Allisod - City of Death

Welcome to Allisod

The Tale of Allisod: A Whisper in the Mists

It began with a storm—not of wind or rain, but of soul-chilling silence. In the realm of Shyish, where the twilight never lifts and the air itself remembers the dead, the city of Allisod stood proud once. Its spires kissed the gray skies, and its streets bustled with life despite the long shadows. But then came the Necroquake.

The ground cracked. The veils between the living and the lost were torn open, and from the depths of Eternal Rest, the ancient cemetery at the city's heart, the dead rose—not with memory, but with malice. Ghosts clad in balefire, the Pyregheists, surged through the southern streets, driven by the will of the Great Necromancer, Nagash. In panic, the people severed their own city, destroying the bridges over the Darkmoor River, casting away the south—and condemning it to the name Soulfall.

What remains of Allisod now is a city torn in two.

To the north, the district of Dawnshield clings to hope. Under the cold gaze of the Witherfall Mountains, its survivors huddle behind wards of sigmarite and flickering lanterns. Here stands Shadehaven Ward, bastion of the Shadewatch, led by the luminous Aelf mage Vaeriel Moondawn. Among its alleys and towers, the bells toll not for the dead—but to warn the living.

To the south, Soulfall groans beneath a sky that weeps no light. The mists known as the Veil of Woe slither through crumbling tenements and shattered crypts. The Shadowmourne Host, spectral horrors forged from eternal flame and hatred, haunt the ruins. At the center of it all looms Shroudgrave, their citadel of bone and balefire.

But the dead are not the only power to walk Allisod's haunted streets.

From the heavens descend the Stormcast Eternals, led by the somber Tarsen Stormveiled. His warband, the Thunderhold Vanguard, have made camp atop a snowy ridge—Thunderhold—from where they strike into the mists like bolts of righteous fury.

In the icy halls of Dawnkeep Citadel, the Wildercorps Hunters, known as the Emberwolves, hold fast. Rangers, scavengers, and survivors, they know the land better than most. Their crossbows speak when words fail.

Far to the east, in the shadowed peaks, the Temple of Thorns echoes with blood rites. The Blackfang Pact, assassins of Morathi, slip through the shadows, claiming Allisod’s darkness for their goddess.

And deep within Wraithmere Hollow, a cursed bell tolls once more. The Warpfang Scrapers—Skaven of unspeakable filth and ambition—scurry through the undercity, their warp-fueled nightmares burrowing ever closer to the heart of the city.

Yet this war is not fought only in grand battles or shattered cathedrals.

It is whispered in dark corners. It is etched in the blood beneath your fingernails. It is heard in the soft click of relics being unearthed and in the mournful howl of Shadebound Familiars drifting silently through the mist.

You are not a general in this tale.

You are a fire in the cold. A blade in the dark. A glimmer of defiance against the inevitable.

You lead a Army—fighters, heroes, perhaps a fool or two—who seek answers, glory, vengeance, or salvation. Whether you march beneath Sigmar’s thunder, hide within Khaine’s cloak, or whisper forgotten prayers to darker things, your story begins now.

And so I ask, wanderer…

What banner do you bear?