As the doors slid open Howl, Karl, Aengus and Dian Cecht were confronted by a vision of the apocalypse as it now descended upon the Swordlands. The sky was fire. Surtur had consumed the heavens and meteors scarred the sky with trails of flame. The earth shook around them, the mountain tops trembled. Ragnarok had come, and the four companions knew now that this truly was the end of this world.
There infront of them two figures were locked in battle on the roof of the Crown of Byfrost. The first, a massively built centaur barbarian, covered in tattoes and ritual scarring, dressed in the skins of exotic animals from the Beastlands and wearing a helmet made from the skull of a Warforged Einherjar, in which was set the Legion Ghulra. This was Siegmund, feared warlord, self-proclaimed scourge of Himinborg, a savage warlock whose study of the stars had led him seek the Crown for his own end, as so many mortal kings had done before him. He wielded his flaming axe, sometimes in both hands, sometimes in one, weaving hoops of fire around him and his adversary as they fought. He was badly injured, blood stained his flanks and spattered the quartz on which they fought.
The second figure was that of a Warforged knight, a soldier of the legion, battered and dented, fighting with great skill and composure despite the ferocity of his opponent. Howl recognised this warrior as Rivenhart, who he had once known centuries ago as a brother in arms.
As the two adversaries clashed they threw each other off in a burst of fire, sending each other flying back some twenty feet apart. As they picked themselves up they noticed the four adventurers.
“Give me what is mine!” shouted Howl stepping towards the centaur, brandishing his executioners axe.
“I have seen what your kind have done with the future, Einherjar, and it no longer belongs to you. The next age belongs to Siegmund, and SURTUR!”
With that, Siegmund threw himself at the adventurers in a fiery rage.