>The Varanspire is a blade raised in challenge, its tip directed at the throat of the heavens. At its base, aspirants gather, and bleed one another in temples and fighting pits. They seek ingress; they seek the eye of the gods; they seek a master who can deliver them unto the Path’s final steps. Only a few recognise the folly in this, and for those that do, it is often too late. The Dark Gods demand supplication, but they loathe supplicants. As avatars of discord, contradictions such as this are written into their nature.

>The master of the Varanspire has achieved his dominion over the Path by becoming a creature of contradiction himself. He has done it by raising monuments and abandoning them to the care of cravens and killers. He has done it by building a throne for himself, yet leaving it empty. He respects no throne save the saddle of his daemon steed, whose winged shadow is recognised as an omen of war across the breadth of reality.

>The master’s trials are many, despite his power. Jealous shadows plot his unmaking, and deathless legions encroach upon his holdings. There is always a reason for him to be elsewhere – far from his Varanspire, far from his throne room. Yet he is here now.