When the World-that-Was ended, Sigmar drifted through the Aetheric void clutching a shard of the old world's core, until the realms opened before him like unwritten pages. So began The Age of Myth, an epoch when gods walked as neighbours and the impossible was merely unbuilt. Sigmar bound the great powers to his cause: Grungni the smith, Alarielle the everqueen, Grimnir who slew the godbeast Vulcatrix, and the treacherous serpent Nagash, lord of the dead. Together they threw down the monsters of the primordial wilds and raised civilisation in their wake.
Across Ghyran and Chamon and Aqshy, the free peoples who would one day become the cities-of-sigmar laboured beneath the protection of the gods. The sylvaneth flourished in Alarielle's endless gardens, and the duardin delved holds of impossible wealth. It was an age of wonder, and like all wonders it was fragile.
Yet even paradise carries its own rot. The pantheon quarrelled, gods withdrew into pride and isolation, and in the shadows the Ruinous Powers marked the light and coveted it. Nagash betrayed the compact at the Battle of Burning Skies, and the perfect unity of the gods cracked forever. When Chaos finally poured through the realmgates in unnumbered legions, it found a golden world grown complacent, its makers scattered. The myth ended in fire, and the long night began.
The chronicle continues
