They march towards Tuonela, the third gate is close
In sorrow and in shame. Fealty bound they still serve
The Judgement. The crow eaters. The Hunters. Pitiful men who cling to dead ideals
King’s men, the tyrannical attempt at order. They move in on the small hamlet to add it to their Kingdom.
The Hound of Rotwang challenge King Raavenkae. He is no match for the mystic technolord.
The land heaves as the ancient machine gods awaken.
Blow, winds, and crack the earth! rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanes, spout till you have drenched our steppes, killed the crows!
Stavkirke surges forward in blood lust. It’s ancient traumatized machine spirit reliving the Old Conquest.
Reality is torn apart and daemons from the aether tears through the veil.
Slave warrior and mutant mystic, locked in hatred and in melee.
The blood fever rises and draws in even the moribund and the draugr.
Rotwang has fallen. The King’s domain expands and his rage and paranoia grows. Death and destruction to all who dares oppose!
Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters
Wytches dance and the dead sing. The ground shudders and machines long dormant scream!
Iki-Turso faces his foe, blind to the fact that the necro-arkke is now unprotected.
Peikko joins in, ashen skinned but full of burning fury.
The challenge is laid down, the gauntlet tossed. King Raavenkae, unbound by taboo, will not let his enemy rest easily.
Into death, into glory, never back down, to spit in the eye of god!
Under the gate, sacrosanct madness erupts. Unarmed pilgrims throws themselves at the iron of their hated foe.
Pyres smolder, the wytches burn. What remains of holy mankind is left to drown the world in blood. No future, no future for you
War machine, godhead, impotent lord, in blindness it strikes out. It has no mouth yet it must scream!
No wytch remain, only death and daemons howling
Stolen away on wings of magick Peikko finds himself in a strange place. He lives but for a few moments.
He meets his demise at the hands of something even more misshapen and pitiful than himself. His daughter is the last he thinks of.
Lowyatar strives to see beyond her blindness. In the realms of spirits she lifts up a warrior who should rest.
Again Kratti rises from death, his mangled axe still thirst.
This is the end. Smashed, cleaved and torn the arkke breaks. Chief Ruma’s spirit at last enters Hel. His final whisper, the name of his Mistress. Regan Jah-Bhaal Taxil.
Across oceans of time, among distant stars she hears him. And she mourns her dead brother.
Broken Kratti fights, his mind is long gone and death is his whole universe
Lowyatar screams in vain. Rogue wytchtek crushes through the King’s Guard, breaking some but ultimately bowing down to Raavenkae . Will this be the beginning of a new Conquest?