The Kislevites are the stern, weather-beaten people of the north, dwelling upon the windswept steppe and in the frozen forests that mark the last civilised ground before the howling wastes of Chaos. Hardship has forged them hard, and where the softer folk of the south fret over comfort, a Kislevite reckons a day survived a day well spent. Theirs is a land of short summers and killing winters, of icons and old gods and the ever-present dread of what rides the northern wind.
The realm of Kislev endures as the Old World's frozen shield, and its people know that when the dark tribes of the north descend, they are the first to bleed. Fierce lancers ride the endless plains, kossars stand grim in the shield-wall, and the ice-witches wield a bitter magic drawn from the very cold of the land. Their Tzarina rules from the ice-palace of Kislev city, a bulwark of frost and iron against the darkness.
Devout, dour and unbreakable, the Kislevites hold their frontier through sheer stubbornness and sacrifice. They drink hard, mourn hard, and fight harder, knowing that behind their line lie the soft lands of the Empire, which would fall swiftly were the frozen watch of Kislev ever to break.
The bestiary continues
