Talius and Corren continue their climb. Knowing that they’ll be unable to reach the very summit, they stop – choosing instead to begin packing explosives into the folds of the massive daemon-mound.
Meanwhile, the vessel of rot and rebirth continues to bring a constant stream of daemons into reality. Finally beginning to tire and fatigue, the Acolytes realize that they can’t continue on much longer.
Ishamael gathers himself and strides forward – spotting his climbing comrades and the cursed bell at the top of the chamber. Exchanging a glimpse with Talius, an unspoken plan is formed.
Ishamael channels all of his remaining strength – firing a beam of pure white energy at the carillon. As the blow is struck against the bell, it disappears in an explosion of blinding green light – showering the cavern with molten shrapnel and putrescent burnt flesh.
With the device destroyed, Talius and Corren set their explosives and leap from the mound. The monumental explosion of their improvised explosives ripples through the cavern and causes the daemon-thing to peel open like a giant, rotten fruit – disgorging its juice as a torrential wave of pus and congealed blood. This deluge is followed by the fruit’s seeds – hundreds of rotting placental sacks containing unborn daemonic young. Overwhelmed by the ichor and rotten fluids once contained within the gigantic mound, the Acolytes are swept off their feet and dragged down and entangled among the chamber’s many roots and mouldy crags. Coming to their senses, the Acolytes find the bottom few feet of the cavern awash with an unholy daemon slurry. From it, an army of the newly born daemons rise. Hundreds upon of hundreds of them moan – experiencing the pain of physical existence for the first time.
Screaming to their comrades, the Acolytes all gather themselves and start to leave – quickly. They climb from the chambers and start their frantic escape from the catacombs – pursued relentlessly through the darkness.
Emerging up into the Ossuaria and the pouring rains above, they find themselves surrounded – scores of countless daemons and restless dead emerging from every crack, forgotten passageway, tunnel, and catacomb.
As hope seems lost, the ground begins to tremble. Static discharges crackle as pebbles and rocks begin to float. A strange mist forms around the Acolytes.
With a crack of lightning, blinding light and a blast of air, the warband is surrounded by gleaming brilliance and streaks of silver.