Welcome to the Shadowmarsh

Age of Sigmar Shadowmarsh is the continuation of an online narrative campaign where players can submit their hobby progress from all facets of the hobby to influence and ongoing narrative tale set in the Age of Sigmar universe.

Each week four new narrative paths will be posted up showing the various strands of fate unravelling for the survivors of the Shadowmarsh with players able to choose which to support with each submission. The report that scores the highest in any given week is then cemented as the route the story takes.


Shadowmarsh Chapter 3: Outcasts continues the campaigns traditions of being set alongside, but not directly involved in the effects of the Broken Realms Saga. Whilst the first chapter focused on a beacon towns siege from servants of Morathi and the very wilds around them during the events of Broken Realm Morathi as the shadow queen sought to silence their messengers before word of her betrayal could get out, the second instead looked at the after impacts of that siege, as the Hooded Lady, a vile servant of Slaanesh took advantage of the Chaos to try and claim the city and gain favour with the Newborns.

In the disastrous consequences of the second chapter the city of Beaconhill was rendered to rubble, and a stawalt hero Bugmansson himself last seen putting the Hooded Lady to the blade, as destruction reigned supreme a long dormant egg of the great Godbeast known only as the Mother Spider hatched from beneath the cobbled streets, ceding control of the Shadowmarsh to the forces of Destruction and the fledgling godbeast. With survivors rapidly flooding to the Aqshy gate to escape certain death the gates power fluctuated from unknown interference as massive strands of the beasts web ensnared it. Taking a desperate gamble those with the resolve to go on fighting flung themselves through to destinations unknown.

Chapter 3 will begin years after this desperate escape, the malfunctioning gate having deposited out survivors in scattered pocket across the Valley of the Ironking, once a burgeoning duardin empire of interlaced Karaks and heavy paved roads to ferry their goods across the empires of the Realms. The region has long since been abandoned, and the Karaks sealed husks of their former glory devoid of hope or aid, mountains in the distance are overshadowed by the all encompassing Storm of Belakor spreading from the heart of Chamon outwards.

Cut off and alone our fractious factions find themselves on unsure footing, desperation runs rampant and yet some seek to take advantage of their location. There are many thrones in the Valley, and even in desperation there are those who would seek to claim them and the wealth of kingdoms still buried beneath the ironsands.

Will you give aid to raise a kingdom anew and unlock the secrets of the Karaks?
Or turn blade to the weak to raise a Tyrants Legion to conquer anew?
Are you a benevolent ally? Subversive Vizier? Conqueror?
Soon the fight for the Valley for the Ironking will begin….

*The story is set in the period following Broken Realms: Belakor, how soon after is vague enough that you can contribute thunderstrike stormcast or explore their newfound vulnerability in the immediate aftermath with neither being incorrect.



Nestled in the far reaches of Chamon the Valley of the Ironking once housed a legendary Duardin empire of repute, a beacon of industry and metalworking that made the realms all the richer with their splendour and craftmanship. Time and war has long since left this region cut off and forgotten, their once enviable cities house little but dust and ruin.

The Basin

Valley it would appear, is a relative term, to many mortals within the basin of the Valley of the King its immensity stretched on for miles in every direction, those who dare stray too far away from water might find themselves descending into madness as the ironsoaked dirt scratches at their skin and the baking sun offers no respite. Little grows in the basin and the only signs of civilisation remain on the islands jutting out of the haze, beneath the feet of wary travellers comes the crunching of ancient bones and the shattered remains of sea-life long since having given way to the unrelenting gaze of the sun.

The Crown

Though much of the immense Valley of the Ironking is a choking dustbowl of bitter metallic dirt blowing in the wind, those who walk toward Realm’s Heart find themselves confronted by a jutting mountain range that crests the valley mouth. Its mountains reach high into the sky with their ice coated peaks glittering as though the jewels on an immense crown. In the heart of this range stands a door, taller than the largest of Gargants and twice as wide, sealed by runic mastery long since lost to the Age of Chaos beckoning treasure hunters to use wit and guile to break its ancient wards and reach the kingdoms with.

The Trench

Duardin are by their very nature miners, they live to carve the face of the realms to reflect their own concept of beauty and industry. In the ages lost when the basin hosted an inlet from the great seas of Chamon the intrepid miners found ways to carve the stone even beneath the crushing pressures of the waves. Submerged in their own contraptions they dug deep into the Trench, unearthing treasures the likes of which creatures lacking their ambition and ingenuity would never have fathomed. The Trench remains once of the few sources of drinkable water remaining in the region, and as such is a common watering hole for the waring tribes and predatory beasts that call the Valley home.

The Island

Though long since having dried out to its current dirt filled monstrosity the Valley of the Ironking holds testaments to its once oceanic scenery, those who walk far enough across the basin might spot the husk of a long stranded vessel jutting from the murk. Though many hills boat minor settlements on what were once an array of islands there is only one by the name of The Island, itself once a minor sea-bound mountain jutting from the waves every inch of its face boasts balconies rotting away and hints of a lattice of ladders and rope walks that once turned it into a veritable city unto itself.

No dark space is ever truly unoccupied in the realms, and what creatures have found home within the echoing chasms carved by the artisans of the Duardin inside the island is question of madmen and adventurers. Few dare venture within, fewer return.


How it Works:

Each week a new list of narrative paths will be revealed, charting potential futures for the Survivors of the Shadowmarsh and the lay of the new land they find themselves in.

To submit your work each week tweet as work in progress, finished model, game result or narrative with #AOSSHADOWMARSH along with the name of the narrative path you are supporting.

For example:

FAITH #AoSShadowmarsh

SAFETY #AoSShadowmarsh

WAR #AoSShadowmarsh

INNOVATE #AoSShadowmarsh

You may make more than one submission a week!


Each week four new narrative strands will be set forth, each falling under one of the narrative archtypes shown below as the survivors choose between the roads open them to forge their new future in Chamon. Will you lead them to conquer all that fall within their path or turn to Sigmars love for shield?


Death is the Great Equaliser, where Man and God alike stand stripped bare of all their armour and lies to face the judgement of the Great Devourer.

For too long we have been shuffled about the map as mere pawns to deities who care little for our existence and much less our desires, for the aeons we served at the behest of the Great Necromancer.

But now we feel his chains slipping, our shackles weigh less heavily with every passing step as we move into as new era.

As the Mother Web birthed the Godbeast who lay low Beaconhill we shall birth an empire of the Godless, a Bastion of the Free beneath the benevolence of the Queen of Spiders.

Ragnii Eternis….


War… Deff… Da End.

All Da beasts is born with the Drums o’ War poundin in der chests.

Hoomanz fear it, hidin in Forts o’ rock and twig.

Pointy Earz deny it, Lyin to all dat dey dont hear it.

But the Drums dont care none.

Waaar is comin.

Every day the beat getz Louda!

Refooges, Deff Kultz, Even da odd Dua… Doori… Doorf is comin.

War, Waaaar, Waaaaaaagh


Beaconhill is mere rubble and memories, the Shadowmarsh lost to the ever encroaching tide of destruction that seeks to end all we have fought for, and as the storm rages onward we are robbed of Holy Azyr and life eternal.

In the years since the fall of the Beacon our numbers have dwindled as has the faith the refugees of her once unshakable populace had in us. Many fled into the desert sands seeking salvation or as death beyond the horizon. Others fall each passing day to the beasts of Chamon that seek to make gains in the chaos wrought by the First Prince.

We are the Children of Azyr, the Shield Unbroken, The Golden Host.

Though even I now fear….

We are the Forgotten.


You huddled like blind fools clinging to artefacts of power as though your desperate embrace might lend you some trace of their majesty to elevate your blighted existance beyond that of mortal creatures.

You grovelled on bended knee at the feet of Gods and Tyrants, eagerly consuming their lies and tainted powers in the hopes that one day others might kneel at yours.

The Age of Magic is gone, spiraling out of control like so many drunks given free reign of tavern by foolish masters who assumed they had some measure of self control.

Now is the Age of Innovation, we shall wash clean this realm of magic and all who would pevert it for their own base desires.

The Day of the Wizard has passed. Now comes Midnight!