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Age of Sigmar

Free City

The Living City

A metropolis grown rather than built, where the aelves and humans of Order dwell in living wood beneath the forest's watchful, wary boughs.

Astrography

Anvalor, the Anvil CityAnvilgardAqshy, the Realm of FireAzyr, the Realm of HeavensAzyrheim, the Eternal CityBarak-Nar, the City of the First DawnBrightspearCarngrad, the Chaos-HoldChamon, the Realm of MetalDraconiumExcelsisGhur, the Realm of BeastsGhyran, the Realm of LifeGlymmsforge, the City of LightGreywater FastnessHallowheartHammerhal, the Twin-Tailed CityHar Kuron, the Shadow-TempleHysh, the Realm of LightLethisMisthåvnNagashizzarNulahmia, the Mortis PalaceSettler's Gain, the Jade CityShyish, the Realm of DeathTempest's EyeThe Eightpoints, the Gateway RealmThe Great Parch, Heartland of FireThe Living CityThe Phoenicium, City of the Reborn FlameThe Seven WordsThe Sigmarabulum, Ring of the HeavensThe Ten Paradises of HyshUlgu, the Realm of ShadowVindicarumXintil, the City of Automata

Deep in the Verdant Bay of Ghyran stands Verdia, the Living City, a wonder of the Cities of Sigmar unlike any other. Its towers were not quarried nor its halls hewn; they were grown, coaxed from seed and sapling by the patient artistry of Wanderer aelves working in uneasy communion with the Sylvaneth. Streets of woven root wind between trees taller than any tower Azyr ever raised, and the whole city breathes with the slow pulse of the forest that is its flesh.

Yet this union is a fragile truce, not a friendship. The sylvaneth suffer the mortals to dwell among the boughs only so long as the old pacts are honoured. Fell a tree without rite, spill oil in a sacred glade, and the branchwyches remember. More than one district has awoken to find its living walls turned to strangling cages, the forest reclaiming what was lent.

Beyond the canopy prowl the servants of Nurgle, ever eager to sow rot in so verdant a prize, and the beasts of the deep wilds test the outer groves nightly. The soldiery of the Living City fight a war without end at the treeline, loosing arrows fletched with leaves that will not die. To live here is to dwell always within something larger and older than oneself, honoured and imprisoned in equal measure, forever a guest in a house that could close its fist at any moment.