The land was one with the Great Black Wolf. All was darkness as the sun scorched the Wolfs belly, screaming in eternal anguish, his howl drove men mad. And on the darkened field of Vigrid corpses stirred in response to the atavistic call. Time bent, twisted and broke. Blood flowed into wounds and souls returned to the mortal realm. Aetheric fish swam through the air, centaurs bounded across the field and great hulking warriors readied their arms again.
The land spasmed under the disturbing influence of gods and mortals. With a primordial convulsion the earth broke, heaving the Gate upwards, climaxing in a jet of mud and lava.
All those who’s souls were bound to the mystic planes felt the Gate call them. They were the key. The key was their blood, freely spilt it would open an entrance into the Great City. The true home, birthplace, paradise and hell made one. The city whose name is Dis, where stands an empty throne and a leaderless host. The call was clear, claim me. Claim me who dare. Claim me and rule.
Bright burned ambition. The calling was irresistible and men and beast answered. The ascended knights floated forward, toward the Gate they steered the steeds. Great trolls lumbered onwards and many formed warriors marched with them.
With incredible speed the pain slaves stormed towards the Aetheric raiders of Kithelon. Blood would flow, death would have his harvest.
As magic blood was spilt the dedicated children of disease slowly made their way toward the Gate. Nothing else mattered. Let the insane follower of other gods act on their whims and needs. The Gate is everything. He who holds it, holds the realms.
The first shaman to stand before the Gate was Utgarthilocus. He cut himself again and again, let the blood flow freely. Let the Gate open.
He held glory for but a fleeting moment, a heartbeat of godhood, a blink of an eternity. Like sharks the Ascended plunged into him. Beneath a maelstrom of steel and fangs the magician disappeared. Leaving but blood and bones behind.
Mawgut roared with laughter as the Order of the Gash fell upon him. Fate broken open and before his eyes he saw it play itself out again.
And again the cult warriors fell to his blade. Even as they shuddered into rotten corpses they felt such excruciating pleasure from the kiss of his steel and fangs. Shadows fell upon the last few. Enormous tick-trolls towered over the slaves of Slaanesh, their saga ended in an avalanche of flesh.
Ill fortune, dark omens, sorrow and death. These were the gifts Slaanesh heaped upon his children. The Great Beast was driven mad with jealousy and threw himself upon the parasitic trolls. But alas, to no avail.
Like wasps the warriors of change buried their steel in mighty Surtr. Again and again his bright blade ended their lives, more warriors stood ready to die.
The Gate unguarded, but not for long. The Princes of Pestilence stood ready to die for their wizard as he began the ritual of opening. Not fish nor man could pass them by.
Kithelon screamed in anger as yet again his trolls were brought low by the foulest of warriors. The strands of possibilities were twisting out of his grasp. His warriors died but it mattered not, he would not be denied again!
Heat blossomed outward from the opened Gate. Nergal the plague sorcerer shriveled and died as the key he had provided broke the last seal. Mawgut Gloop strode through the Gate, his to claim as his enemies fell.
His birth cry thundered over the field as he ascended into daemonhood. On the field of Vigrid the last of the unworthy had fallen. Blessed be the name, blessed be the Lord of Plagues, blessed be the Great Maggot.
And in the high heavens the Powers laughed. A new toy, an old toy, a broken toy. The three champions would meet again. Death was always followed by birth. In damnation there is no beginning and there is no end. There are only the whims of mad gods.