“We’re off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz!” one merry man sings as he gallops around me dizzyingly. I’m in the Land of the Dead (an appropriate title for a desert filled with skeletons and token scorpions) and I’ve joined a party lead by a rough looking Warrior Priest. ‘Sigmar’ is scrawled across his forehead. I’m unsure whether its carved into his skin, or written on in blood, but either way he’s …