Our age is unusual, Madonna. Do you not feel it?The future rises upon us like the sun. Mankind has been long asleep,bound by dreams; now he is waking, is conscious of his power, gloriesin life, and pays God the tribute, long withheld, of finding creationgood. Nay, more, by His grace we take it upon ourselves to make crea-tion better. And dawn has come first to Italy. So, then, we Italians areespecially artists, in all ways building the new world. But I say againthere is much to be destroyed before it is possible to build."

Vibrations ofmoonlight that flooded the loggia; odors of evergreens, verbena, androses, exhaling from the garden; bird notes, like drops of music, scat-tered upon distance; emanations of the past brooding over the old city:all these cast their reflection on the mind to irradiate it.

primoi''' — the Cardinal checked off his points withthe shapely forefinger of one hand on the fingers of the other — "theytell me he's furnished Alfonso with a portrait of Madonna Lucreziathat would corrupt Saint Anthony; that our brother keeps it in hiscabinet to moon over. He's a man of flesh and blood, with plenty ofboth. And Messer Cupid plays a part even in the marriages of princes.If you don't believe me, ask Alfonso himself. You'll find that Orsini'smade progress."The Duke nodded but brushed off the trifle with a wave of the hand."Yes Well?"''^Secondo, he assures me that the Pope loves none of his cardinals ashe does me, that he longs to make me Archpriest of St. Peter's — undercertain conditions. A fat benefice. To be considered as part of thedowry."Ercole made no comment. The two realists pondered the matter insilence." Terzo. Orsini has paid his respects more than once to Monseigneurd'Ars. And what they talked about needs no guessing."This time the Duke's nod showed concern. "Indeed, I've noticedthat d'Ars shies off from discussing the French bride. That wasn't soat first. Perhaps you're right. . . .

ne more feather in the cap of this unwelcome officer at whom theFerrarese gentry, taking their cue from the Este princes, looked askance.In spite of themselves, during the past two weeks, they had enviedhis dress and manners and the hint of power that went with the Borgiabacking. He might be distrusted, but he was not overlooked. Now theyhad something else to envy him for.

Duke Ercole nodded. Then, before turning to the stairway, heleveled his gaze once more at Andrea Orsini. Yes, by God, lookingclosely, it seemed to him now that his captain of the guard did actuallyshow sisfns of fever.

If you have ever investigated pre-industrial clothing, one thing you swiftly notice is that clothing was often worn in layers not just for temperature, but to limit cleaning: a linen under-garment could soak up a lot of the sweat of the day, sparing heavier woolen over-garments, while things like aprons to avoid soiling primary clothes were also ubiquitous. For tasks that involve mucking about in fields, you’ll often see tunics and skirts girded or gathered up to keep them clean. So there is a substantial effort here to avoid generating cleaning tasks.

the demand of these soldiers that they supply their own arms and armor would have pushed farmers to farm a little bit more than subsistence-and-a-little-more to afford the cost of the arms (traded for or purchased with that surplus; at least initially these transactions are not happening in coined money).

for pre-modern agrarian economies, the societies where elites can centralize and control the largest pile of labor and surplus tend to use it to conquer the societies that don’t so ‘demilitarized peasant utopia’ is not a society that is going to last very long (but ‘highly militarized landowner republic’ might).

First, given maximum labor employment and no land scarcity, even in modestly bad years each family clears its subsistence needs (though only the Smalls clear their respectability needs). In something like an ‘average’ year, the Smalls produce around 187% of their respectability needs, the Middles 155% and the Biggs 150%.

however unfair and static you think the modern industrial or post-industrial labor market is, the pre-modern agricultural labor structure was dramatically more fixed and inflexible. The leap from “no one retires” to “not enough people can afford to retire” is a larger one than we often appreciate. And in terms of material comforts, there is little comparison – relatively few peasants could own their own plow team, much less a horse for transport. By contrast, 92% of American households own a car, a one ton (or more) mass of steel precision machinery, with enough worked metal in it to equip close to a hundred knights. So yes, I will grant you, modern labor can be unfair, but it is differently unfair than pre-modern labor and also much less unfair

With nine live births and a 55% child mortality rate, 4.05 of those children survive to adulthood.

From the perspective not just of the peasant, but also the peasant’s priest, humans are impermanent, fleeting things but the world, its structure and rhythms, its communities and families, these are far more permanent and lasting. This is a pre-modern world, after all, that changes slowly, often imperceptibly slowly, with children coming to inhabit the exact roles, working the same land, living in the same houses, as their parents, one generation after another.

all who fight near aBloodwrack Shrine find their minds twisted by an echo ofthe Medusa's endless despair. All save the Dark Elves,that is; to them, the scent of suffering is akin to the finestperfume – a heady brew when mixed with the tang offresh-spilt blood

As they grow old they must bathe more and moreoften in the blood cauldrons, for if they do not their litheand lustful bodies become bent and cold, beauty turns tofoulness, and laughter to a thin and ugly cackle ofmadness and withered lust. Over the year they revert intothe haggard crones they really are, until Death Nightcomes round once more and Dark Elves hide in theirhomes, listening to the revelry and evil laughter of themidnight celebrations of the Witch Elves

But their cheers died away when the Dragon's bodybecame wracked by violent convulsions. Finally themighty drake froze in mid-air, and an evil, iridescentlight appeared in its eyes. The skin of the mighty wyrmflowed like water, and within it evil faces formed,cackling maniacally and singing the praise of Tzeentch.Foul tentacles and wicked spikes emerged from theDragon's flesh and finally the once-noble head ofGalrauch split into two all the way down to his neck, sothat the Dragon was turned into a two-headedmonstrosity.

At his wit’s end, the doctor nodded, and in the blink ofa bloodshot eye, Festus' mind was flooded with theblighted lore of Nurgle

Stupidity

Hismind was opened to world-shattering truths that had beendenied to him all his life. In the heretical ravings ofNecrodomo the Insane, Kastner saw his own destiny

6 6 0 6 6 6 3 6 8

This doesn't really bear thinking about.Suffice to say the model is removed as a casualty

A swearing, bellowing monstrosity that revels indisplays of immense strength, a Chaos Giant is onlycontent when it is crushing people beneath itsenormous cloven hooves or smashing a battle line apartsingle-handedly. No wonder these creatures arefavoured by the Chaos Gods, for they are annihilationincarnate.

seeking to vent the all-consuming rage of itspained existence upon anything that it can see or scent.Tormented and driven insane by its new hideous form,its soul driven by the base desires of the daemonwithin, the Chaos Beast seeks only to kill before beingslain in its turn.

Krakanrokthe Black will emerge from his ten-thousand-year slumberwhen the earth is spilt apart by the lightning and brokenby the thunder to lead his people in the final battle to visithis fury upon the world. Tales like this are surelyexaggerated, but illustrate the sheer terror that thesemighty, and exceedingly rare, creatures cause in theirfoes.

Warrior

Fedscraps of meat and afforded warmth from the fire, these lopingcanines have learnt to coexist with the human population of theirlands. This relationship has existed for countless centuries,encoded in the behaviour of man and beast for generation upongeneration

hosededicated to Slaanesh are gilded carriages of scentedsilk, wax and human flesh, draped in the still-livingskins of those whose organs have been offered to theDark Prince.

Oneoffering after another must be riddled with parasites,doomed to be devoured as fuel for the spawning of evermore wriggling grubs. Finally, if the staggering, half-devoured Blightkings succeeds in infecting seventy-sevenfoes with his curse, the insects in his body cease eatingand congeal into muscle and fat, bulking him out withnew putrid might.

Chosen bear gifts from their patrons as a reward for theblood they have spilled in their gods' name. These giftsare as varied and unpredictable as any other aspect ofChaos, but usually they help the Chosen in his quest toinflict devastation on the civilised realms of the world.Unlike the unstable half-spawn that less fortunate Chaosworshippers become, the Chosen are beings of steelydetermination and iron self-control. It is said in the norththat the Chosen have only one vice, and that is cruelty toall forms of life.

Aspiring Champions are often the best any ChaosWarrior can hope to achieve, since most rarely progressfurther than this high position.

Since they are raiders by nature, theyfavour soft targets.

Slaughterpriests are the demagogues of Khorne'swrathful will, able to control the flows of bloodcoursing through the veins of warriors. They are darkprophets who receive gory visions of violence anddeath from their god. Through dread invocations aSlaughterpriest can also boil the blood surging insideof their enemies, causing cries of agony as eyes burst infountains of red fluid, or whip their allies into a savagebattle-frenzy.

Chaos Fortresse

The Realm of Chaos is thebirthplace of heroes, Daemons and monsters, the forgefrom which eternal life or everlasting damnation can bewrought. In reality, the Realm of Chaos is this andincomprehensibly more besides; a cosmically vastrealm where the laws of physics do not apply. It is saidto be a tangled landscape of insanity, where slaughter,bloodshed and the thirsting of Dark Gods reignssupreme.

It said that it is better to take your own lifethan to be left at the mercy of Dechala, for the meaningof the word mercy is alien to her.

wo eyes, glitteringlike multi-faceted gems, burning with inner balefires, stared back at him.His armour was covered in twisting eldritch runes that glowed in thedarkness of the Chaos wasteland. His sword gleamed with blue light andseemed to moan as he moved it, its shape changing with each motion

From then on, Gotthard had known he was truly alone. He had riddendown the guards at the River Gate and taken the road to the north. Soonhe was beyond the borders of Reikland, but witch hunters, outriders, andbounty hunters were never far behind. He had slept at night in the forest,stolen or bought food from roadside farms, and avoided all the toll gates.He had been forced to live like an animal. The thought of his humiliationmade his blood run red hot.

Thus the gods turn their most favouredChampions into Daemon Princes, and these creaturesscour the mortal realms in turn looking for worthyChampions for their master to recruit or reward.

Boundwithin the metal of the blade, and imprisoned therefor an eternity, is the spirit of a Daemon. The weaponserves only the interests of its Chaos God, reapingsouls for the glory of its master.

So it is that the Daemon Princes of Chaos

The strangest aspect of these suits is that they bindthemselves to the flesh of their wearer, becomingsomething like a second skin. Once donned, a suit ofChaos Armour may not be removed until death.Furthermore, Chaos Armour is self-repairing, closingrents and mysteriously replacing damagedcomponents.

t takes a spectacular deed ofcourage or wickedness to attract the attentions of aRuinous Power. Not only must the mortal dedicatehimself utterly to the god, swearing binding oaths ofunholy loyalty, but he must excel in the service ofChaos if he is to earn the attention of his master.

The method of gaining Chaos rewardsand gifts is amorphous and unpredictable. A warrior ofKhorne might slaughter 100 men and yet receivenothing from the Blood God. Another warrior mightbutcher a few commoners and be granted a fabulousand life-altering blessing.

wealth and comfort areluxuries afforded only to the wealthy.

These creatures which you call Were sound like the mutantswe call Chaos Spawn, for I have heard of such monsters inthe armies of Chaos.""Perhaps," replied Haubr cautiously. "The gods choose somefor immortality and some for oblivion – is it not thus thewhole world over?

Those that view hishideous palace never again feel that they can be cleanand see the world for the pit of filth that it really is.

He is not a god of destruction –Nurgle cherishes all life. The spluttering of thenewborn babe is as dear to him as the slithering of themaggot hatched in its gut. It is simply unfortunate thatthe most prevalent forms of life – the unseen worms,viruses, and bacteria – are so inimical to all the others.

He is the patronof many Sorcerers, for he shows favour to those whouse cunning and intelligence to manipulate and controlthe world.

THE BATTLE OF THE MONOLITH

Any follower who lets a day pass without contributingto the bloody-handed slaughter by which Khorne isworshipped will incur the god's great disfavour.

Worshippers of Khorne include Chaos Warriors,psychotics, and berserkers.

Khorne's chief rival is Tzeentch,

They do not even know how to build a bridge across ariver, rather they prefer to pile their possessions on topof their horses and swim them across, holding ontotheir tails.

Despite their pretence, they know nothing ofcivilisation and are an unsophisticated lot. In truth, theyare not much more than simple hunter-gatherers, andthe hunting aspect forms a cornerstone of their culture.

Chaos Warriors, Wizards and Cultists cancommunicate in the Dark Tongue, and most can carvethe Runes of Chaos which are used to write it. TheSkaven know the Dark Tongue, but find it impossibleto pronounce properly; their own squeaky language,Queekish, is ultimately derived from the Dark Tongue.The Dark Elves also speak a related language known asBlack Elvish, a cross between High Elvish and theDark Speech. Dark Elves still use the pure DarkTongue for their rituals and magic.

offering up theThe dark figure stomped into the centre of theencampment, his intricately designed and stylised blackarmour glinting the flickering firelight. He wore a heavyfine pelt over his broad shoulders, and his face wasobscured by a leering, bestial skull-helm. Swinging hishead from side to side, he glared at the tribesmen, whofell back before his awesome presence.He stamped his staff into the blackened earth, charmsand bones rattling ominously. With one gauntleted hand,he reached up to his enclosed helm and pulled it free. Ashock of jet-black hair fell to his shoulders. His face waspale and drawn and his cheeks covered in ritual scarring,intricate arcane designs that were carved deeply into hisflesh. His eyes were completely black and reflective, andthe hardened tribesmen flinched and looked away fromhis unearthly gaze.Rising his staff high into the air, he roared at the nightsky. Dark lightning flickered at the corners of hismidnight as the heavens answered his call, deep, rumblingechoes sounding over the plains. The darkness gatheredaround him like a whispering cloak, shadows coifing outfrom the surrounding gloom to hover behind him. Thetwisting blackness reached out with amorphous tendrils,their icy touch sucking the warmth from the warriors'bodies, and making the fire shrink out of existence.In darkness the Sorcerer spoke, his voice as though therewere a dozen people speaking the same words from histhroat.As one, the tribesmen fell to their knees before thesorcerer, one who was truly touched by the mightiest ofgods.deaths of those they slay on the battlefield with eachpassing day.

though all human societies share a common heritageand belong to the same race, in their secret hearts allmen harbour a desire to conquer and control.

black-dadregiments whipped the banners of the Blood God

Yet even here, in the most unwelcoming of all thelands, men live. Tribes of humans, if they can be calledsuch, inhabit the mountains and the valleys. Such adeadly land breeds deadly men. Only the strongestsurvive here, and they earn their right to live byfighting the monstrous creatures of the land. There isonly room for the strong and the weak are doomed toperish. These northerners are tall men, powerfullybuilt, with large, well-muscled frames and long limbs.How long they have been here no-one knows, but theyare an ancient people.

To this day it spreads outward

the Chaos Godsvalue their human followers far above their ownminions, the daemons that serve them and Creatures ofChaos whose forebears they created. None-the-less thisis so, for daemons and Creatures of Chaos have littlechoice about their nature, and the only way the ChaosGods can increase their power and hasten thedestruction of the world is by recruiting men or otherintelligent free-willed creatures to their cause.

Thus, the predatory entitiesof Chaos, be they gods or Daemons, exist becauseliving things generate these emotions. So when thehuman mind turns to petty and evil thoughts the powersof the Chaos gods grow and coalesce into hideousforms shaped by human lust, greed, anger and fear

Though this otherworld has no substance, it is not anempty void, for it is inhabited by entities of cosmicpower. It is a realm of pure energy, where creatures canbe called into being by thought alone. This paralleldimension acts as a dark mirror to the hopes, dreamsand emotions of the beings who dwell in the materialrealm. The strongest of these emotions coalesce andtake shape, growing in size until they become roilingseas of passion that attain a sentience of their own.These are the Gods of Chaos

Every day is a battle for survivalwith the dread beasts of the mountains; every night a gauntletof drum-driven kin-sacrifice and death duelling.

They are recruited from the offspring of families highin the Witch King's favour, taken at birth from theirmothers who are soon thereafter put to the sword. With nofamily ties to distract them, these children of hatred andwar are raised from infancy steeped in battle and bloodwithin the barracks of the Black Guard and taught themyriad skills of death and destruction that are required ofMalekith's foremost elite

To be a Corsair is a greathonour amongst the Druchii, and it is a chance to winriches and fame and capture slaves during their raids,for one tenth of the loot captured by a Corsair belongsto him. Four tenths go to his captain and the remainderis the possession of the Witch King

Bleakswords forsakethe spear and the repeater crossbow, deeming the former apeasant's weapon and the litter a craven armament.

Although strictlyspeaking it is forbidden to pay for the service of Assassins,generous donations to the coffers of a temple may result inthe mysterious death of the patron's foes.

All Elves share a mysticalattunement with the natural world, but while most embrace thisbond to gain greater wisdom and fellowship with other livingcreatures, Dark Elves, and Beastmasters in particular, employ itas another weapon in their arsenal of torment. It matters notwhether the beast is a raging Manticore, a cunning Harpy or thewisest of all Caledor's ancient Dragons: eventually, all submit tothe Beastmaster's will, or perish under his lash.

Others are granted temporary power bymeans of a writ of iron – an edict granted by one of the sixrulers of the great cities of Naggaroth or, occasionally, by theWitch King himself. A Dark Elf who bears a writ of ironcarries the power and authority of his sponsor – a powerfultool for the ambitious. Any who question the iron edict aresubject to the wrath of his patron. However, should a DarkElf fail in his appointed task, or show cowardice whilst actingin his sponsor's name, the writ is melted down and the moltenremains poured down his throat. Such is the price of failure inNaggaroth.

In the Shrine of Asuryan, the Phoenix Kingabdicated and hurled himself in the sacred flames toperish.

Fromamongst the ranks of these fervent worshippers, theWitch King selected the most intelligent and devoted,and they were sent to learn the arts of subterfuge andspying from the Assassins of Khaine. When they wereready, these agents travelled, one at a time by hiddenroutes, to the shores of Ulthuan. They blended in withthe High Elves and assumed normal lives as carpentersand smiths, as farmers and poets. All the while, theybegan to spread their poisonous beliefs, and the ancientcults of pleasure began to grow again. This time thecults were insidious and subtle, daring none of theflamboyant rituals that had exposed them

And when I say overwhelming, I mean overwhelming: we generally estimate these societies to have consisted of upwards of 80% peasant farmers, often as high as 90 or even 95%.

Samuel P. Huntington’s The Soldier and the State (1957), which rather unlike some of Huntington’s other works is worth reading.

he Great Unclean One waddles into thethickest of the fray, muttering such foul jokes that the soulsof those who hear them shrivel.

and the latterconvinced the former had engineered a pretext forinvasion.

Shouldthe Blue Scribes complete their task, Tzeentch wouldswallow them, reuniting the lost fragments of his beingand absorbing the extra power born along the way

the future does not reveal itselfswiftly enough to predict battle's to and fro.

Kairos' right headsees possible futures as clear as day. No scheme ishidden from its sight and the infinite possibilities oftomorrow crystallise into irrefutable fact.

smaller magicalflames spill to the ground and take on the imitativeform of a nearby object or person. With apparent gleeand raucous laughter this eldritch marionetteimpersonates whatever is happening around it, in amanner both mocking and disturbing.

To the Greater Daemons they are beyondconsideration, mere automatons to be expended as partof their carefully wrought plans.

Ifthe daemons prefer to remain uncommitted in battle it is notthrough lack of ferocity, but merely because they like tooversee the movements of their forces and better control theflow of the fighting

He instinctivelysees the skeins of fate that play over the battlefield, andknows all too well how they can be manipulated.- Liber Malefic

Ordinary objects changecolour, assuming contrasting and clashing hues or cyclingthrough a number of different patterns until they begin tovibrate with a disturbing eagerness to pick themselves up andwander away. Familiar landmarks vanish, road signs andfingerposts jumble, and the letters in texts seem to lift off thepage to rearrange themselves in new and interestingcombinations. Trees undergo complete transformations,becoming altogether new species. Dead wood becomes livingonce more, whilst young saplings decay in a matter ofmoments. Swirls of strange clouds skid across the sky,changing shape and assuming new forms that twist andwrithe in a constant state of becoming.

They are the most readilysummoned but also most likely to give false or misleading

Skulltaker'sclawed grasp settles upon his fallen opponent's head, magicalfire gouts from his fingertips, searing away skin and sinewuntil pale bone is laid bare for all to see.

Alas, so proud was Skarbrand that it was a simple taskfor Tzeentch to fan the embers of his hubris and sethim against his master.

Only the skulls – so beloved ofKhorne – are retained, and fed into the mighty cannonatop the machinery from which the Daemon Enginetakes its name. Here, they are infused with the BloodGod's endless and abiding wrath, coated in a pitch ofboiling blood, until their empty eye sockets weep bloodand their slack jaws gibber with rage. Only then, with aroiling boom, does the cannon discharge its payloadtowards the enemy ranks.

The daemon hordes of Khorne are made up of these ferociousBloodletters, deadly warriors believed to have been foremostamongst the Blood God's followers in mortal life and whosewill is as implacable and blood-hungry as Khorne himself.Bloodletters are Lesser Daemons, known variously as theFootsoldiers of Khorne, the Warriors of Blood, the Teeth ofDeath, or the Horned Ones.

A birth of a Bloodthirster into the Old World ravages theland, sending waves of rippling wickedness in all directions,infecting mortals with its hate and thirst for violence. Formiles around, the sky darkens, taking on a ghastly hue asclouds, swollen with blood, race across the firmament,spilling torrents of crimson rain onto the land.

laughable, but the trail of crushed and brokenbodies at the Warboss's feet proved otherwise.

It was not to be, for they were slaughtered to the last

Morrslieb's chaotic orbit means that Geheimnisnacht neverfalls upon the same day in subsequent years, but mortal folktake care never to be surprised by its onset.

Pink Horrors burst from thewrithing tree-flesh, the light from their wild spellscasting impossible shadows. The ground was slick withblood as the Daemonettes darted and struck.Bloodletters emerged where the slaughter was greatest,hauling themselves out of the blood-soaked earth.

ThoughDaemons have no history of their own - such conceptsare meaningless to the timeless ephemera of the Realmof Chaos - it can truly be said that their intrusions intothe mortal world have shaped past, present and future.

theshadows of the valley floor came to life. Somecrawled across the withered grassland as flickeringtendrils, grasping at dwarfen legs, and holding thestocky creatures fast as northlander axes hackeddown. Others became vaporous clouds that forcedtheir way through close-set helms and smotheredtheir victims.

ew creatures had such brittlepride as the Children of Grungni, who refused toacknowledge the terror Be'lakor evoked even as itconsumed their will to fight.

Having gathered itselfenough power to resist falling into madness, itsscheming mind is now occupied completely withgrandiose dreams of power and revenge, and it isslowly formulating a dark and twisted plan to makesure that its dreams shall become a reality yet, whetherthe gods of Chaos wish it or not.

He recognised that this isle held the key to his chancefor escape, feeling the pulse of magical energyemanating from it. There, he tore the life energies fromthe very rock of this mystic isle to weave for himself anew body.

With anger coursingthrough his being, Be'lakor was compelled by his curseto perform a coronation, placing the Crown ofDamnation upon the powerful man's brow as a sign ofthe gods' favour.

The confines of histortured mind were constantly awash with randomthoughts and ideas, filled with frustration, anger andhatred.

he result is a daemon whosecharacter is dominated by the events or emotionselicited by a common death.

The heavens are filled with diamonds that seem as ifthey could be plucked from their place in the sky if onecould but reach just a little further.

Each region is formed around one of thesix deadly seductions of Slaanesh: Avidity, Gluttony,Carnality, Paramountcy, Vainglory and Indolency.

Although Nurgle is ranked behind Khorne andTzeentch the truth is that his power is not necessarilyweaker, just less stable than that of the other Gods.When Nurgle unleashes his ghastly pestilences hispower rises to a peak.

As for Poxfulcrum, she whispers to mortals while thePlaguefather is busy at his cauldron, apprising them ofcures for the ailments Nurgle unleashes upon theworld. So has she entered the beliefs of a thousandcultures under a thousand names. Some mortals believeher to be Nurgle's daughter, who cures only so that newdiseases can take hold, while others see her as Nurgle'sbitter foe, a deity of healing and patron of the afflicted.

Souls are trapped within apparently simple glasscontainers, left to slowly dim and fade as maladies ofthe spirit waste them to the bone.

or each person who contracts Nurgle'sRot, a seed like a rotten boil sprouts from the boughs of themouldering willow trees which grow in Nurgle's garden. As thedisease takes hold of the sufferer, that seed is said to swell intoa vile, bubonic fruit which feeds off the afflicted person's soullike a tick gorging itself on its host's blood. When the bloatedvictim expires in a mess of bloody phlegm, the final traces of hissoul are sucked into the engorged fruit, and the ripe flesh burstsapart as a new plaguebearer slips and slithers into existence.

Others can spend years wandering theinsane corridors of Tzeentch’s maze without drinking,eating, or resting – their metabolism apparently slowedby chaotic influences.

Thousand and One Plots.

In the centre of theroom the Blood God sits upon a mighty throne of brassatop a vast mountain of skulls

Their crimson essence is collected in thepit, where it is mixed with molten brass and a measureof Khorne’s own murderous bile. The resultant lake isa new Blood Pit.

Never hunt a bear in thewinter – let him sleep.Bears must always be killed by hand orarrow – no dogs or traps.Only wear the skin, claw or skull of abear you have killed yourself.Eat fish at least once per week, butnever eat fish and other meat on thesame day.Never perform your ablutions indoors.

our literary sources lose interest in the details of Roman military operations. They still report outcomes – victory and defeat – since those matter for the reputations of emperors and their generals, but since those historical sources have shifted their focus from the politics of the Roman Republic, where common soldiers were also key voters, to the politics around the emperor, in which even a frontier general might be a relatively minor figures, their interest in the detailed conduct of battles trails off.

ntold thousands of Daemons arecharged with the upkeep of these fields, vomiting bloodon the fruits and voiding their bowels to fertilise theterrible flora.

This is due, in part, to the fact that all the Chaos Godsembody the excess for which Slaanesh is known:Khorne with his bloodlust, Tzeentch with hisscheming, and Nurgle with his spreading of plague.

Scholarsclaim that approaching these legendary locations isakin to entering into a dream state, heralded by mists,clouds, and darkness. Indeed, more than a few have"travelled" to these locations during their sleep or whenengaged in deep meditation, though no one knows howor why this occurs. The Realm of Chaos have a way ofrealising a person's dreams and nightmares, andspecifically seeking out such a location with an iron-will seems to have the best result for seekers.

Severed from its psychic link to thematerial body, the shadow-self drifts in the Realm ofChaos. As it does so, some of its energies are dispersedinto the general flow, but the strongest and mostdistinctive mental traits remain.

In the East, Alexander relied heavily on cities ‘surrendering in advance,’ submitting to his authority and giving him supplies in exchange for getting him to move on out of their territory. Indeed, his logistics do not remotely work without this; if every city along the line of Alexander’s march resisted, his expedition would certainly have failed. But that behavior makes enough sense for cities that hadn’t been truly independent in centuries, for whom large imperial armies transiting past them was a frequent enough occurrence.

hey pressed oninto the Inner Kingdoms where the weather was muchmilder. Here Tethlis' hosts awaited them, and they hademptied the winter stores of all food and razed theirown villages to deny the Dark Elves shelter. Even themagic of Morathi and her Sorceresses could not protectthe armies from the pangs of hunger and thirst, andsupplies ran incredibly low.

Malekith invited half a dozen of the mostpowerful nobles of Hag Graef to a feast. He offeredthem a choice. One of the goblets of wine on the table,he told them, was poisoned. Any one of them willing torisk his life to rule should take a drink and Malekithwould grant that noble a share of the city. Three of thenobles snatched up goblets without hesitation anddowned their contents. They knew that it was better tobe poisoned than suffer under the rule of the others.The last three, one-by-one, also drank, forced to provetheir worth by the boldness of their peers. It was nowthat Malekith announced that in fact all of the wine waspoisoned, and only by swearing unfailing loyalty to theWitch King would the princes receive the antidote.

After the battle of Maledor, with the jeers of thevictorious High Elves still burning in his memory,Malekith's patience utterly snapped. As he fledMaledor, the jeers of the victorious Elves burning inhis ears, Malekith's patience snapped.

Caledor and Malekith finally met at the field ofMaledor.

Malekithtook the Circlet of Iron and resolved to unravel itssecrets. It awoke in him a dark curiosity, and from thatday forth Malekith turned his will to studying theforbidden depths of magic – the power of Chaos itself.

Aenarion now championed the cause of those Elveswho had suffered most during the war, for their sorrowreflected his own. They gathered to the Phoenix King'sside and repaid him with an unassailable loyalty.Aenarion soon came to trust these new followers morethan his allies of old and, with their aid, founded a newkingdom in bleak Nagarythe. It was fitting, Aenarionsaid, that a king should rule from a land that matchedhis mood. Where other Elves fought to survive,Aenarion's warriors fought for the joy of fighting, andslew for slaying's sake. They sneered at the weaknessthey saw abound in other lands, and swore never tostoop so low themselves.

ese black treesare felled for the hulls of the raiding ships by gangs ofchained slaves, leaving great swathes of destructionthat cut like scars through the woodlands

Better to leaveKarond Kar with a light purse, they reckon, than tonever leave it at al

In a desperate but cunningmove, Morathi declared herself the Queen of the cult

In the rock below are darkdismal caverns, lit by eerie green witchlights, whereindwell monsters. The cataclysm that led to the creationof the Black Arks cast up many monsters that hadpreviously dwelled on the sea-floor. Sensing theirmalice and terrible evil, the Dark Elves summonedthese monsters and bound them into their service,keeping them in huge caverns excavated in the bowelsof the Black Arks,

Thus do the Naggarothi make and breakalliances in a careless fashion, knowing that their silvertongues can always be counted upon to heal thewounds of the past. It is this, more than anything else,which renders Dark Elf society so opportunistic andimpetuous. When the deeds of old can be erased by acleverly-spoken word, what need is there for integrityand law?

The Druchii, as they callthemselves,

The Siege o f Itza, which had lastedover four centuries, is broken by theeldritch might o f Lord Kroak

o theyounger races, the Old Ones are whollyunknown; only the Elves maintainsome ancient myths o f their creator gods.

the second m oon o f pure Chaos cameinto being. It is not subject to the universal laws held insuch high regard by the Slann, for it orbits according to nofathomable pattern —a source o f unending consternation tothe Slann and Skink Priests w ho still look to the stars to readthe future. T h e Slann M age-P riests o f T laxdan, and theirSkink Priest attendants, have long pondered the impossibleconundrum that is the Chaos M oon. T hey have dedicatedm uch energy towards pushing it out o f the w orld’s orbit,directing meteorites to strike it and hundreds o f other ploys,yet still the fell m oon plagues them .

H e re are housed the greatest armies o f the L izardm enand also their greatest treasures. B uried in the labyrinthbeneath the city’s wide streets are vaults that hold many o fthe O ld O n es’ creations. T h ere are devices o f such potentialdevastation that not even the Slann M age-P riests dare dwellupon their nature for long

Jacques Prevert

The orcs focus on what they think is their objective (no, I will not let Saruman live down this bit of terrible operational planning, thank you) – capturing hobbits

L osteriksson ordered all treasure to be cast over the logram parts.

h e relics thatthey collected upon the orders o f the Slann were held inw onder; all hope o f understanding the technology o f theirfunction lost, replaced w ith superstitious cerem ony and ritual

T h e energy dom e that su rrounded Itza crackled withenergy,

A gainst the grow ing threat o f an age-old enemy, theL izardm en have slowly come to the realisation that there isno gain in lam enting a bygone age

o imagine that those very deitieswere but shards of the infinitely more mighty thing thatis Chaos would be too terrifying for any priest ofSigmar, Ulric, or priestess of Shallya to evencontemplate.

After all, the Daemons of Chaos existonly as a reflection of mortal rage, hopes, fears andlusts. They appear as archetypes given form, vilecaricatures and grossly exaggerated parodies

A landscape that roiled and writhed withdark sorcery can return almost to normal in a matter ofhours as the battling hordes consume the magicallifeblood to fuel their struggles, and without magic tosustain them the Daemons are inevitably sucked backinto the Realm of Chaos.

The irony then is that this reduced Antigonid state will meet Rome with greater financial resources and more men than the much larger Antigonid state of the late 200s.

in a society where one’s actions as a magistrate could create patronage bonds, it was important to make sure everyone was rotating in and out of those roles, so that credit and influence was diffused among a larger range of leaders, rather than congealing around just a handful of men or – worse yet – just one man.

And then the thing which always happens to the Sicilian Greeks happens: unity begins to fracture, with some of Pyrrhus’ key supporters beginning to drift away from him, while the Carthaginians reinforced and struck back. This isn’t exactly surprising: if you are a Greek community trying to retain independence, having Pyrrhus show up in 279 is welcome: the greatest threat to you is Carthage. But by 276, the greatest threat to your independence is Pyrrhus, on the verge of consolidating the island.

These scenes also underscore what was mentioned previously about the “may” and “but” featured in Gilmour’s half of the song, calling into question the very nature of war, as if the famously anti-war-activist Waters is asking “How can mother and father claim to love their babies while sending them off to die like this?”

Antiochus III’s reign provides a good example of this sort of frenetic back-and-forth rush: Antiochus inherits power in 223, facing security problems in both Syria (Ptolemies) and Persia (rebellion). In 222, he heads to Syria (it goes badly) and sends general to Persia (it goes worse); in 221, he shifts, heading East and manages to get control of that problem, before shifting back to campaign in Syria from 220 to 217, before being stopped short by the Battle of Raphia. In 216, he’s up in Anatolia, dealing with problems there and stays until 213.

Maybe your cavalry has won and is moments away – or perhaps Antiochus III charged it off the field again and no help is coming.

‘advance at your own discretion’ order

One of the great lies of authoritarian states is that the strongman-ruler is necessary to deliver stability as compared to the messiness of democracy, but as demonstrated in WWI and ever since, the liberal democracies are actually more stable under pressure.

So often illiberal movements spring from a sort of moral cowardice, a failure of confidence that one’s ideas could win the contest of persuasion on a fair playing field, so one must resort to force or violence.

removing certain things from either the exercise of arbitrary power or in some cases from politics

It was, among other things, a radical enough document to have its publication suppressed by various European monarchies for decades; the text of the thing was banned in Russia for eight decades and in Spain for nine.

one livre was 408g of silver, while a sou was 1/20th of a livre (20.4g) and a denier was 1/240th of a livre (1.7g). In practice, only the smallest coin, the denier, was widely minted. So £1 (or 1 L = pound) = 20 s (shillings) and 1 s (shilling) = 12 d (pence).

And Chernomor? He’s in the sack, Forgotten by the witch, Naina, Still strapped there to the charger’s back, Knowing naught, and even meaner Than before; both bored and angry

‘Macedonian’ in Egypt was a legal category at best only loosely tied to one’s actual origins.

“something as nonsensical as an origin marker unrelated to the marked origin almost must come from the military world.”

service in the phalanx itself seems to have remained restricted to these settlers, locking in its ‘Macedonian’ identity.

When suddenly there before him, Ludmila lies

And turns to wastes the shrubberies!

Sad fancies, and he bows his head, In silent longing, filled with dread, Still as a stone; while woe and care Consume his mind, his heart on fire, Tormented by despair, desire.

The horse flew to him, magically,

The dwarf flies upward to the clouds, Vanishes there among mist-shrouds, Then plunges at the prince once more.

Protected by the magic hat,

Our knight now sleeps away the hours; His brow, his cheek, are all aflame, His lips half-parted, yield deep sighs, As if sweet kisses he would claim, While gazing into loving eyes. Low moans oft from his lips depart, And, as if in dream, he tightly Presses the covers to his heart, While the clear moon glitters brightly

The warrior rides beneath the wall: To the gate her singing brings him, Fair maidens greet him, blushing all.

Oh, evil, hunch-backed Chernomor, For all my woe you are to blame! Malformed, bearded, running sore, A blot upon the family name!

‘Hero, you’ve made me see the light’ –

Our knight replied, cold steel he flung, Transfixing that insolent tongue, With his quivering lance; then blood Ran from the frenzied mouth, the flow At once a river in full flood; And with the pain, surprise and woe, In a trice, its impudence spent, Gnawing the steel, and turning pale, It turned to him, its gaze intent. Just so, some actor’s voice will fail, Some lesser scion of the Muse, Who, deafened by the crowd’s abuse, No longer sees aught before him, Turns pale, forgets the part he read, Forsakes thus the role assigned him, Trembles and then bows his head, Stammers, cogent speech denied him, While the audience strikes him dead.

Until he comes to a broad valley, Beneath the sky, where dead men sleep. He trembles then, against his will, Scattered bones lie yellowing still. The ancient battlefield, stripped bare, Stretches to barren distance there. A sword clasped in a bony hand,

yet they leave a faint impression Of a quiet reproach to fate, That might some true heart agitate, That’s filled with secret compassion.

Palm trees, laurels moving gently, And a row of fragrant myrtle, Proud crowns of cedars, tall and fine, And golden orange trees in line, Reflected where the waters shine; The hills, the groves, the forest pine, Revivified by spring’s new wine. The winds of May blow cool and fresh, Across the bright enchanted vale, As in the branches’ trembling mesh, There sings a Chinese nightingale; And diamantine fountains play, With pleasing sounds amid the grass,   Rare statues glistening in the spray, As if they breathe; were Phidias, Graced by Pallas and Apollo, To gaze upon them it must follow His chisel would fall from his hand, Consumed with envy he would stand. Hemmed in by marble barriers, Pure waterfalls descend as planned, In pearly arcs, like crystal tears, While some sweet plashing stream appears, From forest shade, to soothe the land. Shelters of peace and coolness, fair, The brave pavilions flicker brightly, Through the green leaves, here and there, As blossoms fall on pathways lightly.

Wandered to a trellised window, Gazing down at the scene below, On empty fields, and clouds anew, Where all seemed dead, and snow lay deep, And softly carpeting the view, Clothing every mountain steep Above white silent plains, the sombre Land wrapped in eternal slumber. No smoke trail from a chimney there, No snow-bound traveller to be seen, None blew a sounding horn, to share Their joy with all that barren scene. Only, with a low dull whistling, A fierce blast of wind, went whirling, Making the cold bare forest sway, Etched, far, against the sky’s chill grey.

In vain the rooster sees them pass, He whom fear and sorrow freeze; The bird cries out to his mistress; Only a few feathers, weightless, Drift downwards, slowly, on the breeze.

Now Rogdai the Bold, in torment, Chilled by an ill presentiment, Who, into the wastes, had ridden, Far from the other three, intent On solitary thought, went, hidden Amid the woods, in discontent. The Evil Spirit gave him pain, Brought dark confusion to his soul, He muttered, ever and again: ‘To slay, despite all, is my goal!... Ruslan! Beware, for you shall die… Your bride will shed a bitter tear…’ Then, suddenly, he gave a cry, And back upon his tracks did steer.

YOU, rivals in destruction’s story, Among yourselves know naught of peace, Pay tribute to a sombre glory, And revel in your foe’s decease! Let all folk turn to ice before you, By gazing on your dreadful feast, For none will heave a sigh for you, Nor folk regret you in the least.

Because he resisted bravely and wouldn’t kneel, Alexander had the garrison commander at Gaza dragged to death by having his ankles pierced and tied to a chariot

Alexander has removed and mostly executed all but three of his non-Macedonian Eastern satraps.

Alexander was clearly an incredibly charismatic figure. He could be generous (often unwisely so), composed in extreme situations, gracious when it served him and had an easy wit that comes through in many of the anecdotes of his life. He was also, brave, fit, young and good-looking, which couldn’t have hurt. In short, Alexander clearly had a natural charisma to him that inspired loyalty and devotion.

One wonders if Harpalus’ assassination was the only thing that kept Alexander from pardoning his old friend and finding him a new job, presumably as treasurer, again.

Alexander’s violence was fundamentally good, motivated – as was the violence of any good British colonial officer – by a belief in (Tarn’s term) the “unity of mankind.”

by the time the Senate backed Gordian (and his son) they were both already dead, defeated by forces loyal to Maximinus, but by that point, the Senate’s course was chosen. So they elected two new emperors, Balbinus and the amazingly named Pupienus11 to try to resist Maximinus’ inevitable march into Italy. The populace of Rome, confused, rioted and when a relative of the two Gordians – who they were told, after all, had become emperor – was produced, they forced the Senate to name him emperor too; Gordian III (he’s 13 at the time). But, almost miraculously, Maximinus’ invasion of Italy fails as he ran out of supplies trying to take Aquileia by siege. Maximinus’ army mutinies against him and he’s killed, at which point Balbinus and Pupienus both successfully conspire to have parts of the praetorian guard assassinate the other, leaving just Gordian III as the last man standing. Hardly a virtuoso performance but the Senate had, for one last time, both made and broken an emperor (and also four other guys).

marks the twilight of the real influence of Rome’s republican institutions

The Senate was less successful after the death of Commodus in 193 (the “Year of the Five Emperors”): it selected Pertinax as emperor but another senator, Didius Julianus, bribed the praetorian guard to support him instead, murdered Pertniax and was then promptly run over by Septimius Severus, the legatus Augusti on Pannonia, who returned to Rome with his legions to seize power. The last really notable role of the Senate in making and breaking emperors as a corporate body is in 238, the “Year of the Six Emperors.” In 235, the army had mutinied and killed Severus Alexander, making Maximinus Thrax emperor.

adultery cases – a serious charge in Roman law – involving members of the elite.

the emperor needed 20-something praetorian senators to serve as legati Augusti propraetore, while the senate needed at least two consulars (for Africa and Asia) and roughly 8 ex-praetors to serve as promagistrates in the senatorial provinces, plus assigning quaestors to those governors.

freedmen but at some point prior to Hadrian turned into an equestrian office.

Augustus prunes these back to more manageable levels for the most part.

I wave my hands over the text, say a few academic buzzwords (deconstruction! structure! gender! problematic!) and the text just vanishes into a smoke-cloud of confusingly overwritten sentences and tendentious conclusions.

Far more than Tinkerbell, regimes and governments need us to believe in them or they die.

These masterworks do indeed seem to project a world of enjoyment and artistic pleasure in utter disconnect with Bentivoglio’s despair.  Can this be the same Renaissance?

Now, I didn’t lead with that because I wanted to attack this idea dispassionately, from a historical angle first – to present that case without first staining the idea by invoking Godwin’s Law. I wanted to show that this theory of history wasn’t sustainable, even on its own terms.

People began cracking down on non-licensed medical practitioners. If these people were actually skilled in terms of medicine then for real, why TF was everyone dying on the regular? Soon laws began to propagate stating that only licensed, i.e. university educated physicians could practice medicine.

“I need a healing ritual performed,” she said. “On me.”

“Even stupid ones,” she whispered.

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