The End Times of Warhammer FB are controversial to say the least, and I can understand the anger that came from them. I'll be honest, I quite enjoyed most of the stories of the End Times, even though I am sad about the lore that is now dead and buried. So here is my attempt to re-write the End Times of the Old World. I'm not the most knowledgeable on the lore about every race, but I hope I can do a good job.
So, here goes.
The ever shifting realm of Chaos were more tranquil than it had ever been. Towering mountains of floating stone skulls, charred black leaked molten lave from gaping mouths as the very earth itself cracked with the foul energies of the realm of Chaos. Here, in the land of the dark gods the greatest force ever to assail the world was gathering. Rank after rank of warriors blessed by the tainted energies of this hellscape gathered in the maze of war camps that sprawled from one horizon to another. Champions wracked with mutations and the scars of centuries of unholy warfare stalked the blood soaked ground, insipid cowtowing slaves trailed them, avoiding the gaze of their heroes as they basked in their presence, hoping to gain the eye of the dark gods by proximity alone. The hulking mounts of Kurgan tribesmen pawed at the ground, not cowed by the demonic mounts of the chaos champions, their riders sharpening their axes, eager to be set loose upon their foes and the Norscan tribes was almost bestial in their desire to pour south to the hated lands of order. Every day hundreds and thousands were murdered, slain in challenges or devoured by the demonic servants of the Dark Gods, but the constant clashes between hosts of nightmare and shadow were stilled. The Three Eyed King had ordered it so.
Archaon, the Everchosen of Chaos, Herald of the Apocalypse and anointed Lord of the End Times was in communion with his gods. His greatest champions saw him atop the ziggurat of bone and blood, unmoving as he stared up at the roiling skies, wondering what words he was bandying with their patrons. Sigvald the Magnificent, the Prince of the Decadent host and greatest mortal champion of Slaanesh pruned himself in his mirror shield, examining his striking beauty and marvelling at his perfect visage. Opposite him, Valkia the Bloody, the Bride of Khorne watched disdainfully, her innate hatred of Slaanesh and those who worshiped it barely held back as she toyed with a skull like it were a pebble, her curved horns reaching over her head, eager to gore and gut in the name of the Blood God. Festus the Leechlord sat amidst squalor, plague and filth, the stench of which would make the darkest of dark lords retch. Bubbles of pus and plague burst in showers of gore around him as his wart-ridden bodyguards. Meanwhile Vilitch the Curseling, the twisted, malformed sorcerer forever fused to the body of his twin body seemed unconcerned with the others, the champion of Tzeentch possibly involved with his master's visions of past and future. Any other time there would be a battle of epic proportions were these champions to come together, but before the will of the Everchosen, they stayed their wrath.
After a while, the Everchosen moved, his armoured boots crushing bone as he walked down the towards them. The Eye of Sheerian gleamed in his forehead as he stood before them. He was the champion of Chaos undivided, swearing allegiance to no one of the Dark Gods, but in many ways greater than them all. Only Archaon could assemble this grand host, drawn from all four of the dark powers. Only he could drive them forwards with his will and only he could command all their loyalties. When he spoke all listened. "The time has come," he declared. "Ready your hosts and armies and send out the vanguard. The End Times have come, and all those who defy the power of Chaos will burn. Valkia, you know what you must do?"
The Gorequeen nodded, stroking her weapon fondly. "I do, my hordes will descend upon Naggaroth shortly."
Archaon nodded. If Valkia could put enough pressure on the Dark Elves they would abandon their icy home to make another attempt on Ulthuan, and if the Elves could be embroiled in Civil War then that was one less foe for him to face. "Festus, go, make your final preparations for the Plague assault on the world."
The Leechlord nodded. "As you command, in the name of almighty Nurgle."
"Sigvald, make ready your hosts to march with us, Curseling, you as well. I want us moving as soon as possible."
He marched past the champions of the gods without a second glance, they would serve his plans as he required it, there were others who required his attention. This army would take weeks or months to whip into direction, he had other agents to send out to ensure that, when it hit with full force, there was no one capable of resisting it. The three agents he needed to send were waiting for him. The Black Knight stood tall and proud as the race of Bretonnia was want to do, but the Eye of Sheerian saw the fury and rage encased within the metal shell. He would be a blunt instrument, but needed the least prodding of all of the three of them, having come willingly to the Chaos Wastes, just as Archaon had himself. The other two were emissaries of their people, with demands to meet. The tusked dwarf, clad in his armour of cursed runes glowered at him, but Archaon had no pity for those who claimed to be victims of being kept waiting. He had been waiting since the time of Magnus, longer than anyone else. The rat was the most unreliable. The innumerable race of people had ambitions, certainly, a low cunning and heartlessness accompanied their desire to be the dominant power in the world. Even their innumerable hordes, deployed for years against the Lizardmen and Dwarf holds, had limits to what they could achieve. But they were also cowards, and so had come to bow before his host before it had even marched. They would serve their purpose.
"You are ready?" He asked them.
"I have been waiting for too long," The knight swore, his fist clenching. "I will free my people from the lies of what we have served and bring them truth."
Archaon turned to the dwarf. "And you?"
The dwarf snorted, smoke puffing from its nose. "We are. Our forges have been working night and day. We will march before long."
"You will march now," Archaon replied. "Between you and your bretheren stand the Ogre Kingdoms, those mercenaries will have to be dealt with. Now. Return to your people and pass my command to them." The Dwarf clearly was angry at being commanded so, but accepted with an angry nod.
The Everchosen turned to the last of his agents. This was the one he trusted the least, but the rat people alone had the resources to carry out his will where he needed them to. Unlike the other two he didn't have to speak. The quivering rat spoke before him. "We know your wishes, Lord Everchosen, we will not fail."
"See that you don't. Bring Tilea and Estalia to ruin and then prevent the undead from interfering. If you wish to continue your assaults on the Dwarf holds and the Lizardmen then do so, I will not stop you. But Tilea, Estalia, Nehekhara, these you must deliver. Now go," he dismissed them before he had to hear any more of their squeaking. Soon. Soon he would be rid of them... rid of everything, and Chaos would reign."
Karaz-a-Karak
As Kingsmeets went, this was better than most, Ungrim Ironfist thought as he sat on his stone bench. Most were repetitive at best, but this one was different by the inclusion of one of the ancient and proud elgi of Elthuan. This King Finubar held himself tall amidst the Dwarfs, and Ungrim could tell that it rankled many of the others. King Kazador in particular had no patience for it, his fists clenching and unclenching as the elf spoke to the assembled Dwarf kings. Ungrim couldn't help but be impressed with the elf. He spoke in just the right way to the right king. He assuaged Kazador's rage and emasculated himself in the eyes of the proud king. When he turned to King Byrrnoth of Barak Varr he praised their hospitality and the skill and discipline of his escort, eager to open trade and commerce with the sea-bound dwarf-kin of that hold. Instinctively he knew which Kings would only be angered by his comments and passed them over and which would require a passing notice. When he turned to the head of the table and High King Thorgrim, he showed all due deference. "I am truly honoured and privileged to be allowed to visit your halls, High King," he said, bowing low at the waist. "I have long wondered what caused my ancestors to betray your noble trust, and I can only conclude that it was jealousy, what you have shown me of your craftsmanship outshines anything that could be produced on Ulthuan."
Thorgrim acknowledged his praise with a curt nod. The dwarfs would never fully trust the elgi of Ulthuan again, and everyone in the room knew it, but for centuries, the elgi had defended their own position on the War of Vengeance. Even so, the Ulthuani seemed to desire a rapprochement of sorts if their king was willing to come here and say such to them. "Your words do you credit, King Finubar," Thorgrim replied, one hand resting on the Dammaz Kron ominously. "And I have thought long on your proposal, and have decided that I will accept a permanent ambassador from Ulthuan to my court."
Only shock kept at least three of the nearby kings from leaping out of their seats in protest. "I thank you, High King Thorgrim," Finubar said, bowing once more.
Thorgrim waved it off. "As you say. Now, you will forgive us, but there are Dawi matters that must be discussed, if you would." Finubar nodded and swept away, his silent escort at his shoulders passing through the gathered courtiers, advisors, Thanes and the second cousins of Thanes that had wormed their way into the Kingsmeet.
"This is an outrage!" Burst King Kazador as soon as the doors had closed again. "The Elgi! A permanent place here! An outrage!"
"We heard, King Kazador," Ungrim spoke. He was in no mood for Kazador's bluster. "But Karaz-a-Karak is the High King's realm and it is not your place to accept or reject his desires on it."
"You wouldn't accept such oversight into your own realm," King Byrrnoth added. Alone amongst the Kings he seemed genuinely impressed with King Finubar.
Kazador grumbled and sat back down when he saw the matter was already decided. Thorgrim moved the Kingsmeet on.
"This Kingsmeet looks to be the greatest sign of hope for our people yet," he said. "My armies have swept the last few tribes from the Silver Road with ease, the greenskins are retreating and new fortifications have been erected. From what I have heard, many of the rest of you have more good news for us. Ungrim. Just last year you broke a great chaotic host, what news have you for us now?"
Ungrim nodded, though the memory was a sour one. He'd been denied the chance to kill or be killed by the great beast that led the Chaos horde by the intervention of the exile Gotrek Gurnisson who had saved his life and slain the beast. He had waned to throw the slayer in irons for his unwanted help, but Gurnisson was chained by fate, and what was a king to do against that? "Our borders are also silent, High King," he said to the Kings. "As you know my realm watches over Sylvania, the cursed land of the Zanganaz, and it is quiet, as quiet as I have ever seen it. If I didn't know better I'd say the dead have finally returned to their rest."
It unsettled him. He had long considered it part of his duties to make sure that the wretched realm of the cursed von Carsteins remained quiet. The Dwarfs of Karak Kadrin had assisted their ancient allies in breaking the last of them, Mannfred, at Hell Fenn some time ago. But the quiet was unnatural, his rangers could normally find evidence of feuds and rivalries between the various petty vampire lords, but now... nothing.
King Belegar of the Eight Peaks was speaking when Ungrim returned his attention to the Kingsmeet. "We have reclaimed another great hall of the Eight Peaks," he said with pride. "The ratmen and grobi have fallen back to fighting one another, leaving us time to reinforce and secure our new gains, rest, lick our wounds and honour our dead. My runesmiths believe that in this hall is the burial chamber of King Lunn's great grandsire, lost for centuries, now returned to us." Even though he had no links to the Eight Peaks, Ungrim felt his heart swell at the recovery of the lost heirlooms of old. It was news repeated by other kings as well. King Alrik of Karak Hirn had led an expedition that recovered two hundred survivors of a great mining expedition thought lost for more than three decades. While the loss of life was mourned they brought wealth back in abundance for the hold. The norscan holds reported a great victory against the tribesmen that drove them into the Chaos wastes. Even King Kazador had news worth celebrating, having found more tunnels, untouched by ratmen or grobi beneath Karak Azul. Every hold reported that the Ratmen attacks had slowed and ceased, with King Baraudin of Zhufbar destroying a Skaven nesting pit after a great battle, sealing up the tunnels behind them.
Ungrim knew he should feel relieved and encouraged by the new triumphs of the Dawi, but he couldn't. Not yet. Something was wrong with it all, this was not the victory the Dwarfs had longed for since the fall of the Karaz Ankor, this was something else. Once more, his thoughts returned to Sylvania and what the von Carsteins might be planning there.
Castle Drakenhof – Sylvania
Mannfred looked out from the parapet of Drakenhof's tallest tower over Sylvania, his land. It was all his by blood right, every river and stream and thicket, every tree and town and turret was his to command, to raise up or tear down as he wished it. Before him it had been the madman Konrad's, and before him... Vlad. Vlad, the thought of his mentor made his lip curl. In everything he was measured up to his sire, in ambition, in drive... in success. In all but magic was he found wanting. First he had tried to do what the two of them could not and take the Empire for his own. But he had failed, just as Konrad and Vlad had done. But unlike them, he had risen again from his defeat at Hell Fenn and Sylvania was his once more. I did what you could not, Vlad, I rose again. Did you? Came the voice in his head. You once nearly had an empire, and you are right back here. He reigned in his anger. It was bad enough hearing that voice in the bowels of Drakenhof, it had to follow him everywhere he went now. But soon he would prove the voice wrong. Soon not only Sylvania but the rotten Empire and the whole world would bow to Mannfred von Carstein and Vlad would be forgotten. But right now all he had was Sylvania, and this would be where he worked his rituals and plans. And no one would interfere, not even the interloper.
He had first detected the invader not long ago, crossing the border from Averland. Whoever it was they were powerful, so powerful that he had almost not detected them crossing the border, able to cloak themselves well. But at the same time they had too much power to be hidden fully. Mannfred could have confronted him immediately, but chose instead to bide his time, gather his power and see what the individual wanted. The latter soon became readily apparent as he made his way to Drakenhof directly, not impeded by road or patrol or river. Now he was close and Mannfred would dispense with this invader and crush him under his iron boot. He called his hellsteed to him on the balcony, the holes in the undead mount's flesh winking at him like a wanton whore. He regularly sortied from Drakenhof when it pleased him. None would question his absence or his return, and none would know that an intruder had dared cross into Sylvania. He pulled himself up onto the beast's back and with an unspoken command it unfurled it's wings and leapt into the night.
He sped across Sylvania with the vast speed that only an undead mount could bring. Perhaps the pegasi of Bretonnia could rival them for a speed, but they would tire in the end, his own mounts would not. They needed no rest or food or drink, only his power to sustain them, and if there was one thing that Mannfred von Carstein didn't lack, it was power.
He met the intruder at the opposite end of a sturdy stone bridge. He wasn't alone. That surprised Mannfred, he had thought when he'd been able to sense the intruder he'd only sensed the one. Perhaps diluting his power to shield his party was what made Mannfred able to detect him in the first place. No matter. He would deal with them all in turn if necessary. But when he recognised the leader, the being behind the magical veil, he couldn't help the smile that came across his face. "It has been some time since I saw you last, liche."
"I have counted the years, Vampire," Arkhan the Black replied, his skeletal jaw unmoving, the words boring into Mannfred's skull. "Have you come to surrender?"
He snarled. He had last met Arkhan the Black before he died the first time. The liche had ever been powerful and possibly the most driven thing that Mannfred had ever met, constantly fixating on one single goal, the restoration of the Great Necromancer. He always would have found his way here, given what Mannfred had spent much time gathering. "Surrender?" He asked. "You enter my realm and ask me to surrender? You always had nerve, liche. It is you, you fleshless vagabond, who should kneel."
"I owe fealty to only one, and you are not him," Arkhan replied. "I am here to reclaim what is mine."
"Oh," so he was right in his suspicions. "And what might that be?" Better to hear it from the liche in person.
Arkhan held up a hand and counted off on his fingers. "A suit of armour, a severed hand and nine books of blood inked flesh." Mannfred was right, as he knew he would be.
"Those are mine," Mannfred said simply. "Why should I turn them over to you?"
Arkhan's next words were expected but still sent a shiver down his spine. "Nagash must return."
"I am already making moves to that end," Mannfred replied. "I have no need of you, liche, return to your tower in the desert. I'll summon you if I need you."
"I'm here now." Arkhan didn't move, his staff planted softly into the cold stone of the bridge, his companions stepping back. "And I know what you don't. One requires more than artefacts to restore the necromancer."
Mannfred scoffed. Those artefacts all held Nagash's will. That monster had a habit of imparting his will onto anything he touched. Restoring the closest artefacts to him would be sufficient. Once he had the final one, he would have everything he needed. Mannfred bit down on his tongue to prevent him growling in anger as Vlad's voice penetrated his skull more deeply than Arkhan's ever could. But do you know that it will be enough? "Whatever I need I'll find," Mannfred snarled at Arkhan.
"But you don't know what you're looking for," Arkhan cut across him, standing his ground. "I do. And we have no time for waiting or hunting. We must act now. Or the realms of the dead will fall silent. You know of what I speak."
He did. The northern invaders. He had recognised the signs. Kislev's borders were beset by horrors and armoured warriors, the villages of Norsca were deprived of warriors who had gone to answer some call or other and the plains of the Kurgan were wide and flat and empty, they had all been called somewhere, and only one thing could unite these warriors and call forth the demonic entities, Chaos. Mannfred scoffed. "The northmen will be repelled, as will their demonic allies as they always are." Mannfred had studied the Empire, and for all it's weakness it had one glimmering strength. Karl Franz. Apart from himself, Franz was the most ruthless man in the world. If it cost him Ostermark, Ostland and Nordland, he would destroy these invaders, just as he would happily sacrifice Stirland and Averland to lance the boil of Sylvania if it rose it's head again. Mannfred didn't have the strength to resist Franz were he to deploy the might of the Empire against Sylvania. But once he had the power of Nagash...
Arkhan the Black continued. "Not this time." He pulled a grotesque severed head from within his cloak, one of the beastmen, the children of Chaos. "Beastmen are mindless, yet this one and his warband stalked me across the Border Princes, the Badlands and Averland. Sent after me by the Dark Gods because they know my purpose. They fear the return of Nagash because he has the power to stop them. A world of the dead has no power for them. They have set aside their squabbles in order to finally bring ruin to the world. Nagash must return, and he cannot be half here. He must come back with full strength in order to stop them, and for that you need my help."
More power was not unappealing to Mannfred. If he was to have Nagash's power, he should have it all after all. Perhaps the liche could be of some use. But first he would have to be reminded who was the more powerful of the duo. "I do not need you. I need nothing!" He lashed out with a dark bolt of power which struck Arkhan in the chest, leaving a dark purple hue in the air, but no visible damage.
"Is that all?" Arkhan asked.
"Not even close," Mannfred replied and launched his assault on the Liche. More spells followed the first, hurled from atop Mannfred's mount. Arkhan took every spell and returned them with interest. Incantations he had not uttered for centuries past his lipless mouth as he matched the lord of Sylvania spell for spell... and was found wanting. Arkhan felt a flitter of surprise at Mannfred's power. He had underestimated the vampire. Was this Nagash's challenge, to separate the wheat from the chaff?
Eldritch storms and dark sorceries clashed above the bridge as the two masters of death battled for supremacy. Mannfred ripped the recently slain from the ground and sent them hurtling at Arkhan who replied with corpses of his own. Both knew that the corpses were mere distractions, Mannfred and Arkhan were too powerful to be brought down by shambling, rotting husks, but they might provide an opening. Mannfred hacked Arkhan's puppets apart as they came and continued hurling spell after spell at Arkhan, each one striking with a force that would obliterate a mortal in an instant.
Not since Vashanesh had Arkhan met a vampire with such power, even Neferata, cold and beautiful Neferata hadn't matched this. Vampires were powerful beings but they had reservoirs of dark magic to draw upon. Even with time there was a limit to what they could hold, a limit Mannfred had shed it seemed. But he seemed to be drawing his power from somewhere... ah yes, Arkhan realised. The sky. Mannfred had sealed off Sylvania. Thanks to Nagash's curse they would burn in the rays of the sun, but Mannfred had blocked the sky from Sylvania with a cloud of dark magic, a massive force from which he could draw at this moment. This was it then. Arkhan had only to outlast Mannfred a while before he could bring the vampire to his senses.
Mannfred snarled as he was forced to draw more and more power from the sky. He had hoped to beat the Liche into submission by now, but millennia of service to Nagash's whispered had made him stubborn to the last and he still held his ground, hurling spells at him time and time again.
A sudden flash of burning pain cast across Mannfred's face. This wasn't one of Arkhan's spells, this was something else, something raw. In horror he redirected his spells to the sky, sealing the breach that had just emerged. Oh dear boy, Vlad chuckled. Mannfred had drawn too much power from the sky and let the rays of the sun through. He looked back at Arkhan. The liche had an opening to strike but he hadn't taken it, instead he had planted his staff on the cracked stone of the bridge and stared at him. "We are done here, Vampire."
Mannfred stepped back. He could finish this now. Draw the final strength from the sky and blast Arkhan into the nothingness that he deserved. But the sun's rays would kill him and his world in days without his power to maintain it. "We are, liche," he replied, stepping back and sheathing his sword. "A truce?"
"Of course, Mannfred, a truce. We have a far more important matter to deal with."
"Indeed," Mannfred forced a smile onto his face. "Nagash."
"Nagash."