Disciples of Tzeentch – Warscrolls

Gaunt Summoners are daemon monarchs of Tzeentch. There are nine of these dreaded sorcerers, and each is the lord of a Silver Tower – looming crystalline edifices that travel across time and space, disgorging hosts of daemons and Arcanites from their labyrinthine innards. Having been elevated to their station by Tzeentch himself, Gaunt Summoners are entrusted with schemes of immense complexity and import. They rule their Silver Towers as mad fiefdoms and delight in magically trapping rivals and adversaries within. These unfortunates are subjected to endless trials for the amusement of the Gaunt Summoners. Few ever escape; fewer still hold onto their sanity. Gaunt Summoners are masters of binding the daemons that infest their Silver Towers. Often they will transform a mindless Screamer into a Disc to ride upon, for the pride of the Summoners is such that walking upon the stagnant earth of the realms infuriates them. Surrounded by shoals of flying daemons or Discborne mortal acolytes, Gaunt Summoners observe the ebb and flow of battle with an obsessive curiosity. Any opportunity to unleash their arcane fires will be seized on with gusto, for the Summoners are always looking to outdo one another in seeking the favour of Tzeentch.

Magisters are amongst the most magically powerful of Tzeentch’s mortal servants. It is they who lurk at the heart of an Arcanite cult, manipulating all and sundry to ensure the Change God’s will is carried out. Though they prefer to operate from their sorcerous lairs, when Magisters take to the field, they revel in unleashing their most devastating evocations. With a gesture, these master sorcerers summon roaring flames of every colour or exude rays of pure change-magic that warp enemies beyond recognition. The more outlandish the fate they can inflict, the more honour they do to the Changer of the Ways. Magisters who take a particular delight in the carnage of open magical warfare will seek out a Screamer to act as their mount, warping the daemonic creature’s flesh and alloying it with strange metals until it serves as a Disc of Tzeentch. Having eschewed the subtlety typical to their kind, they have embraced their role as the bringers of violent change. Contrails of flame billow in their wake as they blaze through the skies alongside other airborne minions. The Magisters hungrily draw upon these fires to wield as tools of annihilation, scouring the lands until they are more pleasing to Tzeentch’s ninefold gaze.

Tzaangor Shamans are the most powerful of their bestial kind. Born amongst dark omens, they are favoured by the Architect of Fate and granted a daemonic Disc to raise them above their kin. They combine savage strength with instinctive magical prowess, a combination that few can resist. Tzaangor Shamans are revered by their warflocks, for they wield the ability to transmute others into Tzaangors. Any struck by the blue-tinged bolts of mutagenic energy they conjure are wracked with agonising contortions, their skulls splitting as sharp beaks push forth and their bodies sprout rough spines. Before long, the afflicted rise as glistening Tzaangors, ready to join the Shaman’s ranks. Tzaangor believe that, by imbibing potions of distilled mage-blood, their Shamans enter a trance that allows them to spirit-walk into the Realm of Chaos and receive commands from the Lords of Change. Some Shamans are ordered to lend guidance to an Arcanite cult, whilst others remain with their warflocks. These mutant sorcerers guide their kin in all manner of rituals, lead hunts for arcane treasures or oversee the rising of flux-cairns that distort magic into forms more pleasing to the Changer of the Ways.

More than just a powerful warrior, a Fatemaster is surrounded by an aura of change. Mounted atop Discs of Tzeentch, Fatemasters streak into combat, slicing foes with their fireglaives while manipulating fortune for the benefit of their Arcanite cult.

There is nowhere on the battlefield safe from a Herald riding a Disc of Tzeentch. Bolting through the air, the Fluxmaster conjures blue flames to hurl at the foe before darting in to deliver a swift blow from a mutative Staff of Change.

Tzeentch created two daemons, P’tarix and Xirat’p, for the sole purpose of learning every spell in existence. The Blue Scribes, as they are known, ride their Disc of Tzeentch through the realms seeking every fragment of arcana.

Heralds of Tzeentch are the captains of the Change God’s scintillating hosts. These daemons have been granted greater individuality and command of magic than the gibbering Horror masses, though ultimately they remain nothing but pawns in Tzeentch’s schemes. There are numerous different ranks of Herald, each with a role to play in their master’s ineffable designs. Obsessed with showing off their status and outdoing their rivals, Heralds of Tzeentch festoon themselves with arcane tomes and trinkets, relics scrounged from the archives of the Impossible Fortress and leaden with magic. Changecasters are the lowliest form of Herald, charged with corralling packs of daemonic Horrors into something approaching a battleline. The difficulties of this task grate on even an immortal, ensuring that Changecasters have a bitter disposition assuaged only through acts of magical destruction. These Heralds are natural sorcerers and powerful loci of fell energy, capable of bathing enemies in mutagenic wyrdflame that sees their limbs agonisingly split, their flesh turn inside out or some other form of lethal unravelling overcome them. Yet Changecasters command little respect from their fellow Heralds, largely because they must suffer the indignity of walking upon the dull and constant surface of the realms.

Curselings are grotesque bipartite entities who bartered their very being for eldritch truths. Should a pact be struck, a strange lump appears on their form, growing more pronounced over nights of disorienting pain. From pallid skin grows a ruff of scintillating feathers and an eyeless head, thin limbs twitching and gesticulating. This homunculus-creature is a Tretchlet, a lesser daemon-form that allows a measure of Tzeentch’s will to possess its host. In return for a mortal anchor to bind it to the realms, they provide the Curseling the intuition to discern truth from falsehood. Those who would slay this peculiar double creature at close quarters find themselves thwarted by the strong sword arm of the host, a formidable warrior in their own right. Curselings are thieves of the arcane, loathed by those gifted in spellcraft. Yet their existence is a fraught one. Tretchlets are conniving entities, forever scheming to seize control of their host. Should the Curseling not remain on guard, they may find themselves trapped within their own mind, forced to watch as the Tretchlet puppets them onwards.

Gaunt Summoners are daemon monarchs of Tzeentch. There are nine of these dreaded sorcerers, and each is the lord of a Silver Tower – looming crystalline edifices that travel across time and space, disgorging hosts of daemons and Arcanites from their labyrinthine innards. Having been elevated to their station by Tzeentch himself, Gaunt Summoners are entrusted with schemes of immense complexity and import. They rule their Silver Towers as mad fiefdoms and delight in magically trapping rivals and adversaries within. These unfortunates are subjected to endless trials for the amusement of the Gaunt Summoners. Few ever escape; fewer still hold onto their sanity. Once, the Gaunt Summoners were given freedom by Tzeentch to pursue the accumulation of magical power as they saw fit, but Archaon the Everchosen wished to possess the might of the Gaunt Summoners for his own. The Change God concluded that allowing Archaon to seemingly usurp dominion of the nine daemon sorcerers would better serve his own ends. So did the Everchosen win the true names of all the Gaunt Summoners, never realising the subtle aid from which he benefited. Ever since, the Gaunt Summoners have chafed beneath his rule, plotting to one day rebel and claim his throne.

Magisters are amongst the most magically powerful of Tzeentch’s mortal servants. It is they who lurk at the heart of an Arcanite cult, manipulating all and sundry to ensure the Change God’s will is carried out. Though they prefer to operate from their sorcerous lairs, when Magisters take to the field, they revel in unleashing their most devastating evocations. With a gesture, these master sorcerers summon roaring flames of every colour or exude rays of pure changemagic that warp enemies beyond recognition. The more outlandish the fate they can inflict, the more honour they do to the Changer of the Ways. Magisters are privy to eldritch secrets that have twisted them into something unnatural. Their limbs grow long and backwards-jointed, while their faces mutate into leering masks or sprout with clusters of iridescent eyes. Yet for all their arcane might, Magisters are still mortals, and they risk body and soul each time they channel the unbound potential of change. Many are the tales of Magisters who drank from the font of their god’s power too eagerly and found themselves eventually overwhelmed by it, reduced to a mewling lump of flesh. But Tzeentch demands unlimited ambition from his Magisters, and the lure of ultimate sorcerous might is a prize they will go to any length to claim.

The ogroids are an exceedingly ancient race. Though they once fought in Gorkamorka’s hordes, they sought a more refined existence. These ideals of structure drove a wedge between them and their barbarous brethren, until at last their capital of High Progrexia was sacked by a greenskin horde. Enraged, the survivors fell into the embrace of Chaos, selling their souls for vengeance. Thaumaturges are the inheritors of the ogroids’ more esoteric traditions, and in their pursuit of magical lore, they have embraced service to Tzeentch. Though brutish, horned and bestial creatures, they are undeniably beings of the arcane, their flesh constantly writhing with eldritch energies. A Thaumaturge’s sorcerous ability is channelled through the head of their totemic staff – a tool hand-crafted by the ogroid themselves – and released in storms of multi-hued wyrdflame. Thaumaturges are certainly cunning, as many Magisters who seek to manipulate them learn to their cost, but their battle-rage is never far from the surface. When pain strikes, Thaumaturges fly into a frenzy, discarding the subtle arts of magic in their need to crush and tear. Such brute strength is of great value to the Arcanite cults, who flatter the ogroids into spearheading their most aggressive uprisings.

The daemon known as the Changeling is Tzeentch’s prime agent of misrule. None but the Lord of Flux has ever laid eyes upon this shapeshifting trickster’s true face, for it has assumed countless identities and guises over the centuries. Amongst its greatest coups was thieving seven of Nurgle’s sacred tomes from their place beside the Plague God’s cauldron, bringing Tzeentch many of his rival’s secrets. Arguably the Changeling’s grandest deception, though, was creating the persona of Valius Maliti, the master architect who designed many of the first Cities of Sigmar. In these bastions of Order, therefore, lie subtle flaws, ready for exploitation by Tzeentch’s legions. The Changeling considers engaging in battle to be a personal failure, for spreading discord from the shadows is far more satisfying. Even so, there is a certain thrill to be found in impersonating officers and trusted companions, misinterpreting or mislaying orders so that an enemy force finds itself suddenly vulnerable amidst the carnage of war. Should the Changeling’s disguise somehow be seen through, this is no great concern to the daemon; the eldritch fires it summons and the form-shifting powers of its Trickster’s Staff can overcome most potential impediments.

Aeons ago, Tzeentch hurled the Lord of Change known as Kairos into the Well of Eternity, curious as to what would become of the daemon within that abyss of infinite possibility. The being that emerged from that roiling maelstrom was fundamentally altered from that which had come before. Kairos’s essence had bifurcated, two heads sprouting from his wizened shoulders. The right head could see the many forks of the future, while the left possessed perfect clarity on all that had transpired in the past. Yet in becoming attuned to the flow of eternity, Kairos sundered himself from the present; unable to follow time as it passes, he now can only see what was and what might be. The secrets Kairos is privy to have made him the Architect of Fate’s foremost lieutenant, sent into the Mortal Realms to oversee the most vital manipulations of destiny. Though his inability to perceive the present may occasionally blindside him, Fateweaver allows only those who serve his purpose to draw close. Those he deems irrelevant are disposed of with bolts of pure mutation or torrents of prismatic wyrdflame, both of Kairos’s heads cackling in cruel mirth as they watch the prelude to and consequences of this destructive spellcraft unfold.

With a contemptuous flick of their talons, a Lord of Change can unleash blistering waves of wyrdflame or tear open screaming gateways to the Realm of Chaos. These greater daemons are entities of pure magic, and few can rival their spellcraft. Mundane concepts such as glory or honour mean little to a Lord of Change; they delight in denying enemy champions a fair contest, soaring out of reach upon their glowing pinions. Blades, bullets and even retaliatory spells sputter to nothing against a Lord of Change’s wards, even as the daemon unleashes kaleidoscopic storms of witchfire in turn. A Lord of Change satisfies its well of curiosity by ensnaring mortals in complex schemes, raising favoured acolytes up to the dizzying heights of their ambitions before casting them down. These daemons care not for the consequences facing those they torment; instead, they watch their suffering with enraptured fascination. Yet Lords of Change are manipulative to the point of compulsiveness, always adding new dimensions to their schemes even if it compromises their original aims. Many times has one of the Change God’s grand ploys unravelled because his Lords of Change could not stop plucking the skeins of fate – though even this anarchy is pleasing to Tzeentch.

Heralds of Tzeentch are the captains of the Change God’s scintillating hosts. These daemons have been granted greater individuality and command of magic than the gibbering Horror masses, though ultimately they remain nothing but pawns in Tzeentch’s schemes. There are numerous different ranks of Herald, each with a role to play in their master’s ineffable designs. Obsessed with showing off their status and outdoing their rivals, Heralds of Tzeentch festoon themselves with arcane tomes and trinkets, relics scrounged from the archives of the Impossible Fortress and leaden with magic. Fateskimmers are Heralds that have, through acts of particular deviousness, earned the right to ride a Burning Chariot. Borne upon a Disc of Tzeentch pulled by a pair of captive Screamers, they rain arcane destruction from on high, hurling spells, hexes and firestorms selected from their favoured eldritch tomes. Cautious and controlling Fateskimmers prefer to lurk upon the battle’s edge, screeching orders while conjuring streams of wyrdflame. Yet some Fateskimmers – those who believe that destiny often requires more deliberate shunts – cannot resist the thrill of smashing their bladed contraption into the enemy, delighting in the rain of blood and severed body parts that such a collision throws up.

Anyone who walks the Path to Glory risks becoming a grotesque Chaos Spawn. Distorted by a critical mass of mutative ‘gifts’, hardly anything of their former self is recognisable – perhaps only the twisted vestiges of what was once their face, mouth distended in a permanent scream of horror. In some cases, only the mind remains terribly aware, trapped in its prison of roiling flesh. Spawn are possessed of a monstrous strength, able to rip flesh and tear limbs from bodies with each of their multi-jointed appendages or grasping pseudopods. They fight erratically, as likely to slither and slump as to thrash and maim. Whichever instinct seizes them, they cause bloody carnage with no thought for their own self-preservation – almost as if they wish to be put out of their misery. Arcanites often keep packs of gibbering Spawn within their hidden sanctums, ready to unleash against any who trespass in the cult’s abode. These abominations were created through Tzeentch’s fell blessings, and his magic now sustains them. They instinctively flock to the most gifted sorcerers, bathing in the esoteric energies conjured by their spellcraft and forming a wall of thrashing flesh to bar any who would harm the Great Conspirator’s chosen.

Screamers are sky-sharks that ride upon currents of magic. These daemons drift about, fangs constantly gnashing and eyes revolving on their flattened undersides as they hunt for prey. Souls are their favoured delicacy, but aetheric energies are similarly ripe for consumption. Mortal flesh makes for a fine meal, too – though the act of ripping open prey with their circular, shredding maws sustains the Screamers far more than any physical nourishment. Champions of Tzeentch have long used Screamers as aerial shock cavalry. They are single-minded in hunting for their next mouthful of magic; Screamer shoals have been known to chase endless spells across entire landmasses. Sharpened spines and ridges jut out from the Screamers’ sleek forms, and the speeds they can reach make them deadly living missiles. Screamer shoals dart through an enemy formation without pause, scything down foes without breaking pace. Even monsters must be wary of these daemons; there are tales of Mega-Gargants that thought to pluck one of these strange beasts out of the sky for a quick snack, only to be whittled down to the bone by a sudden hurricane of fangs.

Tzaangor Enlightened are even more physically imposing than typical Tzaangors. Each is armed with a spear of changemetal, a protean substance that can be fashioned only by those gifted in the sorceries of change, which flickers and morphs to better slip through enemy defences. Yet these tangible boons are secondary to the creatures’ strangest ability: through mere proximity, they can glean echoes of past events, hidden truths and suppressed secrets. Even hardened warriors cannot help but flinch as their most buried insecurities are suddenly laid bare – giving the Enlightened ample opportunity to run them through. The most favoured Enlightened are granted daemonic conveyances known as Discs of Tzeentch to carry them into battle. They flock around the Shamans of their kind, forming a screeching honour guard. When their arcane master demands that some critical nexus of magic be seized, it is their Enlightened who see it done. Approaching the target at terrible speed, they shriek out the secrets of entrenched enemies, cackling in delight as confusion and horror reigns. It is then that the Enlightened dive into the melee, letting their spears and the spinning blades of their Discs facilitate the crude but satisfying business of slaughter.

Skyfires are bestial agents of Tzeentch, charged with ensuring that his intricate schemes continue without impediment. It is their gift to glimpse potential futures and their curse that they can never speak of them. In contrast to their trilling kin, Skyfires are utterly silent, their eyes blazing with tortured frustration at their inability to voice their half-glimpsed potentials. Those who observe a Skyfire may find themselves perplexed, for the creature appears to shoot their arrows on seemingly aimless trajectories. Yet with unsettling inevitably, their targets find themselves in the projectile’s path, losing their footing or becoming distracted at a critical moment. All this has been foreseen by the Skyfire; they have accounted for as many possible futures as their fractured mind can handle, removing impediments to their arrows striking. Skyfires excel as assassins, pursuing those who would hinder Tzeentch’s designs. The Discs of Tzeentch they ride upon help them to keep pace with their prey. Attempting to wield a bow while riding one of these swift daemon-forms would normally be a futile endeavour, but the Skyfires’ foresight allows them to maintain a degree of accuracy and keep one step ahead of those marked for death.

Horrors are the bizarre lesser daemons of Tzeentch. They twirl and caper as they cross the field, warbling nonsense rhymes and shooting wyrdflame from unnaturally elongated fingers. These fires of mutation freeze and twist, elongate and temporally displace, turn flesh to glass and turn bone to porous sponge. Horrors find cruel mirth in wielding these arcane projectiles against Tzeentch’s enemies, observing the unpredictable results with fascination. Though they are nonsensical beings, there is a crazed logic to the hierarchy of the Horrors. The largest are the Pink Horrors, the most jovial and arcanely talented of their infernal breed. Should a Pink Horror receive a telling wound, they will gasp dramatically before coming apart in a burst of ectoplasm. In its place are two smaller daemons known as Blue Horrors. These are more bitter and sullen but can unleash barrages of magic regardless. When a Blue Horror is slain, blazing imps known as Brimstone Horrors spring up. These diminutive daemons are the most vindictive breed of Horror. Lacking in higher thought and prone to burning themselves out rapidly, they swarm towards enemies with cackles of malice, intent on setting alight cloth and flesh.

In rare instances, a Flamer will prove capable of independent thought. Likely this is in accordance with some whim of Tzeentch’s, though the Change God’s designs elude even his most favoured subjects. These daemons are known as Exalted Flamers. They are the champions of their kind, exuding sorcery from every pore of their sponge-like flesh. The fires conjured into being by an Exalted Flamer are even more pernicious than those of most Tzeentchian daemons. They do not simply burn out once sated; shapes and figures seem to flicker in their depths, and it is far from unknown for them to seemingly extinguish before suddenly bursting into being once more. This often comes as a terminal shock to enemies who had believed that they had passed through the inferno intact, only to be suddenly overcome and burnt to death by fire-spirits that were waiting for the moment they deemed most cruelly entertaining. Other fire-conjuring daemons are inexorably drawn to Exalted Flamers, revelling in the grand blazes that these aberrations can unleash. Arcane blazes rage far more intensely in their presence, seeming only to grow in strength the more desperately a foe tries to smother them.

Flamers may well be the most physically bizarre of Tzeentch’s daemonic underlings. Tentacles writhe and twitch across their tubular bodies, and their long arms end in webbed digits that are wreathed in auras of wyrdflame. Across their roiling flesh sprout grimacing, mocking faces and gnashing mouths that constantly squeal in a dreadful cacophony. Flamers do not possess legs; instead, they have a strange skirt of frilled flesh that undulates and inflates, drawing in both hot air and motes of aether before expelling them to propel the daemons forwards with ungainly haste. So eldritch are the Flamers that they possess little active malice, but this makes them no less dangerous. A Flamer’s arms can be swung with bone-cracking force, but worse are the streams of warping flame they exude. Any being, be they mortal or immortal, caught in these clouds of raw Chaos energy is doomed to be wracked by the energies of change. All manner of horrific mutations overcome them, their form twisting and twisting again as the Flamers continue their inane gibbering. There are even accounts of some unfortunates travelling backwards in time or collapsing into a swarm of homunculus-esque doppelgängers that screech in pain before burning to a crisp.

The Jade Obelisk are iconoclastic worshippers of a daemonic entity known as the Speaker in the Stone. Each is afflicted by a curse that transforms their flesh to crumbling rock. Only by raising spires of realm-warping jade over civilisation’s ruins can they stave off degradation. In doing so, they serve Tzeentch, who delights in the cultists’ hope that one day they may escape their curse. During the Age of Chaos, the Ghurish cavern-cities of Vexothskol were overrun, until only the citadel of Nephricar remained unconquered. It was through the towering obelisk of jade at Nephricar’s heart that the Speaker in the Stone first entreated the people of Vexothskol. It seduced Mason-King Mephrobaal and his subjects with promises of power, inflicting the stone-flesh curse upon them in exchange for bolstering their physical might. The Jade Obelisk travel the realms in search of idols to demolish. The most honoured carry shards of the great pinnacle of Nephricar, capable of transmuting the flesh of their enemies to stone. Under the gaze of the daemonic Idolarcs, the Jade Obelisk plough into the fray, transmogrified flesh shrugging off harm as they swing chisel and mallet with destructive intent.

The majority of the Arcanite cults are mortal folk. They lurk within the societies of Order, working to bring them down from within. Kairic Acolytes hide in plain sight for years, waiting for the command to rise up in open insurrection. On the day of battle, they throw off their civilian guises to reveal imposing physiques. Rather than being honed through honest toil, this power is only borrowed, temporarily conjured through enchantments. The Acolytes find no shame in this. With a mere incantation, they can briefly acquire a physique that a warrior might take decades to achieve – what better way to prove the superiority of magic? Freed to unleash their potential, Kairic Acolytes seize the opportunity by conjuring torrents of pink and blue bolts to bombard their foes. Avian helms hide their features, whilst ornate blades and flame-shaped shields are wielded in close quarters. Some carry scraps of arcane lore or avian Vulcharc familiars, the better to aid the cultists as they perform dark rituals around sites of power, channelling natural magic into Chaotic energy. Yet though every Acolyte may believe themselves favoured, they are ultimately pawns, each to be expended as their masters see fit.

Horrors are the bizarre lesser daemons of Tzeentch. They twirl and caper as they cross the field, warbling nonsense rhymes and shooting wyrdflame from unnaturally elongated fingers. These fires of mutation freeze and twist, elongate and temporally displace, turn flesh to glass and turn bone to porous sponge. Horrors find cruel mirth in wielding these arcane projectiles against Tzeentch’s enemies, observing the unpredictable results with fascination. Though they are nonsensical beings, there is a crazed logic to the hierarchy of the Horrors. The largest are the Pink Horrors, the most jovial and arcanely talented of their infernal breed. Should a Pink Horror receive a telling wound, they will gasp dramatically before coming apart in a burst of ectoplasm. In its place are two smaller daemons known as Blue Horrors. These are more bitter and sullen but can unleash barrages of magic regardless. When a Blue Horror is slain, blazing imps known as Brimstone Horrors spring up. These diminutive daemons are the most vindictive breed of Horror. Lacking in higher thought and prone to burning themselves out rapidly, they swarm towards enemies with cackles of malice, intent on setting alight cloth and flesh.

Tzaangor Enlightened are even more physically imposing than typical Tzaangors. Each is armed with a spear of changemetal, a protean substance that can be fashioned only by those gifted in the sorceries of change, which flickers and morphs to better slip through enemy defences. Yet these tangible boons are secondary to the creatures’ strangest ability: through mere proximity, they can glean echoes of past events, hidden truths and suppressed secrets. Even hardened warriors cannot help but flinch as their most buried insecurities are suddenly laid bare – giving the Enlightened ample opportunity to run them through. The Enlightened often serve as bodyguards and shock troops for Arcanite cult leaders, permitted to seize their choice of magical plunder in exchange for their dubious loyalties. They are valued not only for their physical brawn but also for their propensity for unveiling the secrets of fellow Arcanites. Of course, there is no guarantee that the Enlightened are not themselves lying. For these Tzaangors, the ambitions of fellow Tzeentch worshippers are things to examine and exploit, much like the secrets of their adversaries. To prey upon the weaknesses of others fills them with a malicious glee most pleasing to the Change God.

Tzaangors are a strange species, their origins as varied as they are horrific. Some were once gor-kin, corrupted by the Change God. Others are humans who have been subjected – sometimes willingly, but more often not – to horrific rituals of transmogrification. Yet more are beast-children, abandoned by their birth families but raised by Arcanite cults. Believing themselves to be uniquely blessed by Tzeentch, Tzaangors possess a greater command of speech than other Chaos beastmen, though their voices are reedy and avian. They are drawn to the arcane, seeking to amass it wherever it is found – whether a thaumaturgical relic or a confluence of ley lines, the Tzaangors covet it all the same. Tzaangors carry a variety of ornate blades crafted by their cultist allies, which they wield with surprising skill. They supplement these with vicious natural weapons, such as stabbing beaks that can pierce a human’s skull. Many Tzaangors also possess limited prophetic abilities; though this foreknowledge renders their movements twitchy and unnatural, they take great pride in what they see as a boon of their patron, and they jealously hoard any gleaned secrets.

Once the servant of a Gaunt Summoner, Ephilim bears the impossible task of cataloguing every conceivable permutation of Tzeentchian daemon. Accompanied by their infernal Pandaemonium, they now search the realms for nexuses of change-magic, where their sorcery can coax even stranger daemons into being. From the pyromaniacal Kindlefinger to the piscine Apo’trax and the avian Flamespooler to the hound-thing known as Spawnmaw, the daemons bound to Ephilim are utterly bizarre in form.

Vortemis has been instrumental in twisting the strands of fate to serve the will of Tzeentch. His Arcanite Cult had spies in the city of Shadespire for centuries, and he has plotted to undermine Nagash for just as long. Agents of the Gaunt Summoners, the Eyes of the Nine seek out artefacts redolent with realm magics that they can corrupt with Tzeentchian energy. With these ensorcelled lodestones, they intend to tether the Silver Towers to reality.

In rare instances, a Flamer will prove capable of independent thought. Likely this is in accordance with some whim of Tzeentch’s, though the Change God’s designs elude even his most favoured subjects. These daemons are known as Exalted Flamers. They are the champions of their kind, exuding sorcery from every pore of their sponge-like flesh. Though they possess greater intellect than their lesser kin, Exalted Flamers are still utterly mad, too consumed by pyromania to care for following orders. Other daemons must simply trust that these entities’ fiery urges will serve Tzeentch’s schemes in time. Even so, there are occasions in which an Exalted Flamer must be conveyed to a specific point or have its already destructive capabilities heightened. In these instances, a chariot will be prepared, formed of sorcery and bound daemons. In the wake of a Burning Chariot follows the very fires of change – fires that are stoked by the presence of the Exalted Flamer. While typically content to kill at range, Exalted Flamers also take a giddy glee in directing their carriage into a dive, swooping across enemy formations and leaving behind a wreckage of charred, twisted flesh.

Burning Sigils are loci of transmogrification. Formed from the energies of Tzeentch’s labyrinth, they take the form of the god’s flowing flame-sigil, dripping with burning ectoplasm and subjecting all in their vicinity to uncontrollable mutation. In the presence of a Burning Sigil, eyes turn into claws and tongues split into manifold lashing probosces. Legs transform into gangly, boneless arms and bodies turn inside-out, organs pulsating ghoulishly in the wind. So potent is the aura of change that these Sigils exude that magic itself goes awry in their proximity, devolving into a primordial sludge for the Disciples of Tzeentch to better craft with. Within the hidden sanctums of the Arcanite cults, lesser Burning Sigils are used as a form of defence. Only those with Tzeentch’s fickle favour can endure their mutating presence; outsiders are liable to be reduced to gibbering lumps of flesh before they can speak of what they have discovered. In battle, Burning Sigils are often conjured atop nexuses of geomantic power, inundating these natural magical nodes with Tzeentch’s touch. Those who would claim the nearby lands must brave the Sigil’s presence and attempt to banish it – before their own flesh betrays them and comes undone.

Though it appears as a snapping, screeching terror, a Daemonic Simulacrum is not a true daemon. Rather, these endless spells are reflections of the Lords of Change, captured in the mirrored walls of Tzeentch’s Impossible Fortress and beckoned into the realms through eldritch spellcraft. They manifest as a shimmering wheel of fire that distends into the avian heads of the greater daemon, its beaks dripping with the liquid stuff of Chaos and change. Within each Daemonic Simulacrum lingers the hunger of its infernal counterpart – a hunger for souls, minds and, above all, the power of the arcane. As these spell-constructs cross the battlefield, their jaws snap at any prey in range, tearing out portions of their essence and channelling it back into Tzeentch’s domain. The scent of a wizard’s soul is most pleasing of all, driving the Simulacrum to new extremes of snapping ferocity. Arcanite sorcerers will offer much of their souls for the ability to invoke a Daemonic Simulacrum. Few realise that the greater daemons peer through the eyes of a Simulacrum, observing events in the Mortal Realms from a calculated distance and delighting in how their puppets dance.

In a plume of unholy flame, the Tome of Eyes is conjured from the depths of Tzeentch’s libraries. Fire crackles along its parchment but never obscures the fell symbols therein. Eyes sprout across the pages, beholding the caster as intently as the wizard studies the Tome in turn. Even briefly consulting the Tome unlocks new paradigms of arcane practice, with spells once far beyond the caster’s ability becoming simple. New runes of insight appear even as the reader’s eyes reach them. None can say who composes these scribblings – perhaps one of the daemon scribes of Tzeentch’s court or even a fragmented aspect of the god himself. Yet no gift of Chaos is given freely. The runes within the Tome of Eyes are elements of a terrible hex, one that takes full form as a reader plunges recklessly through its pages. The end result of the Parchment Curse is always the same: the victim transforms into scattered sheaves of paper, each detailing a twisted version of their life story. A talented mage may be able to transfer the accumulating energies of the curse from their mind into an unwilling target. Yet eventually the hunger for knowledge resurfaces, and the Tome awaits…

It does not matter to the Warstompers who is fighting or why; all they care about is finding a vicious scrap to lose themselves in. The charge of a Warstomper is akin to being hit by a roaring Chamonic steam-engine, and then the titan begins swinging their huge club, ploughing through enemy ranks with howls of battle‑joy. One-eyed Grunnock is truly infamous. Gargants far and wide tell of how he terrorised Ghurish Necrosia, battling the Ossiarch Bonereapers. To the Warstomper, the undead are perfect enemies that constantly attract new foes. He has violently thwarted the Bonereapers’ negotiations with other races on several occasions, most notably interrupting the signing of a treaty with a duardin fleet. Being pitched off the side of a mountain and forever burdened with a splitting headache was, admittedly, not part of Grunnock’s plan, but the chance to ensure that the fighting between the two forces would never end was worth it. For a time, Grunnock relentlessly hunted Kragnos, fearing that the Drogrukh deity would drive his undead prey from Ghur. Yet now Kragnos rampages in Ghyran, leaving Grunnock free to crush his favoured enemies once more.