Minotaurs.
In the world Al remembered, they weren't just a race; they were an inevitability of death, a of pure slaughter.
They once bore a name that made the Old World tremble in its boots.
Bull-Gors.
They were the masons of Khorne's footstools and the monsters that stopped children's hearts with a single roar.
The Ogres among Beastmen, and the Beastmen among Ogres—their hunger for ruin was so absolute they were once thought to be the kin of Gork and Mork.
In battle, they were suicidal berserks; their mutated cousins, the Doombulls, would devour raw flesh even as they trampled the living.
That was the legend.
But what stood before Al now was a group of massive, hulking giants who looked... surprisingly gentle.
Despite the physical pressure of their mountain-like frames, they gave off the vibe of honest, simple farmhands.
They were pushing massive plows and wielding hoes, tilling a wide plain with rhythmic precision.
A few followed behind, scattering seeds; before each handful, they crossed their massive arms over their chests in silent, humble prayer.
Al watched this, stunned, and could only marvel at how "peaceful" the End Times must have concluded.
If even the blood-crazed Bull-Gors could be cured of Chaos and turned into simple peasants, then the humans, Elves, and Dwarfs must be living in a golden age.
His flickering desire to reach "civilization" began to burn brightly again.
Alina had mentioned that Thal's sect of the World-Shepherd was conservative, hence their tolerance for a Chaos-worshiping Beastlord like Zhakun.
In other places, the merger of Beastmen, Humans, and High Elves into cities or suburban settlements was supposedly the norm.
However, there was one thing that met his expectations in the most "Warhammer" way possible.
The female Minotaurs.
They were even larger than the males, nearly double the bulk of an Ungor.
And they possessed four pairs of massive, heavy breasts that made the goat-girls look like flat-chested children.
But they were still cows. Literal cow-heads.
Al couldn't wrap his head around it: why did the Gors evolve into soft, "waifu-tier" goat-girls while the Minotaurs remained bipedal bovines?
Alina, surprisingly, held immense prestige among the Minotaurs; they didn't fear her, but rather respected her as a peer.
When she explained she wanted "clean food" for the child—since Zhakun's camp was a cesspit of filth—they were eager to help.
One female Minotaur was so enthusiastic she immediately hiked up her tunic.
Her nostrils were larger than Al's eyes, and her fingers were thicker than his arms.
She gestured for Al to come and "drink his fill" from her heavy, leaking udders.
Looking at those massive, leathery teats that were larger than his entire head, Al frantically waved his hands in refusal.
He scrambled back to Alina's side, politely declining the "Bull-mother's" hospitality.
They did get food, though: a sweet-smelling bread mixed with incredibly hard, stone-like seeds.
Al figured these seeds acted like gizzard stones for Minotaurs, helping them grind down tough fiber in their stomachs.
He took the offering but didn't eat it immediately; he wanted to study it later as they continued their march.
One question burned in his mind above all else:
"How did the End Times actually end?"
Did Archaon suddenly turn good? Did Volkmar the Grim kill the Chaos gods with a magic phone call?
Did Sigmar descend from his throne and snipe Middenheim with a holy beam?
Al had too many questions about this world's history and the secret of this "Blood Mother."
He needed someone who knew the truth.
Soon, Shaman Thal (Sar) came out to meet them, accompanied by his retinue.
The goat-girls reported the events and prepared to depart.
One particularly tall and busty "goat-mom" lingered, staring at Al with a strange, longing gaze until he noticed her, causing her to flee in a blush.
What's her deal? Al wondered. Did I bite her too hard earlier? No, I was gentle.
Thal welcomed them into the heart of the settlement.
The Shaman had clearly prepared; not a single child was in sight, which made Al strangely irritable.
Alina liked younglings, too; she was usually easier to talk to when they were around, but Thal didn't seem to know that.
The Shaman's warmth was at least fifty percent fake, but he wasn't a tyrant.
Given that his own youths had just tried to assassinate Al, and Al had not only spared them but come to visit in "peace," the Shaman was reconsidering his "Seed of Evil" theory.
They sat down to talk in an atmosphere that was, on the surface, quite harmonious.
"The End Times?"
Thal leaned on his staff, his old, wrinkled brow furrowing in thought.
"Are you referring to... The Great War?"
Translation error? Al wondered. He tried a different approach.
"I mean... the guy on the black horse. The Lord of the Three Eyes, the Everchosen, the Grand Marshal of the Apocalypse..."
Before Al could finish, his ears began to burn with a searing, white-hot heat.
[DO NOT SPEAK HIS NAME!]
A voice, booming with suppressed rage, exploded in Al's skull like a thunderclap.
The vision of the blood-sea flashed again—countless skulls piled into mountains that collapsed under the weight of gore-stained waves.
Al's vision went black, and he nearly fainted; Alina caught him, her strong arm supporting his small frame.
He didn't have time to dwell on the horror before Thal spoke again.
"I have never heard of such a figure. Perhaps I am just a simple, ignorant old goat," Thal shook his head.
Al knew Thal had no reason to lie, which made the mystery deeper.
He could understand not knowing minor Everchosens like Morkar, but this was Archaon!
The Three-Eyed King! The man destined to end the world!
The man who, in the Age of Sigmar, talked smack to the Great Horned Rat!
"Then how did the Great War end? Who was there?"
Thal was happy to provide an answer for that.
"The World-Shepherd awakened during the final stages of the Great War."
"He guided our ancestors away from the Chaos Legions, through the ruins of the Empire and the tunnels of the Grey Mountains."
"When they emerged into the forest of Athel Loren, the first children of the Shepherd—cleansed of corruption—were born."
"They settled here and began capturing their corrupted kin, tying them to the shrines of the Shepherd."
"Those who regained their sanity became our brothers; those who stayed loyal to Ruin were sacrificed to Nature."
"As for the war in the north... I know little. I am old, and I will likely never leave this forest again."
"But the songs tell of the final battle..."
And then, Al watched in stunned silence as the elderly Thal began to dance and sing with a sudden, rhythmic energy.
"The Knights of the North... blew their silver horns... Red shadows... rode by their side..."
"The Chieftain of Men... with his longsword held high..."
"Nature wept... the Phoenix took flight... It dived to the earth... burning the blight..."
The surrounding Beastmen seemed entranced by the song. Al felt a strange, ancient power in the melody.
But he quickly summarized the "history" in his head.
The most tragic and epic rumors of the End Times seemed to have come true here.
Grail Knights and Blood Dragons charging together in a final, suicidal spearhead.
Dragon Princes of Caledor following right behind them.
The Emperor, possessed by the spirit of Sigmar, arriving with reinforcements.
The Avatar of Asuryan descending as a burning phoenix to purge the corruption from the land.
Chaos was defeated. Order triumphed.
Humans cheered "God save Emperor Karl Franz," Dwarfs sang that the mountains would never fall, and Elves played the anthem of a United Kingdom.
It was weird.
Too weird.
Everything was too "perfect."
Al's doubts were multiplying.
The story sounded like a generic "Good vs. Evil" fairy tale, completely at odds with the grim, suffocating reality of the Warhammer world.
This didn't feel like...
The End Times.