[h1]From the Inn to the End of Times[/h1]
The city was draped in mournful attire, the sky veiled by clouds, as night fell and loosed a plague that seemed to herald the end of times. I journeyed through the forest; the trees still preserved their splendour, their natural beauty untouched by what approached. A few rats emerged — a minor ambush — and so I made my way to Stromdorf to discern what was unfolding.
There, I encountered an Elf. The coincidence was peculiar, for I had not expected to see a rival — perhaps even an enemy — within these woods.
I beheld the forest again: the air felt rarefied, tainted with the scent of what was coming. The bridges and paths had been ravaged by the storm. Thus I went to the inn to take sustenance. Lohner received me; he had food, he said, though the city itself appeared devastated by the Skaven — the rat-men who walk.
To my surprise, the Elf was there as well, along with others who had come to rest. My sister and I found ourselves within that inn in a gathering most unusual: dwarf and elf, inquisitor and witch. It could have been a strange and violent scene among such diverse species. Instead of departing to avoid a fray, the word get-together began to intrigue us.
What was it that prevented the night from ending with us brawling like drunkards in a tavern?
We beheld the city: its people slumbered, unaware. The infestation had been a surprise assault. It became necessary to sound the alarm of Ubersreik. Yet what intrigued us most was not our difference, but the city itself. We knew the innkeeper; he had always been gracious in receiving us and cared little for our distinctions or appearances. He was kind to everyone.
My sister and I understood something then: though we may differ, there will always be that which keeps us united and draws us together when things go wrong.
We left the tavern. The differences remained stark.
The streets were void of people; they were thick with rats. With every step, we moved as a group — a living, moving entity that held us together while the city sank into chaos. Our attacks struck the enemy, yet they were also acts of protection for one another. There was no food, yet we recovered it; so it was throughout our journey.
If anything kept us united amid those hordes — for it is easy to fall within the swarms of plague — it was the felt presence of the other. As my sister and I aided one another, so we aided the rest.
What tells us to do this? To cooperate without instruction, without debt?
To cooperate — or rather, to place into action the will of all within the group — is to become something more than a gathering of bodies. Yet what distinguishes us from the mass of rats? It is the character of each individual who, setting aside difference, seeks a shared cause without dissolving into the faceless swarm.
I recognise my sister and our companions, as they recognise me. When a Rat Ogre advances, empowered by the horde, it is precisely then that our characters — expressed as skill, as courage — uphold the group’s end. We are not like the rats, mere heaps of vermin perhaps driven by some unseen master.
The Rat Ogre awakens cooperation. It transforms personality into collective task: shoulder to shoulder, a mobile body whose purpose sustains the city and preserves its own integrity. If one falls, I lift them. I do not see a tool, but a person whose rising restores our movement, our aim. My sister and I help our friends.
Something is born in such moments. Like the phrase often spoken — we fight shoulder to shoulder. We suffer the same plight. And in that shared suffering, we are drawn closer, despite all difference.
In working together — employing knowledge, capacity, instinct — we begin to perceive that the other dwells within us, just as we dwell within them. Without the other, we too shall fall. Thus a vanguard of defence is forged: if one collapses, all are imperilled. The mission becomes the highest activity. For without companionship — without the chosen act of standing for the end of all, and for the city in these waning times — one cannot give oneself fully.
A tool is altered when one believes that, if it falls, it may yet distract the enemy or serve later. But we see differently. Even if one has fallen, is it not better to pause, to recover each in health and spirit, so that together — as shield’s strength and sword’s courage — we may attain the goal through virtue?
So what binds us, what keeps us united?
My sister and I tread stony and marsh-soaked ground, as do the others. We have fought together — not as instruments, but as a necessity of care and dependence. Moving as more than a roaming siege, we become a mobile fellowship, transformed from adversaries into persons in whom we place trust upon this black and pestilent field.
My sister is my family. But what, then, of the others within this small, moving body against the Skaven? We have stood in city streets, in sewers, in forests — in every place that tests the temperament of each soul. And thus something like friendship is born. My family extends towards them; and they dwell within us.
Even in the tavern, we were told what bound us, though the bandage of difference had not yet fallen away. It loosened as we advanced upon our pilgrimage. Our actions were no longer for ourselves, but for the people of Ubersreik. In the forest, we recovered wheat seeds plundered by the Skaven. In the city, we cleansed wells they had defiled. These deeds revealed what mattered most: not merely to defend, but to protect.
A hero is one who brings a people to safety and remains within the group to guard the others.
The final trial came when we faced the White Rat. All that we had learned — the strength of a mobile body transformed into friends rather than mere allies — enabled us to ascend to the enemy’s height, to close their portal, and to safeguard those who endure within a devastated city.
We were different. And yet, we stood.
