Bardin threw a bomb. A gutter runner caught it mid-air and threw it back.
“That’s a victory.”
They cared about survival.
“Twenty seconds,” the dwarf grunted, cranking the ignition. Warhammer End Times Vermintide-REPACK
“Form a line!” Kruber bellowed, swinging his halberd. But the repacked horde did what no Skaven had done before: they held . The first rank took the charge, died, and the second rank stepped over their still-warm bodies without a squeak. They were not warriors. They were data being processed through a meat grinder.
“Was it worth it?” the dwarf asked.
Not exploded. Sighed . As if the mortar had decided to stop holding. Bardin threw a bomb
Then the walls sighed.
The Repack was not a crate of pilfered gunpowder or a mislabeled supply wagon. In the vermin-tongue of the Skaven, Repack meant Second Breaking . It was the final, desperate gambit of the Warlord Gnawdwell, who had watched his hordes splinter against the walls of Helmgart like black foam on granite. His first breaking had failed. Now came the repack.
“They’re not charging,” the Witch Hunter hissed, candlelight flickering across the scar where his eye should have been. “They’re counting.” The first rank took the charge, died, and
Kerillian, her soul-sight bleeding jade, pressed a hand to the stone. “Not counting, zealot. Collating . The warpsmiths have abandoned their war machines. They’re… repacking the horde. Compressing it.”
Through the breach came not a screaming wave, but a single file. Stormvermin in lockstep, shields interlocking like a brass puzzle. Behind them, Ratling Gunners walked in a synchronized box formation, barrels sweeping in mathematical arcs. No friendly fire. No hesitation. They moved like a single, cancerous organism.
The Ubersreik Five—or four, depending on the day—did not care about repacks.