Among the blessed armouries of the Stormcast Eternals, few weapons carry the grim majesty of the Celestial Greatblade. A greatsword taller than a mortal man, forged in the storm-lit foundries of Azyr and quenched in sacred waters, it is entrusted to champions and standard-bearers who must carve a path through the thickest press of the enemy.
Where a warhammer breaks and shatters, the greatblade shears. Its edge is honed to a keenness that seems almost to sing as it passes, and a warrior who puts his full reforged strength behind a swing can cut clean through shield, mail, and the monster beneath in a single arcing stroke. The metal drinks in the ambient magic of the heavens, so that in the moment of impact the blade flares with cold blue light and the wounds it leaves smoke and refuse to close. Against the bloated champions of Chaos and the towering horrors they summon, such a weapon is worth a dozen lesser blades.
There is ceremony in the greatblade as much as slaughter. It is often borne by those who carry a Stormhost's honours to war, its length engraved with the names of victories won and comrades lost to the Reforging. To be felled beneath such a blade is, in the grim reckoning of the realms, a cleaner death than most, swift and absolute. And when a line of Stormcast raise their greatblades to the storm-wracked sky before a charge, the lightning that answers them is Sigmar's own promise that the war is not yet lost.
The armoury continues
