Forged in unwavering loyalty to the One King, the Iron Guard stands as the unyielding spine of the Kingdom’s authority. Clad in iron and discipline alike, they are more than soldiers—they are the embodiment of law, order, and the sovereign’s unchallenged will. From the shadowed alleys of restless cities to the blood-soaked fields of open war, their presence is both a warning and a promise: rebellion will be crushed, and the King’s rule will endure.
Tasked with maintaining internal stability, the Iron Guard roots out dissent before it can fester into insurrection. Their vigilance is constant, their judgment swift, and their resolve unbreakable. Yet they are not merely wardens of peace—they are also warriors of renown, marching without hesitation to meet the Kingdom’s enemies wherever they rise.
On the battlefield, the Iron Guard advances like an unstoppable tide of steel, disciplined ranks moving as one, their banners carried high amidst the clash of blades and thunder of war.
Tasked with maintaining internal stability, the Iron Guard roots out dissent before it can fester into insurrection. Their vigilance is constant, their judgment swift, and their resolve unbreakable. Yet they are not merely wardens of peace—they are also warriors of renown, marching without hesitation to meet the Kingdom’s enemies wherever they rise.
On the battlefield, the Iron Guard advances like an unstoppable tide of steel, disciplined ranks moving as one, their banners carried high amidst the clash of blades and thunder of war.
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These elite mage-knights stand as living paradoxes—warriors clad in steel yet bound to the unseen currents of time itself. To them, the flow of moments is no fixed river, but a shifting tide they have learned to read, bend, and, when fate demands, command.
Through ancient rites and relentless discipline, they have awakened senses that pierce the veil of the present, glimpsing echoes of what is yet to come and shadows of what might have been.
On the battlefield, they are more than commanders—they are architects of destiny. With a whisper of foresight, they reposition armies before danger strikes, turning ambush into triumph and chaos into perfect, calculated victory. Blades rise where they must, shields form before the blow falls, and enemies find their strategies unravelled before they are even conceived.
To the Firstborn Kingdom, they are both guardians and oracles. In the quiet halls of Eternal Towers, they speak of distant threats long before the first signs appear, steering rulers away from ruin and toward glory. Their presence is a silent assurance that no darkness may gather unnoticed, no catastrophe unfold unchallenged.
Feared by foes and revered by allies, these chronomancers do not merely fight within time—they transcend it. Where others react, they have already acted. Where others hope, they already know.
And in their wake, history itself bends.
Through ancient rites and relentless discipline, they have awakened senses that pierce the veil of the present, glimpsing echoes of what is yet to come and shadows of what might have been.
On the battlefield, they are more than commanders—they are architects of destiny. With a whisper of foresight, they reposition armies before danger strikes, turning ambush into triumph and chaos into perfect, calculated victory. Blades rise where they must, shields form before the blow falls, and enemies find their strategies unravelled before they are even conceived.
To the Firstborn Kingdom, they are both guardians and oracles. In the quiet halls of Eternal Towers, they speak of distant threats long before the first signs appear, steering rulers away from ruin and toward glory. Their presence is a silent assurance that no darkness may gather unnoticed, no catastrophe unfold unchallenged.
Feared by foes and revered by allies, these chronomancers do not merely fight within time—they transcend it. Where others react, they have already acted. Where others hope, they already know.
And in their wake, history itself bends.
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Dragged from the depths of the world—both beneath the earth and within the souls of men—the Devout Followers are a congregation of the forsaken. Deserters of the Firstborn ranks, outcasts, criminals, and the irredeemably broken gather beneath the shadowed banners of the Prophets, bound not by honour but by desperation and dark devotion.
These wretches have willingly abandoned the light, trading redemption for purpose in the service of a power that whispers beyond reason. In the presence of the Prophets, they find something the world denied them: belonging. Twisted though it may be, it is enough. Their faith is not born of hope, but of inevitability—a grim certainty that only through death in service can they earn the gaze of their dread patron.
They march without fear, for they have nothing left to lose. Their bodies are expendable; their lives already forfeit. On the battlefield, they hurl themselves into the fray with fanatic zeal, seeking not victory, but annihilation.
These wretches have willingly abandoned the light, trading redemption for purpose in the service of a power that whispers beyond reason. In the presence of the Prophets, they find something the world denied them: belonging. Twisted though it may be, it is enough. Their faith is not born of hope, but of inevitability—a grim certainty that only through death in service can they earn the gaze of their dread patron.
They march without fear, for they have nothing left to lose. Their bodies are expendable; their lives already forfeit. On the battlefield, they hurl themselves into the fray with fanatic zeal, seeking not victory, but annihilation.
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DARK TUSK – DARK AXE WARRIORS
Once, they were builders.
In ages of quiet and purpose, the Dark Axe Warriors were miners and artisans—masters of stone and steel, whose tireless hands carved the Ringholds from the bones of the earth itself. Guided by the sacred designs of their Gods, they shaped vast halls, unbreakable bastions, and monuments meant to endure for eternity. Their craft was devotion. Their labour is a form of worship.
But that world is gone.
The desecration of their sacred holds, the slaughter of their kin, and the ruin of all they built have twisted these once-proud artisans into something far more dangerous. What remains is no longer calm, no longer measured—it is fury given form. A smouldering hatred burns within them, fed by loss, betrayal, and the memory of what was taken.
Now, the tools of creation have become instruments of destruction.
Once, they were builders.
In ages of quiet and purpose, the Dark Axe Warriors were miners and artisans—masters of stone and steel, whose tireless hands carved the Ringholds from the bones of the earth itself. Guided by the sacred designs of their Gods, they shaped vast halls, unbreakable bastions, and monuments meant to endure for eternity. Their craft was devotion. Their labour is a form of worship.
But that world is gone.
The desecration of their sacred holds, the slaughter of their kin, and the ruin of all they built have twisted these once-proud artisans into something far more dangerous. What remains is no longer calm, no longer measured—it is fury given form. A smouldering hatred burns within them, fed by loss, betrayal, and the memory of what was taken.
Now, the tools of creation have become instruments of destruction.
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BLUE LOTUS EATERS
Drawn to the whispering winds of the Lotus Peaks, the Blue Lotus Eaters are mystics who have bound their very essence to the element of air. Through the ritual ingestion of the rare blue lotus—grown only upon the mist-veiled slopes below the sacred heights—they unlock a heightened communion with the skies, perceiving currents unseen and shaping the breath of the world itself.To them, air is not merely wind—it is a living force, a weapon, a shield, and a path.In times of peace, their powers are studied and refined in quiet. But in war, they become something far more formidable. With a gesture, they can summon gales beneath a clear sky, turning calm horizons into roaring tempests. Entire battlefields bend to their will as hurricane-force winds tear through enemy ranks, scattering formations and breaking the resolve of even the most steadfast foes.
Their mastery extends beyond destruction. Veils of shifting air conceal advancing armies, masking movements with swirling mists and distorted light.
Drawn to the whispering winds of the Lotus Peaks, the Blue Lotus Eaters are mystics who have bound their very essence to the element of air. Through the ritual ingestion of the rare blue lotus—grown only upon the mist-veiled slopes below the sacred heights—they unlock a heightened communion with the skies, perceiving currents unseen and shaping the breath of the world itself.To them, air is not merely wind—it is a living force, a weapon, a shield, and a path.In times of peace, their powers are studied and refined in quiet. But in war, they become something far more formidable. With a gesture, they can summon gales beneath a clear sky, turning calm horizons into roaring tempests. Entire battlefields bend to their will as hurricane-force winds tear through enemy ranks, scattering formations and breaking the resolve of even the most steadfast foes.
Their mastery extends beyond destruction. Veils of shifting air conceal advancing armies, masking movements with swirling mists and distorted light.
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BLACKBLOOD GOBLIN RIPPER-BEAST ARCHERS
In the ever-shifting tides of war within the Empire, innovation is often born from necessity—and cunning minds. It was Raj Muad who first envisioned a new kind of terror to accompany the rising prominence of the Lancer units: swift, mounted archers who could strike without warning and vanish before retribution could find them. Thus were the Ripper-Beast Archers unleashed upon the battlefield.
Drawn from the savage ranks of the Blackblood Goblins, these warriors are as ruthless as they are unpredictable. Mounted upon snarling, sinewy Ripper-Beasts—creatures bred for speed, aggression, and unrelenting pursuit—they become a living storm of motion and death. Beast and rider share a brutal symbiosis, guided by instinct, hunger, and the thrill of the hunt.
They do not hold the line. They do not wait.
Instead, they circle the battlefield like predators, always just beyond reach.
#Chronopia #Blackblood #Goblin #RipperBeast
In the ever-shifting tides of war within the Empire, innovation is often born from necessity—and cunning minds. It was Raj Muad who first envisioned a new kind of terror to accompany the rising prominence of the Lancer units: swift, mounted archers who could strike without warning and vanish before retribution could find them. Thus were the Ripper-Beast Archers unleashed upon the battlefield.
Drawn from the savage ranks of the Blackblood Goblins, these warriors are as ruthless as they are unpredictable. Mounted upon snarling, sinewy Ripper-Beasts—creatures bred for speed, aggression, and unrelenting pursuit—they become a living storm of motion and death. Beast and rider share a brutal symbiosis, guided by instinct, hunger, and the thrill of the hunt.
They do not hold the line. They do not wait.
Instead, they circle the battlefield like predators, always just beyond reach.
#Chronopia #Blackblood #Goblin #RipperBeast
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DEMON WINGS
Where armies march, death follows—and where death lingers, so too come the scavengers.
Among the most feared of these are the Demon Wings, vile predators that descend upon the battlefield not out of duty or honour, but for the thrill of the hunt. Drawn to suffering like carrion birds to rot, they stalk the wounded, the broken, and the fleeing, revelling in the helplessness of their prey. For them, war is not a cause—it is a feast.
Serving within the ranks of the Devout, the Demon Wings embody cruelty without restraint. They are not creatures of great strength or cunning alone, but of instinct and hunger, and in numbers they become a terror that few can withstand. They gather in shrieking packs, circling high above the chaos before plunging downward in a frenzy of claws, wings, and serrated steel.
Their weapons—long, barbed spears—are instruments of both slaughter and capture. With chilling precision, they strike from above, impaling their victims and wrenching them from the ground.
Where armies march, death follows—and where death lingers, so too come the scavengers.
Among the most feared of these are the Demon Wings, vile predators that descend upon the battlefield not out of duty or honour, but for the thrill of the hunt. Drawn to suffering like carrion birds to rot, they stalk the wounded, the broken, and the fleeing, revelling in the helplessness of their prey. For them, war is not a cause—it is a feast.
Serving within the ranks of the Devout, the Demon Wings embody cruelty without restraint. They are not creatures of great strength or cunning alone, but of instinct and hunger, and in numbers they become a terror that few can withstand. They gather in shrieking packs, circling high above the chaos before plunging downward in a frenzy of claws, wings, and serrated steel.
Their weapons—long, barbed spears—are instruments of both slaughter and capture. With chilling precision, they strike from above, impaling their victims and wrenching them from the ground.
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Troll Deathseeker
The path of the Deathseeker is not merely a choice—it is a renunciation, a severing of all ties that bind a soul to the warmth of life. Those who walk it abandon kin, memory, and hope, casting aside the fragile comforts of the living as one might shed a worn and tattered cloak. They become something other, something hollowed and reforged in the shadow of inevitability.
A Deathseeker does not fear death, nor do they await it with quiet resignation. They pursue it.
To them, death is not an end, but a prize—an exalted culmination worthy only of the fiercest struggle. Every breath they take is a step closer to that final, glorious moment; every battle is a proving ground upon which they test their worth against fate itself. They do not seek survival. They seek a legend worthy of their last heartbeat.
On the battlefield, a Troll Deathseeker is a force of dreadful resolve. They charge where others falter, stand where others break, and laugh where others despair.
The path of the Deathseeker is not merely a choice—it is a renunciation, a severing of all ties that bind a soul to the warmth of life. Those who walk it abandon kin, memory, and hope, casting aside the fragile comforts of the living as one might shed a worn and tattered cloak. They become something other, something hollowed and reforged in the shadow of inevitability.
A Deathseeker does not fear death, nor do they await it with quiet resignation. They pursue it.
To them, death is not an end, but a prize—an exalted culmination worthy only of the fiercest struggle. Every breath they take is a step closer to that final, glorious moment; every battle is a proving ground upon which they test their worth against fate itself. They do not seek survival. They seek a legend worthy of their last heartbeat.
On the battlefield, a Troll Deathseeker is a force of dreadful resolve. They charge where others falter, stand where others break, and laugh where others despair.
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MOUNTED KNIGHTS
Among the Firstborn, there are warriors—and then there are legends. The Mounted Knights stand firmly among the latter: paragons of discipline, strength, and martial mastery, forged through years of relentless training in the art of war from horseback. From their earliest days, they are bound to their steeds, learning to fight as one—rider and mount united in purpose, speed, and deadly precision.
When they appear upon the battlefield, their arrival is not subtle. It is thunder. It is glory. It is hope made manifest.
Across the lines of the Imperial Army, their presence is met with resounding cheers and cries of triumph, for where the Mounted Knights ride, victory often follows. Clad in radiant armour that gleams even beneath bloodied skies, the most affluent among them take to war atop magnificent destriers—powerful warhorses bred for strength, endurance, and ferocity. These are no mere mounts, but trained instruments of war, capable of trampling, biting, and striking with brutal efficiency.
Among the Firstborn, there are warriors—and then there are legends. The Mounted Knights stand firmly among the latter: paragons of discipline, strength, and martial mastery, forged through years of relentless training in the art of war from horseback. From their earliest days, they are bound to their steeds, learning to fight as one—rider and mount united in purpose, speed, and deadly precision.
When they appear upon the battlefield, their arrival is not subtle. It is thunder. It is glory. It is hope made manifest.
Across the lines of the Imperial Army, their presence is met with resounding cheers and cries of triumph, for where the Mounted Knights ride, victory often follows. Clad in radiant armour that gleams even beneath bloodied skies, the most affluent among them take to war atop magnificent destriers—powerful warhorses bred for strength, endurance, and ferocity. These are no mere mounts, but trained instruments of war, capable of trampling, biting, and striking with brutal efficiency.
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From the torn Vortexes of the Dusk Realm come out Devout - horned, towering avatars of the Dark One's will. Living battering rams of ruin, they charge without fear or mercy, breaking armies and cities alike. They are not alive. They are war itself. #chronopia #grimdark #wargaming
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The Silver Lotus blooms in the frozen peaks—granting Elven Lotus-Eaters dominion over eternal winter. ❄️ They summon blizzards, raise ice walls, and call forth ancient Ice Golems to crush their foes. To wield it is to become the cold itself. #Chronopia #DarkFantasy
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Orc Assault Warriors
Across the war-torn fields where iron clashes and beasts thunder, the Orc Assault Warriors surge like a living storm. Swift in their advance and ruthless in their purpose, they form unbreakable ranks that shatter cavalry charges and tear through even the most disciplined lines. Forged in countless battles and hardened by raw, brutal experience, these warriors embody the pinnacle of Orcish might—unyielding, relentless, and born for conquest.
Yet they are no ordinary soldiers of the Empire. From among the countless hosts of Satraps and Emirs, it is they who have been chosen to stand at the very heart of the forces loyal to Emperor Nizar himself. As his household guard, they surpass all others in both training and equipment, and their loyalty never wavers. Where others fight for glory or gold, they fight as the living embodiment of the Emperor’s will.
Where the Assault Warriors appear, the fate of battles is decided—and their march is etched not only in history, but in legend.
Across the war-torn fields where iron clashes and beasts thunder, the Orc Assault Warriors surge like a living storm. Swift in their advance and ruthless in their purpose, they form unbreakable ranks that shatter cavalry charges and tear through even the most disciplined lines. Forged in countless battles and hardened by raw, brutal experience, these warriors embody the pinnacle of Orcish might—unyielding, relentless, and born for conquest.
Yet they are no ordinary soldiers of the Empire. From among the countless hosts of Satraps and Emirs, it is they who have been chosen to stand at the very heart of the forces loyal to Emperor Nizar himself. As his household guard, they surpass all others in both training and equipment, and their loyalty never wavers. Where others fight for glory or gold, they fight as the living embodiment of the Emperor’s will.
Where the Assault Warriors appear, the fate of battles is decided—and their march is etched not only in history, but in legend.
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MANX-SKULL CHAMPION WITH NOBLE SHIELD BEARERS
Among the ancient customs of the Horned One Clan Legions, none is more sacred than the Rite of the Noble Shield. When a Manx-Skull Champion marches forth from his Ringhold, he does not tread the earth beside lesser warriors. Instead, he is borne aloft upon a great iron-bound shield carried by his most trusted officers — scarred Noble veterans whose loyalty has been proven through countless battles and rivers of blood. As the Legion gathers beneath roaring war horns and the thunderous clash of spear against shield, the Champion is raised above his warriors as the living embodiment of the Ringhold’s strength, pride, and unbreakable will. And when the campaign is done, the rite is repeated once more, for he shall return upon that same shield — either standing victorious above his enemies or laid upon it in death.
#Chronopia #DarkFantasy #GrimDark #Wargaming #Tabletop #d20 #Dwarf #manxskull #champion #shieldbearer
Among the ancient customs of the Horned One Clan Legions, none is more sacred than the Rite of the Noble Shield. When a Manx-Skull Champion marches forth from his Ringhold, he does not tread the earth beside lesser warriors. Instead, he is borne aloft upon a great iron-bound shield carried by his most trusted officers — scarred Noble veterans whose loyalty has been proven through countless battles and rivers of blood. As the Legion gathers beneath roaring war horns and the thunderous clash of spear against shield, the Champion is raised above his warriors as the living embodiment of the Ringhold’s strength, pride, and unbreakable will. And when the campaign is done, the rite is repeated once more, for he shall return upon that same shield — either standing victorious above his enemies or laid upon it in death.
#Chronopia #DarkFantasy #GrimDark #Wargaming #Tabletop #d20 #Dwarf #manxskull #champion #shieldbearer
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Many skeletons are raised from whatever human remains lie nearest to the dark sorcery that awakens them — the graves of humble farmers, fallen laborers, or nameless peasants long forgotten by time. Unlike the skeletal champions of ancient wars, these wretched dead rarely bear weapons of true worth. Most clutch little more than rust-eaten swords, shattered tools, or crude makeshift clubs fashioned from splintered wood and bone.
Behind these shambling hordes stand the Devout Necromancers, fanatical servants utterly consumed by the will of the Dark One. To them, no sacrifice is too great and no act too vile if it spreads their master’s shadow across the realms of the living. They scour battlefields, desecrate sacred tombs, and bend the dead into mockeries of life, using every corpse, every soul, and every forbidden rite to strengthen the coming tide of darkness.
#Chronopia #Devout #Undead #Skeletal #Warrior #Wargame #GrimDark #DarkFantasy #TableTop #D20
Behind these shambling hordes stand the Devout Necromancers, fanatical servants utterly consumed by the will of the Dark One. To them, no sacrifice is too great and no act too vile if it spreads their master’s shadow across the realms of the living. They scour battlefields, desecrate sacred tombs, and bend the dead into mockeries of life, using every corpse, every soul, and every forbidden rite to strengthen the coming tide of darkness.
#Chronopia #Devout #Undead #Skeletal #Warrior #Wargame #GrimDark #DarkFantasy #TableTop #D20
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Operation: Mirror of the Past.
The main goal of this initiative is to digitally preserve the entire Chronopia miniature range (both 1st and 2nd edition) and make it available once again as STL files and high-quality 3D printouts.
Whether you are looking to fill the gaps in your original collection or rebuild an army from the ground up, Operation: Mirror of the Past will offer something for every Chronopia fan.
Players will once again be able to bring the classic miniature range onto the battlefield and use these iconic models in the current edition of the game.
We cannot wait to see Grand Army-scale battles return to tabletops around the world.
More information coming soon.
The main goal of this initiative is to digitally preserve the entire Chronopia miniature range (both 1st and 2nd edition) and make it available once again as STL files and high-quality 3D printouts.
Whether you are looking to fill the gaps in your original collection or rebuild an army from the ground up, Operation: Mirror of the Past will offer something for every Chronopia fan.
Players will once again be able to bring the classic miniature range onto the battlefield and use these iconic models in the current edition of the game.
We cannot wait to see Grand Army-scale battles return to tabletops around the world.
More information coming soon.
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TORMENTED
The Tormented are among the most horrifying beings of the Dusk Realm — former servants who failed the Dark One and were condemned to eternal suffering. They exist in constant agony, their tortured cries spreading fear across the battlefield. Maddened by pain and desperate for release, the Tormented charge blindly into enemy lines with savage fury, seeking slaughter in the hope that each kill might grant them a brief escape from their torment. Their presence is a grim reminder that in the Dusk Realm, death is not always a mercy.
#Chronopia #Devout #Demon #Tormented #Warrior #Wargame #GrimDark #DarkFantasy #TableTop #D20
The Tormented are among the most horrifying beings of the Dusk Realm — former servants who failed the Dark One and were condemned to eternal suffering. They exist in constant agony, their tortured cries spreading fear across the battlefield. Maddened by pain and desperate for release, the Tormented charge blindly into enemy lines with savage fury, seeking slaughter in the hope that each kill might grant them a brief escape from their torment. Their presence is a grim reminder that in the Dusk Realm, death is not always a mercy.
#Chronopia #Devout #Demon #Tormented #Warrior #Wargame #GrimDark #DarkFantasy #TableTop #D20
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