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The Old World

City-state

Naggarond

The Tower of Cold, black capital of the Witch King in the frozen Land of Chill, a cruel fortress-city raised on slavery and hate.

Astrography

Altdorf, Capital of the EmpireAthel Loren, the Enchanted ForestAverheimBarak VarrBechafen, City of the MarshesCouronne, City of the GrailErengradHag Graef, the Dark CragHexoatl, City of the SunItzaKarak Azul, the Hold of IronKarak Eight PeaksKarak KadrinKaraz-a-Karak, the EverpeakKislev, the City of the Ice QueenLothernLustria, the Jungle ContinentMarienburgMiddenheim, the City of the White WolfMousillonNaggarondNaggaroth, the Land of ChillNehekhara, the Land of the DeadNuln, City of Iron and PowderParravon, City of the PeaksPraag, the Scarred CitySkavenblightSylvania, the Cursed ProvinceTalabheimTor Elyr, City of the LagoonsUlthuan, Isle of the High ElvesWolfenburgWurtbad, City of StirlandYvresse, the Misty IsleZhufbar, the Torrent GateZlatlan, the Fallen Temple-City

In the frozen wastes of the Land of Chill rises Naggarond, the Tower of Cold, capital of the Dark Elves and dread seat of Malekith the Witch King. It is a city of black stone and colder cruelty, its six mighty towers clawing at a sky forever grey with sleet, its walls raised by the broken backs of countless slaves. Here dwells the Witch King in his iron fortress, brooding upon the throne of all Ulthuan he believes stolen from him, nursing a hatred that has burned for thousands of years.

Naggarond is a city built upon suffering. Its every luxury is wrung from the toil of the enslaved, dragged screaming from raids upon distant shores, and its streets run with the blood of the sacrifices offered to the murder-god Khaine. The druchii who dwell here are masters of torture and treachery, each noble house a nest of vipers scheming for the Witch King's favour, each life held cheaper than the whim of one's betters.

From this black heart the corsair-fleets and cold-hearted armies of Naggaroth sail forth to reave and enslave across the world, and to wage their eternal war against the hated asur of Ulthuan. There is no mercy in Naggarond, no love, no loyalty that a knife cannot sever. It is the pure distillation of a people who chose spite over grace, cruelty over kinship, a monument in black iron to the truth that some wounds, nursed long enough, curdle into a hatred that would rather rule in ice than kneel in the light.