The End Times were the death throes of the world. Every prophecy of doom came due at once as the northern hordes gathered beneath Archaon, the Everchosen, and the Warriors of Chaos marched south in numbers beyond counting. The Chaos moon Morrslieb waxed monstrous, the winds of magic howled untamed, and the barriers that had held creation together since the Coming of Chaos began at last to fail.
Disaster fell upon every people. The forests of the elves burned, the dwarf holds were overrun, and the Skaven boiled up from beneath in numberless swarms, spreading plague and detonating warpstone bombs beneath the great cities of men. Nagash rose in the south, the dead marched, and the realms of order were assailed from every quarter simultaneously. Even the gods took the field, and still it was not enough.
City by city, kingdom by kingdom, the world was consumed. The Empire fell, Ulthuan sank beneath the waves, and the last defenders were driven back to a final desperate stand as reality itself came apart around them.
In the end there was no victory, only annihilation. The world was torn asunder, its remnants scattered into the void, and the long history of the Old World ended in darkness. From that ruin, so the myths of a later age would whisper, a single soul was borne up into a new heaven — but of the world that had been, nothing survived save legend.
The chronicle continues
