Reikland is the Empire distilled to its proudest essence: a green and golden country where the river Reik gathers the trade of a dozen provinces and carries it down to Altdorf. That city is the nation's beating heart: seat of the Emperor, throne of the Grand Theogonist, and home to the eight Colleges of Magic, whose towers no other province would suffer within its walls. Here the roads are paved, the granaries full, and the taverns loud with the assurance of men who have never once doubted their place at the centre of the world. Reiklanders will remind you, unbidden, that Sigmar himself was born of the tribes who held this country, and that the crown of empire has merely come home.
Its regiments march in white and scarlet, drilled to a standard the rest of the Empire is expected to match and quietly resents, and its Reiksguard knights are counted among the finest heavy horse in the Old World. That polish is bought with blood as well as coin. Reikland fronts the beast-haunted Reikwald, watches the Grey Mountain passes against Bretonnian ambition, and has stood the front rank in every great war its Emperors have called. The other provinces name its bearing arrogance. Reikland, unbothered, calls it inheritance, and points, always, back to the hammer.
Order of battle
The Reikland field the units of the Empire of Man, a detachment from the roster:
Other Empire of Man formations
AverlandThe gold-and-black province of the southern grasslands, grown fat on cattle, grain, and the trade roads to the dwarfholds, and kept forever watchful by Black Fire Pass at its border. Every greenskin surge out of the mountains breaks on Averland first, and its yellow-coated regiments have held the pass so many times the province calls it their second home and their first graveyard. Averlanders are open-handed, sun-loving, and a little eccentric; famously, on occasion, their Elector Counts most of all.
MiddenlandThe great forest-province of the north, where blue-clad regiments are hardened by the haunted dark of the Drakwald. Middenlanders keep faith with Ulric, the old god of winter, wolves, and war, and regard southern hammer-piety with a fighting man's suspicion. They ask nothing of the Empire but a hard front line, and they usually are it.
StirlandA poor, proud province of moors, hills, and hedgerow farms, whose green-clad levies are mocked as bumpkins right up until the fighting starts. Stirland's burden is its geography: the haunted county of Sylvania lies within its bounds, and Stirlanders learn young to bury their dead with silver, prayers, and a spade kept sharp. No province digs better graves, or fills them more reluctantly.
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