Gnaw’s Edge would provide the next crucible.
The Ravaged Coast was not healed.
It had only taken a breath.
This entry chronicles the narrative from our group’s ongoing Path to Glory: Ravaged Coast campaign, set in the world of Warhammer Age of Sigmar. All settings, factions, and lore are part of the rich universe created by Games Workshop. We’re here to paint minis, roll dice, and let myths be forged.
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