Rumors End Times 5

Ungrim and the dwarfs defend Avenheim thanks to Gelt’s Crucible but, in the end, they sacrifice themselves while imperials and bretonnians flee. Ungrim’s slayers fight against Zhufbar’s hosts.







Nagash offers Mannfred to the elves as a sing of good will, snaring him in a prison made of death magic.

Be’lakor frees Mannfred and tells him the truth about Lileath. He is later found by Jerrod (Be’lakor’s plan all the time) and tells him the truth about Lileath. Jerrod lets Mannfred live, who then flees and calls her. She admits the truth, saying that she is the Lady of the Lake, and also that she pushed Bretonnia out of the Stone Age and saved them from the greenskins and themselves. She says that she won’t ask for forgiveness, because the sacrifice of Bretonnia was needed to create the Haven. Then Be’lakor appears when Jerrod is about to kill her. They both fight and the demon defeats Jerrod (but does not kill him), and turns to kill Lileath, but Malekith and Tyrion pop out and trap Be’lakor.

Jerrod returns to his people and tells them about the Lady. They decide not to fight alongside the treacherous elves, returning to Bretonnia. No more is known of them.

After the fall of Averheim, the Incarnates face the daemonic host. The battle is hopeless, so Lileath sacrifices willingly to Teclis in order to give him the needed power to move them to Middenheim. A titanic battle takes place there, and the incarnates travel to the caverns located beneath the city, where Archaon, the Swords of Chaos, and the 4 greater daemons with their respective hosts are waiting. Grimgor fights Arachaon and almost defeats him, but Archaon manages to kill the orc. Then Archaon faces Sigmar, the Emperor, who after a long battle defeats him, throwing him inside a rift created by the Old Ones’ artifact that the chaos guys activated to destroy the world. The surviving Incarnates, aided by Teclis (who now holds the winds of Fire and Beasts), try to close the rift. They could have succeeded, but Mannfred betrays his master (Nagash) killing Gelt. Teclis tries to absorb the wind of Metal, but fails and dies, so the rift feeds on them and sucks out all the Incarnate’s powers. Archaon appears again, climbing out of the rift, and faces SIgmar one more time. They both are last seen fighting against each other, with Ghal-Maraz being held by Archaon as Sigmar tried to smash him. Meanwhile, Malekith saves Alarielle from being crushed by debris, and then she and Tyrion turn their backs and walk away while the Eternity King dies in pain, with his legs crushed. They both look back at the growing rift while the darkness swallows them.


Game Over.

Malekith che si sacrifica morendo in modo orribile per salvare Alarielle... e lei se la svigna con Tyrion?

Ho raggiunto l'illuminazione in un paio di righe 

New World o Old "New" world ?
Rebootano il vecchio mondo con qualche modifica o fanno un vero e proprio nuovo mondo ?
Il tizio nell'orbe bianco chi è ?
Sigmar?
Io punto su Archaone , già me lo vedo ansioso di distruggere tutto , ci riesce ! MA si accorge che non può distruggere se stesso e ricrea un mondo dove possa nascere qualcuno capace di distruggerlo . Tiè Beautiful gli fa una pippa !

- Pretty much anything of interest happens in Middenheim, including a ritual to end the world
- Caradryan is the Incarnate of Aqshy
- Grimgor decapitated by Archaon pretty much as an aside, after fighting of greater deamons on his own
- Archaon and Karl Franz clash twice, to little effect
- Dwarfs beliefe Balthasar Gelt to be Grungi reborn, are wiped out
- Sigvald kills Krell, gets killed by Thogg instantly afterwards
- Arkhan is sacrificed to cover a retreat
- Alarialle mindrapes Hellebron, then guts her like a fish
- Isabella becomes a servant of Nurgle, is killed by Vlad, who also dies in the attack
-Durthu sacrifices himself to rezz the Alarielle, who keeps fucking dying
- Balthasar Gelt dies to Mannfred, but was revealed as pretty much the most noble guy around
- Ka'Banda kills Caradryan and goes around kicking everybodies shit in for pages on end, killed by Sigmar himself
- the Wind of Heavens is revealed to be the will of Sigmar Heldenhammer, KF becomes Sigmar in full
- Teclis keeps absorbing the Winds of the Incarnates as those die, overloads and explodes
- Grimgor's Immortulz lead the final charge on Chaos
- Sigmar punches the Slayer of Kings apart
- Rituals goes through anyway, magic goes away, Nagash just fades away
- Mannfred dies like a bitch to Tyrion
- Sigmar and Archaon wrestle a bit, stumble into the ritual-created chaos rift like dummies
- EVERYBODY left suffers from 'Rocks Fall, Everybody dies'-syndrome, but Malekith gets away with crushed legs, Tyrion SOMEHOW is unharmed and Alarielle dies AGAIN and rezzes AGAIN

Bretonnia:

Gilles and Abhorash are fighting a last stand together at a monastery in the Grey Mountains. They decided that this is where Bretonnia's story ends. Abhorash is repaying his debt, too.

Duke Jerrod, his army, the Red Duke and two Von Carsteins ride off to join them.

Vlad sends a message for Abhorash: "Tell him he was right in the end."

Looks like Vlad WAS Vasanesh.

I believe he and Abhorash go down with the world, having defended a monastery in the Grey Mountains successfully. Chaos couldn't stop those two. Vlad says something like;

"For as long as Abhorash lives, Bretonnia will never fall."

Neferata sees the Grey Mountains overcome by the warp, which seems put in there to imply they finally died. The author wrote Bretonnia novels I believe some gave them a good exit.

Not stated. However in Fall of Altdorf novel Gilles distances himself from The Lady. I think he knows the world is doomed but wants to go out defending Bretonnia.

Having said that, Vlad does say to himself: "Abhorash... Imagine what warriors you could have made these men into had you never sworn that Oath."

1) Vlad saves Isabella. He puts the ring on her and double suicides through a stake, freeing her from the demon. This is after he saves Lileath, Alarielle, chats to Sigmar, inspires Bretonnians, punks out Mannfred and kills countless Khorne Daemons including a Bloodthirster. He also noted that he liked Konrad more than Mannfred (to Mannfred), but later says he wouldn't want harm to come to his bratty prince.

2) Karl Franz died in Altdorf. Sigmar was split between him and a little in Valten. Sigmar thought Archaon would destroy Chaos, not join it. Sigmar is very intelligent and definitely not He-Man. He's watched the world.

3) Isabella, Neferata and Khalida own the entire epilogue. Arkhan and Neferata hatch a plan to save the undead, humans and halflings in Sylvania. Neferata doesn't quite make it back in time. She and Arkhan kind of kiss.

4) Malekith doesn't quite die. He's last seen being covered by rocks - it's not clear at all. There is no betrayal from Tyrion and Alarielle from what we see.

5) Be'Lakor dead. Turned into a gemstone.

6) Arkhan has hope of order amidst the warp. He foresees it and tries to save Neferata.

7) Nagash tells him to die well. A moment of niceness.

Snorri Whitebeard saves Malekith midway through. Then berates his awareness in a friendly manner. He disappears soon after.

Settta can't comes back. Saves Nagash, betrays Chaos and says he will accept Nagash's fealty once this is all over. Also saves Arkhan

Arbaal the Undefeated duels caradryan.He fails his title once again.

Azazel has a metting with Karl Franz-Sigmar where they remember their shared past.Doesn't end well for the demon

'You have nothing but time,’ Vlad said. ‘And this is no ordinary story. It is about a monastery.’

Jerrod blinked in confusion, but said nothing. Vlad leaned forwards.

‘There is said to be a monastery, somewhere in the Grey Mountains, where Gilles le Breton has decided to make his stand,’ he murmured. ‘I had it from the mouth of one who rides with us now – a mad creature, whom your folk knew as the Red Duke.’ He turned and gestured to one of the other riders. Jerrod looked past him, and met the malignant gaze of a nightmare out of legend. The Red Duke sat proudly in the saddle of his skeletal steed, one hand on the pommel of his infamous blade. At first, he scowled at Jerrod, but then, after a moment, he dipped his head in a gesture of respect. Jerrod returned the nod before he could stop himself. He looked back at Vlad.

‘In that place, it is said that your king fights beside a knight garbed in crimson, in defence of what remains of your people,’ Vlad went on.
‘A red knight…’ Jerrod murmured. He looked at Vlad. ‘He is one of your kind. Like… the Duke. Like you.’
‘No. Not like that sad, mad warrior or like me. Abhorash is the best of us,’ Vlad said softly. ‘He owed a debt to your king, and swore an oath, and while he fights, Bretonnia lives. In some small corner of your shattered land, the heart of all that was Bretonnia survives.’

‘Why do you tell me this?’ Jerrod asked hoarsely.
‘Because I know that it was Mannfred who broke your faith, and set you at odds with Lileath. And because I too know what it is like to lose everything. To lose your home, your people, even your gods.’ Vlad turned away. ‘I would not wish it on anyone.’ He looked back at Jerrod and smiled. ‘Even a man who, under other circumstances, would be doing his level best to remove my head.’ He stepped back. ‘The Red Duke knows the way. He will lead you to your people, if they yet live. And two others will go with you, to see that you and your men arrive safely, and that your guide does not… get out of hand. Erikan Crowfiend and Elize von Carstein, a daughter of my blood and a son of the Bretonni. They are old, and strong in the ways of our kind.’
Jerrod looked at the other two vampires, on their mummified steeds. One was a haughty-looking, crimson-haired woman, the other a dishevelled, broad-faced man. Their steeds stood so close together that the knees of their riders touched. As Jerrod watched, the man took the woman’s hand. He blinked, and looked down at Vlad.
‘You can trust them. And when you reach your sanctuary, tell Abhorash that…’ Vlad hesitated. He laughed and shook his head. ‘Tell him that he was right, in the end.’
‘About what?’ Jerrod asked, without thinking.
Vlad chuckled and turned away, pulling his cloak tight about himself. The vampire hauled himself into the saddle and rode away, leaving Jerrod staring after him. After the vampire had vanished, Jerrod turned.

His people waited. He looked at the Red Duke.
‘Well?’ he asked, softly.
The creature turned his skeletal steed about. ‘West,’ he growled. ‘To the fires beyond the horizon, and into the mountains.’ With a shout, the vampire kicked his mount into a gallop. The other vampires shared a look, and then followed suit.
Duke Jerrod, the last son of Quenelles, inhaled the clean air of Athel Loren one last time. Then he spurred his horse into motion. And the knights of Bretonnia followed.

He didn’t look around as someone eased out of the dark to sink down beside him. ‘The manling will live, then?’ a rough voice asked. It was a voice such as the mountains might have spoken with.
‘He will,’ Hammerson said, after a moment.
‘That is good.’ There was a flash of heat, as a pipe was lit. ‘They’re fragile, humans.’
‘But brave.’
‘Aye, they are that. Too brave. Too rash.’ Hammerson’s companion puffed quietly on his pipe for a moment before continuing. ‘Then, maybe these are the days for the foolhardy among us. The days of sealed holds are done. There will be no barred gates strong enough to resist what is coming, I fear.’
Hammerson turned to look at the white-bearded dwarf. Even now, a hood obscured his features, and he had his great, single-bladed rune-axe balanced on his knees. ‘Is this to be it, then? Is there no hope, old one? Are our people to vanish into the hungry dark, unmourned and unremembered?’
‘Aye,’ the old dwarf said, softly. Then, he smiled and reached out to clap a heavy hand on Hammerson’s shoulder. ‘But we’ll not go alone, lad.’ He heaved himself to his feet, axe in hand. ‘We’ll march proudly into the dark, son of the Black Water, axes sharp and shields raised. We’ll make the enemy pay for every inch of ground, and water the roots of the world to come with their blood, young Hammerson. That I swear.’
And then he was gone, as if he’d never been. Hammerson did not look for him. Grombrindal went where he wished, and no dwarf, daemon or god could hinder or follow him if he did not wish it.

He heard a squeal from above him, and twisted in his saddle. Shapes dropped towards him from the upper reaches of the ruin, wielding curved blades that glistened with poison. Even as he raised his blade, he knew that he would not be able to stop every blow.

Something flashed in the dark, and spun past him. Several of the assassins went limp, like puppets with their strings cut, and smashed into the ground below. The remaining skaven landed on Seraphon’s back and leapt towards him, only to die with his sword in its skull. As he swept the twitching carcass away from him, he turned to see a dwarf axe embedded in the stonework nearby. Whoever had thrown it had done so with consummate skill, killing two assassins in mid-air with a single throw.

‘You never were any good at watching your back, were you?’ a rough voice rumbled, from somewhere nearby. Malekith froze. He recognised the voice, though he had not heard it in millennia. Not since those dim, distant days before elf and dwarf had discarded all oaths of friendship, and gone to war. ‘Just as well I was passing through.’ He caught a glimpse of gleaming armour and a flash of white beard, and felt his heart lurch in memory of a pain he’d thought long forgotten.

‘Snorri,’ Malekith whispered. ‘My friend – I…’
But the speaker, whoever they had been, was gone. He turned and saw that the axe was gone as well, as if it had never been. Malekith shook his head. He knew the legends, and had heard the stories from the lips of slaves and captives, but he had never believed… not until now. He smiled. Go in peace, my friend, and meet your doom as is fitting.

‘Let’s get to bashing then,’ Grimgor snarled. He lifted his axe and waved his Immortulz forwards. Golgfag roared out for his followers, and the mingled wedge of black orcs and ogres took the fore as they thundered towards the enemy lines that Wurrzag had softened up. Grimgor sped up, wanting to get the first lick in. He caught Gitsnik in both hands and lifted it. ‘I’m gonna stomp you ta dust, and break your bones,’ he roared, hurling his words towards the faltering shield-wall. ‘I’m gonna pile yer bodies in a big fire and cook ’em good! I’m gonna bash heads, break ya faces and jump up and down on the bits that are left!’
And when I get where Gork wants me ta go, I’m gonna get really mean, he thought in satisfaction. Then, he was upon the enemy, and there was no need to think at all.

Gotri Hammerson ignored the shadows and the trees and the whispers and concentrated on the path ahead, as Jerrod and Volker continued to speak. Let the forest talk all it wanted. He didn’t have to listen. That was where the manlings always went wrong… they listened. They couldn’t help it. They were curious by nature, like beardlings, only they never grew out of it. Always poking and prodding and writing things down. And on pulped wood or animal skins at that, he thought. They trust their knowledge to things that rot… That tells you all you need to know.
Still, they weren’t all bad. He glanced at Volker, and at Jerrod, who sat slumped in his saddle. The Bretonnians were a hardy folk, and they knew the value of an oath. It was a shame that they had the stink of elves on them, but that was humans for you. Naive, the lot of them. You couldn’t trust an elf, everybody knew that. Common knowledge in Zhufbar, that was. Couldn’t trust elves, halflings or ogres. Not an honourable bone in any of that lot.
And you certainly couldn’t trust a forest. That much wood in one place was unnatural. It did odd things to the air, and the light. And this particular forest was a wellspring of grudges, stretching from the time of Grugni Goldfinder to the present day. Many a dwarf’s bones were lost beneath the green loam of the deep forest, their spirits trapped by the roots, never able to journey to the halls of their ancestors.
It was a bad place, full of bad things, like a pocket of old darkness in an abandoned mine. At least we’ve got the ancestor gods on our side, Hammerson thought. He felt a moment of shame, but pushed it aside. It wasn’t the manling’s fault, no matter what some among his dwindling throng might grumble. Still, there wasn’t a dwarf alive who wouldn’t be discomfited by the thought of one of their ancestor gods – and Grungni no less! – blessing a human so.

And there was no other explanation for it. Balthasar Gelt was blessed. How else to explain how runes flared to vigorous life in his presence? In the wizard’s vicinity, gromril armour became harder than ever before and weapons gained a killing edge that no whetstone could replicate. Hammerson sniffed the air.
He didn’t even have to look around to know that Gelt was near. The wizard glowed with an inner fire, like a freshly stoked forge. The air around him stank like smelted iron, and when he spoke, the runes that were Hammerson’s to shape and bestow shimmered with the light of Grungni. Hammerson could feel the human’s presence in his gut, and it bothered him to no end to admit that, even to himself.
Why had the gods gifted a manling with their power? And a wizard at that – a blasted elf-taught sorcerer, without an ounce of muscle on his lean frame and no proper axe to speak of. And he rides a horse. With feathers, Hammerson thought sourly. Couldn’t trust a horse, especially one that could fly. A horse was just an elf with hooves

Hammerson watched Gelt ride away, and smiled sadly. ‘A good lad, that one, for all that he’s had a rough path to walk.’
‘Aye,’ Grombrindal rumbled. Hammerson could not say where the white-bearded dwarf had come from, or when he had arrived, but he was here now, and that was all that mattered. If this was to be the last war of the dwarfs, it was only fitting that the White Dwarf himself be there to fight alongside them. Grombrindal hefted his axe, and ran his thumb along the edge. ‘But he and the elgi woman are best out of it, eh? This is dwarf work.’
‘Aye, that it is,’ Hammerson said. He no longer felt tired. Though Gelt’s enchantments were fading, his warriors looked as fresh as the day they’d set out for Averheim, so long ago. It was as if the presence of the revered ancestor had renewed their strength.
He looked past the shield-wall and saw that the Chaos hordes, daemons and mortals alike, were readying themselves to charge once more. If they were allowed to get past the Zhufbarak, the Incarnates would pay the price. Hammerson raised his axe. ‘Plant the standards, lads,’ he bellowed. ‘I want to fight in the shade.’
With a loud rattle, the clan standards were stabbed into the ground, creating a makeshift forest of gold and steel. Hammerson looked up at them, and knew that he was seeing them for the last time. ‘I forged some of those myself,’ he said.
‘Good runework,’ Grombrindal said.
‘Not worth doing, otherwise,’ Hammerson said.
Flesh hounds howled, and bloodthirsters roared. Bloodletters shrieked and mortal warriors added their chants and screams to the daemonic clamour. The dwarfs ignored the noise. Hammerson nodded in satisfaction. ‘I wish Ungrim were here. He’d love this.’
‘He is here, lad,’ Grombrindal rumbled. ‘They’re all here, standing with us, in this moment. All the kings and their clans, be they thane, clansman or Slayer, they are with us now. Can’t you feel them? They are crying out for vengeance. Today is a day for the settling of all grudges, great or small.’
As the White Dwarf spoke, Hammerson thought he could see them. The ghosts of his ancestors moved through the ranks of the living to fill the gaps in the shield-wall. And not just the dead of storied centuries, but those more recent. He saw Thorek Ironbrow, and Ungrim Ironfist. He saw Thorgrim, the Grudgebearer himself, and others besides. Faces and names from history and recent days. It was as if the entirety of their people had come to witness this final act of defiance.
He saw Grombrindal standing upon a broad shield, supported on the shoulders of a one-eyed Slayer and a tankard-carrying ranger. The good eye of the Slayer met his own, and Hammerson felt his growing sadness washed away in a moment of anger. Anger that it had come to this, that all the great works of his people were now as nothing. The fate of the world would be decided elsewhere, by the hands of humans and elves.

For the dwarfs, there was only this. The whole of their history, brought to this point. Hammerson met Grombrindal’s gaze, and the White Dwarf nodded slowly. If it must be done, let it be done well, Hammerson thought. Whether they were dead or alive, that was the only way dwarfs knew how to do anything.

‘And thus do the unworthy fall,’ a voice as dry as the desert sands rasped. Arkhan looked up from the crown, and turned. A familiar form, ancient bones shrouded in tattered ceremonial wrappings and broken armour, stepped towards them, khopesh in hand. ‘Will you join him in oblivion, Usurper?’
‘SETTRA,’ Nagash said.
‘I have walked across half of this world to find you, Usurper. You broke me and scattered me, but Settra is deathless. Settra is eternal. And so Settra returned, and now he stands here, sword in hand, and he denies you, Usurper. He stands between you and triumph,’ Settra croaked. He lifted his khopesh and pointed it at Nagash, who regarded him as if he were less a threat than a curiosity.
‘I DID NOT BRING YOU BACK, LITTLE KING,’ Nagash said.
‘No,’ Settra said. ‘You did not.’ The khopesh dipped. ‘They did. The jackals of the smokeless fire, the howlers in the Wastes. They dared to offer Settra aid.’
‘HOW FOOLISH OF THEM,’ Nagash said.
‘They offered Settra victories, and empires and life unending.’
‘AND WHAT DID THEY ASK IN RETURN, LITTLE KING?’
‘That I serve them and kill you.’ Settra looked down at the remains of Throgg, and then, quicker than Arkhan could follow, lunged. Nagash lurched aside, but Arkhan realised that Settra had not been aiming for the Incarnate of Death. Instead, the ancient king’s blade chopped into the scaly torso of the dragon ogre which had been preparing to smash its enormous axe down on the back of Nagash’s skull. The beast roared in agony, but Settra did not give it time to recover. He tore his blade free and slashed upwards, separating the monster’s head from its shoulders. It toppled over like a felled tree, and Settra turned.
He extended his khopesh towards Nagash. ‘Settra does not serve. Settra rules.’ He strode past them, towards the horde of monsters. ‘Go, prince of Khemri. Settra will forgive your trespasses if you but make the jackals howl. Teach them that the kings of the Great Land cannot be bought and sold like slaves. And then, when it is done, Settra shall take your head, and take back his people.’
As the last words left his mouth, Settra the Imperishable broke into a run, slashing out at a snarling giant even as the great beast reached down for him. His khopesh removed its fingers, and then its lower jaw in rapid succession. A moment later, he was lost to Arkhan’s sight as he plunged into the heart of the battle

Sigmar strode through the dust and the smoke, lightning crawling across his form, Ghal Maraz in his hand. He had cast off the remains of his cloak, and his helmet. For the first time in a long time, he felt whole. Complete.
He had been reborn in the broken body of Karl Franz as the Glottkin had ravaged Altdorf, called to a man of his blood by the winds of magic and fate, and perhaps even necessity. An empire, even a dying one, needed an emperor. I was the first, and so I will be the last, he thought sadly. Then he looked out at the massed ranks of friend and foe, and smiled. Or perhaps I will be the first again, come what may.
But he had not been reborn whole. His power had been split, even as Ulric’s was, between himself and the man called Valten. But what had been in Valten had coiled waiting in the hammer he now held after the youth’s death, waiting for the hand of its true owner. Now, reunited, the power of the heavens was his once more, and Sigmar Unberogen was whole.
He raised his hammer, and it began to glow with a cerulean light. As he passed Deathclaw’s broken form, the griffon stirred and clambered to its feet with a groggy scream. ‘Up, you lazy beast,’ Sigmar murmured, stretching out his hand to stroke its feathered neck. ‘Up. We have a war to win,’ he said. The beast made to follow him, but he waved it back. He strode towards Nagash and Ka’Bandha. The liche met his gaze and, after a moment’s hesitation, inclined his head.
‘UNBEROGEN,’ Nagash said.
‘Monster,’ Sigmar said conversationally. He swept Ghal Maraz out, and Nagash flinched back. ‘Step back, Nagash of Khemri. This one is mine.’ Sigmar stared at Ka’Bandha. The bloodthirster was still warily watching Nagash, even as the liche slunk back. ‘Turn, hellhound