From a Dead World (Skaven Quest)

[Chimeraguard]

OOC: First Omake because I was bored.

At the dawn of the End Times, the vast hordes of the Skaven Under-Empire were unleashed upon the Dark Lands, and for the second time in history, fully united under one purpose. Beings across the world were almost certainly joyful at seeing two of the greatest forces of destruction fight each other. Had they the ability to clearly see the future, they instead would have cursed their luck. True, the two forces would clash and unleash destruction upon each other, but through those horrid battles were the Skaven inspired to greater heights.

Certainly, the powerful Dreadquake Mortars that shattered walls like they were mere sand, Magma Cannons that melted even the toughest force of Warbeasts, and roaring Iron Daemons that stampeded across the land on steam engines and transporting ordnance with unheard of speed were worthy of inspiring both awe, and imitation. Of course Clan Moulder was inspired by the speed and strength of the mutated Bull Centaurs, the rage and flight of the Great Tauri and the magical abilities of the Lammasu. But one of the discoveries the rest of the world would learn to curse the most was that of the K'Daai.

To understand this, one must first understand the origins of the K'Daai. They were born from the desire of the Chaos Dwarves to subjugate, to conquer, to dominate all. They were creatures forged to be one half the stuff of the Warp, and one half raging fire and hatred, contained in a metallic shell, shrouded in the magics of the Dawi Zhar sorcerers. They are the ultimate expression of Hashut: creatures dedicated to hatred, tyranny, and greed; all buried within an inferno of hate.

It is little wonder then, that the Skaven were so enthralled. These were principles they knew very well. The urge to conquer all, the hunger to engulf everything in their path, and a deep-seated loathing, an all-burning contempt for anything that stood in their path. Both they and the Chaos Dwarves had pushed the limits of technology and sorcery, paying with great costs to their bodies, scorning all others as beneath them, suspicious of even their own kin, greedily coveting anything they could gather, dedicated to their black-hearted god, and determined to stamp out any and all resistance that would dare oppose their survival and supremacy. In these, the Skaven and the Chaos Dwarves were far more alike than either would care to admit.

And as the strongholds of the fallen Dwarves crumbled one by one, as the power of the Dark God Hashut waned as his followers died, the Skaven longed for the ability to unleash the Daemonic Engines that were the K'Daai. As studies were made for the process in which the weakened God would be fed to the Horned Rat, so to were the arts of hatred, of the Lore of Hashut, and the summoning and binding rituals brought to serve the Skaven. Soon enough, the magics of the Chaos Dwarf Sorcerers, and the monstrous K'Daai, would be unleashed upon the world, under a new master.

 

[EVA-Saiyajin]

Light up the Dark:

Though not realized for many moons, if ever, the first sign of the Vermintide came not in endless waves of chittering giant vermin, but vast hordes of bellowing greenskin barbarians.

The scouts sent by Dawi and Dawi Zhar into the most unsettled parts of the Dark Lands reported great ripples in the scattered greenskin communities, as tribes began moving out with increasing eagerness, new Warbosses rose in dozens of occasions, and great migrations began to take place sweeping both easy and west. Both sides took this as a sign to prepare their defenses, and the latter in particular made plans to cut off the head of the snake that looked to be a burgeoning Waaagh!! of a size not seen in centuries.

Even as the orcs and goblins began to gather in increasingly larger warbands, swelling into great tidal waves of emerald fury marching across the wastes, Hobgoblin outriders were ordered to begin increase the thrust of their raids in an effort to cull the gathering barbarians. Then contact was lost for a number of months. The only sign of the results of their efforts was the sudden appearance of gigantic greenskin hosts with all manner of orkoid and goblinoid variants and a vast menagerie of slobbering, snarling beasts in the very doorsteps of the outermost Dawi Zhar outposts and fortresses.

Even as smoke billowed into the sky and gouts of fire became ever more common as the fallen mountain folk produced greater and greater quantities of ingeniously demented weapons, the frontier posts began to fall silent, the fire signals and lava glass teams eventually simply ceasing to report the situation.

Some instinct drove the Sorcerer Lords to push for ever great numbers of arms and automatons, sacrificing more and more slaves for the summoning of greater spirits of fire, ash and shadow, and binding them to ever more deadly machines of war. Terrible rituals were enacted, thousands fed to the fires, and the ash and smoke that filled the air of Zhar Naggrund coalesced further, greater, thicker, until the sky for miles on end was enveloped by great ash clouds that chattered and shrieked and roared, demented visages forming to glare across the horizon. The air began shifting, distorting at the unnatural energies in the air, and the only light was the faint glimpse of the sun's rays in the far distance and the piercing flames and embers littering the land and emanating from the ashen clouds.

Then the earthquakes began, carrying the sound of countless stomping feet.

A green glow began to rise from the horizon.

The Waaagh had come to the Plains of Zharr.
---

This is the first part, basically.

 

[Chimeraguard]

Oh, by the way, Omake I've had for a while.

Shadowrunners:
The ways assassinations must and should be carried out are varied, and few know this better than Clan Eshin. Sometimes there is the elegant art of poisoning, where the killer can be miles away, walking and whistling a tune as his target chokes and dies on a morsel of food. Sometimes it is daggers in the dark, where an army resting for the night will wake up and find their general slain by some unseen killer with a blade. Sometimes the best tool for the job is explosives, to wreck havoc and panic as the foe attempts to understand what has befallen them under a rain of green fire, a clever murderer moving through the shadows between the chaos.

And sometimes you just look at that heavily armored target, and its heavily armed and alert bodyguard in the middle of a battlefield, and say "I don't care about subtlety, I just him very, very dead and to hell with everything else."

It was with this mindset that the idea of the Shadowrunner was born. Clan Eshin, in its time, had encountered on many occasions the problem of the target being too heavily protected for a stealthy approach to be viable, or too resilient himself to be put down through regular means. And of course in a ferocious battlefield a general usually very well defended.

To deal with these problems, which were sure to become increasingly common as the End Times came, the Under-Empire began work on a new type of assassin, inspired by the cybernetic reconstruction of the Eshin Executioner Veskit and with the cooperation of Clan Skyre. The new Shadowrunners had bodies that were almost entirely cybernetic, what few organic sections they did have were pumped full of stimulants to further increase aggression, while mechanical limbs held a variety of lethal melee weaponry. This was not a weapon of subtlety nor finesse. Shadow runners were designed with one purpose in mind: to be pointed at their target in the middle of a battlefield, then set loose in a scream or raging electricity and whirling metal blades, slicing through anything unfortunate enough to be in its way.

Candidates for this process vary, from volunteers who lack much of a future in Clan Eshin unaugmented, "volunteers" who have failed in their missions yet came back alive, and any number of various crippled Skaven from across the Under-Empire who might be useful in this procedure.

Regardless, as the End Times came into being, the Shadowrunners would become increasingly common amongst the forces of the Under-Empire.

OOC: I thought of the Shadowrunner as a sort of berserker-style unit, pointed at the target then set loose to slaughter stuff at close range and being completely fearless. Kinda like a mass-produced, poor-man's Eversor. Aside from being used against enemy leadership on the battlefield, I also thought they'd be pretty useful for killing enemy Monstrous Creatures.

 

[EVA-Saiyajin]

Inspired by Chimeraguard

Old Friends:

Why did his eyes keep returning to such a minor, simple, unimportant piece of information?

Such was the foremost thought on Thanquol's mind as he pondered the data set before him, by which he would craft the next step in fulfilling the destiny of his race-and of himself.

At least that's what he intended to do.

'The Horned Rat damn them, the man-things cause me irritation even with none in sight-view and at the peak of my success-victory.'

With a mental sigh, he put everything else aside and focused on the information coming out of Estalia, bringing up an old, withered text that contained much of its history, as far as the Skaven knew and recorded. He idly noted it was getting easier and easier to focus since he-rightfully and as he always expected-became the single most important mortal figure in Skavenkind. To strike him was per the very, very clear gesture of the Horned Rat itself, a strike against their god. Much easier to relax under such an aegis, even if his prowess and ability meant he had little to fear beforehand.

Flipping through it idly, glancing now and again at the map and Estalia's place in it, his thoughts wandered.

A single woman alone on a ship. Unusual, certainly, but still just one woman.

It was rather unusual that she was able to disappear so utterly from the eyes of his spies, especially in territory so thoroughly controlled beneath the surface by his people. But than, it was also just one person. A human of no apparent importance, alone? If they tried to keep track of every random human they'd never get anything done. He should know, he'd learned well that focusing on the greater scheme often availed more than focusing on the individuals themselves. Just look at his many encounters with the red-furred dwarf and his pet human, his subordinates' unerring inability to look beyond them and not become fixated upon them had caused many a minor hassle.

Idly he noted the pass through the mountains separating the surface of Estalia from Tilea. His eyes wandered up to Skavenblight's location further north.

Plus, in his experience and as history itself noted, females were not noted for their importance in the pasts and histories of the man-things.

Actually, thinking about it, from the surface to travel from Skavenblight to Estalia by land, that pass-Tramoto Pass, the man-things titled it-would definitely be key to a shortest march.

Which was ironic, considering the number of lesser deities they had based on women. His extensive worldly experience, peerless capacity for recollection, and many a delve into lore even tangentially related to the Horned Rat gave him more understanding, or at least knowledge, than most-no, probably all-Skaven on the subject.

Actually, it was also the fastest land route on such a path to Magritta, which stood out for it's importance to the Estalian man-things and the Skaven who possessed a major settlement beneath it.

Shallya, Verena, the Lady (and really, lesser beings and lesser gods or not, who named anyone, much less a deity, of such great importance after such unspecific words?), Rhya, Arianka, Myrm-

His thoughts ground to a halt.

He looked again at the map.

His hands blurred, flipping through the pages of the text.

It wasn't enough, too broad.

The next several minutes saw him scouring the archives, both personal (and not just to him) and otherwise. His eyes darted over pages and parchment, skin-paper and etchings.

Magritta's exact period of foundation was vague, but it was strongly believed based on Skaven and copied human records to have been very close to the founding of Skavenblight itself.

His thoughts raced. There was something here. Something very important.

Skavenblight and Magritta...Magritta was believed to have been founded by the patron goddess of War (among other things, but that was most important), Myrmidia. But...

Pages flipped, scrolls were considered and set aside when useless, kept on the table or next to his chair when otherwise.

She came to Estalia after a long journey, from the east.

Paws ran down lines of text, scholarly instincts lightening the gestures to a near-caress, such was the record's age.

She brought with her a long line of followers, refugees from-

Tylos

Tilea, crossing through the Abasko Mountains by way of the Tramamo Pass. She was said to have had portents of great suffering and destruction, and left a man-thing city near the height of its construction.

Ancient tales and myths he is near-intimately familiar with come to mind.

A being in the guise of a humble soul came to the man-things. Mysterious and cowled, he offered assistance in the raising of a tower that might pay homage to the gods.

He is only reward he requested as the addition of his own personal deity to ranks of those worshiped by the ascending spire.

Such a tiny price to pay, near meaningless even.

One woman of great importance and status was suspicious. Suspicion that seemed to grow as she announced portents of doom.

Yet her fellows saw such as foolish and mere paranoia, brought on by anxiety from the approaching completion of their century long goal.

The woman fled. She was forgotten.

A whiskered smile lit the darkness.

He snarled. He couldn't remember nor find anything else of the tale. Much of that period was more myth than anything to the Skaven.

Like a bolt of lightning out of a clear blue sky the idea struck him, no errant consideration or thought process leading him to it.

He darted to the shelves, running his eyes and hands over the contents.

The Doom of Kavzar The Curse of Thirteen

Spoiler: ??????????????????????

"Once upon a time, long long ago, Men and Dwarfs lived together beneath the roof of one great city. Some said it was the oldest and greatest city in the world and had existed before the time of the longbeards and manlings, build by older and wiser hands in the dawn of the world. The city lay both above and below the earth, in keeping with the nature of the populace that dwelt there. The Dwarfs ruled in their great halls of stone below ground and wrestled the fruits of the rock free with their day-long toil, while the manlings reaped the fields of swaying corn that surrounded the city with a patchwork blanket of gold. The sun smiled, men laughed, and everyone was happy.

One day the men of the city decided that they should give praise to their gods for their good fortunes. They planned a temple such as the world had never seen before. In the central square a colossal hall would be built and topped with a single, cloud-piercing tower. A tower so tall it would touch the very heart of the heavens. After much planning, and with the help of the longbeards, they set about their monumental task.

Weeks became months and months became years and still the manlings built. Men grew old and grey working on that great temple, their sons continuing their work through summer sun and winter rain. At last, after many generations, work began on the great spire itself. Years passed and the tower reached such a height that the manlings found it ever more difficult to take the stone up to the top.

Eventually the work slowed to a crawl and finishing the tower seemed impossible. Then one came among the men of the city who offered his help in their great scheme. He asked a single boon of them in return and claimed that if they would grant him this, he would complete the tower in a single night. The manlings said to themselves. "What have we to lose?" and offered to make a bargain with the grey-clad stranger. All he wished was to add his own dedication to the gods onto the temple structure. The manlings agreed and the bargain was struck. At dusk the stranger entered the unfinished temple and bade the manlings to return at midnight. Clouds swept over the moons, cloaking the temple in darkness as the manlings left.

All over the city, men watched and waited as the hours slipped past until, near midnight, by ones and twos, they gathered again in the temple square. The wind blew and the clouds parted as they gazed up at the temple. It rose like an unbroken lance against the sky, pure and white. At its very peak a great horned bell hung gleaming coldly in the moonlight. The stranger's dedication to the gods was there but of the stranger himself, there was no sign.

The manlings rejoiced that their fathers 'fathers' work was done. They surged forward to enter the temple. Then, at the stroke of midnight, the great bell began to toll, once.... twice.... thrice. Slow, heavy waves of sound rolled across the city. Four... five... six times the bell rang, like the torpid pulse of a bronze giant. Seven... eight... nine, the rolling of the bell grew louder with each ring, and the manlings staggered back from the temple steps clutching their ears. Ten... eleven... twelve... thirteen. At the thirteenth stroke, lightning split the skies and thunder echoes through the night.

High above, the dark circle of Morrslieb was lit by a bright flash and all fell ominously silent. The manlings fled to their beds, frightened and puzzled by the portents they had seen. Next morning they arose to find that the darkness had come to their city. Brooding storm clouds reared above the rooftops and such rain fell as had never been seen before. Black, like ash, the rain fell and puddled in the streets, slicking the cobbles with darkly iridescent colours.
At first some of the manlings didn't worry, they waited for the rain to stop so that they might resume their work. But the rain did not stop, the winds blew stronger and lightning shook the high tower. Days stretched into weeks and still the rain did not stop. Each night the bell tolled thirteen times and each morning the darkness lay across the city. The manlings became fearful and prayed to their gods. Still the rains did not stop and the black clouds hung like a shroud over the fields of flattened corn. The Manlings went to the Dwarfs and beseeched their help. The longbeards were unconcerned -- what matter a little rain on the surface? In the bosom of the earth all was warm and dry.

Now the manlings huddled in their dwelling, fear gnawing at their hearts. They sent some of their number to faraway places to seek help but none of them returned. Some went to the temple to pray and sacrifice their dwindling food to the gods but they found the temple door closed to them. The rain grew heavier. Dark hailstones fell from the sky and crushed the sodden crops. The great bell tolled a death knell over the terrified city.
Soon great stones cleft the heavens, rushing down like dark meteors to smash the homes of the manlings. Many sickened and died from no apparent cause, and the newborn babies of the manlings were hideously twisted. Skulking vermin devoured what little stored corn there was left and the manlings began to starve.

The manling elders went to see the Dwarfs again and this time demanded their help. They wanted to bring their folk below ground to safety, they wanted food. The longbeards grew angry, and told the manlings that the lower workings were flooded and their food had also been devoured by rats. There remained barely enough food and shelter for them and their kinsmen. They cast the manlings out of their halls and closed their doors once more.
In the ruins of the city above, each day become more deadly then the last. The manlings despaired and called for succor from the dark gods, whispered the names of forgotten Daemon Princes in the hope of salvation. But none came -- instead the vermin returned, bigger and bolder then ever.

Their slinking, furred shapes infested the broken city, feasting on the fallen and pulling down the weak. Each midnight the bell tolled thirteen times on high, seeming now brazen and triumphant. The manlings lived as hunted creatures in their own city as great rat packs roamed the streets in search of them.

At last the desperate manlings took up such weapons as they had and beat upon the Dwarfs door, threatening that if they did not emerge they would drag them out by their beards. No reply came from within. The manlings took up beams and battered down the doors to reveal the tunnels below, dark and empty. Steeling themselves, the pitiful remnants of the cities once proud populace descended. In the ancient hall of kingship they found the Dwarfs, now naught but gnawed bones and scrapes of cloth.

And there they saw by the dying light of their torches the myriad eyes about them, glittering like liquid midnight as the rats closed in for the kill. The manlings stood back to back and fought for their lives, but against such implacable ferocity and countless numbers of the verminous horde, their weapons were useless. The tide of monstrous rats flowed over them one by one, dragging them down to be torn apart, the yellow chisel-teeth sinking into their soft-flesh, the dark tufted mass drowning their pitiful screams with their hideous chittering.....

He sat there, completely motionless for the first time since he became aware of his ascension.

"The only one to truly remember." he muttered, eyes alight.

The same orbs narrowed.

Almost absentmindedly, he reached out to pick up a discarded purely Estalian document.

He glanced down silently.

Spoiler: Unification

During the 5th century, a miracle occurred which would once again unite Estalia and make it strong once more. For reasons still hotly debated by her modern cult, Myrmidia then returned to the descendants of Tylos; however, she came not as a God, but as a mortal. At this point, she was, like her sister Shallya, a pacifist.

When still a girl, her parents died, so Myrmidia went to live with her aunt and uncle, who were farmers, and very poor. They hated the girl, and took any opportunity to spite her, forcing her to work from dawn to dusk. Eventually, when she came of age, they gifted her to a local lord, hoping he would be Fateful, and ease their taxes. The lord was not a kind master, and the mortal Goddess was subjected to many indignities.

Eventually, unwilling to accept the injustice any longer, Myrmidia, enraged, rose up and took a ceremonial spear from the lord's collection, thrusting it into his abdomen. Myrmidia was changed forever. And from that day forward, she never walked again without a spear, a weapon that came to symbolize her future struggles.

Over the years, and many battles, she gathered great heroes to her side and within a decade had bound all Estalia and Tilea under her rule, staving off all manner of invasions and rebellions. But, just as Myrmidia was to be crowned queen, she was shot by a poisoned dart from an unknown assailant. She was so strong that the poison could not kill her though, and as she lay dying, she ordered a great ship be built, and, it is said, sailed west upon it, there to return to her home amongst the Gods, known now, and forever after, as a Goddess of

The last two lines clung to his mind.

His spine straightened, teeth bared in equal parts malice and glee.

An emerald shimmer breezed through the windowless room, far below the earth.

"Myrmidia."

 

[Chimeraguard]

Awesome omake Eva.

Here's my own omake by my own talk about the Verminlords.

Verminfiends

The first of the Horned Rat's Daemons to appear on the mortal plane were, to the misfortune of many Grey Seers who attempted the summonings, the enigmatic and proud Verminlords. Simultaneously majestic yet disgusting, powerful and cunning, with a mind filled with a series of plots, they, more than anything else, were the grand manifestation of the Skaven Underempire: awe-inspiring in power, yet horrific in its form, supremely confident in their inevitable ascension.

Nevertheless, these same traits made their summoning dangerous. So, as the End Times progressed, it was no surprise that the Grey Seers began the "search" for the Lesser Daemons of the Horned Rat. And eventually, to the dismay of the rest of the world, they found them.

They were emaciated things, as tall as an Orc Big 'Un, yet skinny to the bone, in the shape of an abnormally large, elongated Skaven. Their furred skin was threadbare, and matted with scars, pustules, and sores. Their limbs clutched rusted, serrated, faded-green blades that looked like they had been misused and abused for centuries. At a first glance, they seemed miserable, pathetic, and many dismissed as odd-looking, but hardly a threat. They were fools to do so.

In battle, it was a very different story. Their eyes went alert, their postures sharp and coordinated, their red and green eyes would pour over the lines of their foes with acuteness. In a burst of frantic speed they dash towards their targets, all pretense of weakness gone as they pinpoint the slightest weak point and pounce on it mercilessly in a storm of chittering shrieks, crawling under shield walls, lanky arms grabbing foes with unnatural strength, blades melting armor like acid, and warpstone-encrusted teeth biting into flesh. Larger creatures are beset as if by a pack of hunters, stabbing, dashing, cutting, biting.

If they are not the manifestation of the power of the Under-Empire, perhaps they are something more basic. They are the at the core of every Skaven, of the vast teeming hordes. Weak appearing, pathetic, starving, unnatural, looked down upon by their betters and individually unimpressive, and yet together possibly the greatest threat one could have the misfortune of encountering. They are savage, they are intelligent, they are relentless.

They are the Verminfiends.


OOC: As the Skaven Lesser Daemon, I wanted the Verminfiends to be call backs to what the average Skaven are at the core. The average Skaven is a starving, abused, cowardly Clanrat looked down upon as meaningless by both his superiors, and his enemies. But together, in groups, in battle, they are the relentless Vermintide, swarming around enemies, finding weak points, and plunging into them with savage fervor hidden beneath that wretched body. For all the Skaven are constantly backstabbing, one of the big things about Clanrats is the courage and ferocity they gain from being with others of their kind, even if that courage is based in their own selfishness of having others to serve as meatshields.

I'm thinking that the Verminfiends would be individually weaker than other Lesser Daemons, but they'd be better at co-ordinating in groups/packs and are more numerous. Not because they share any real brotherhood or camaraderie, but because they know that's the way to best overcome and kill their prey.

 

[Spectrum]

This is like double heresy but is so silly I couldn't resist...

Deep Cover Infiltrators​

Yesssss, quickly-quickly. Ugh, new rat, don't screw this up! Here is man-thing letter copy, leave quickly. Oh, get over your surprise-shock, this one is also warren-rat on important assignment.

You doubt? Hssssst...quick-talk then. Long ago great Warpfang Bank saw stunted runts in litters and thought great, missed opportunity. Smart as any other rat, but doomed with no strength to compete. Still, smaller size could be advantage, commissioned Clan Moulder for project. Offered them many runts to experiment on, find way to make useful. Great think-thinkers tried many paths with Warpfang backing...

This one was thought worst-worst idea. Runts turned back closer to normal rat-things, normal strength for size, better access to small areas...but no hands-hands to grasp with, no ability to stand. The worst! What use-use would we have? But smart-clever Warpfang Bank found new customer.

Stupid-stupid man-thing females with wealth called new breed cute-cute. No idea what we were. Desired us, took us in to their house-homes! New rat spends day massaged and scratched by man-things hands, fed scraps from tables...and listens to all man-things say and do. Hard-hard assignment, much danger! Yes, believe this one.

 

[Chimeraguard]

Respect

When nations and rulers, or the emissaries speak to one another, one of the unsaid rules is that there must always be some form of respect, or at least the illusion of respect, between them. It shows that both consider the other actually worth the time to talk to, as something of an equal or rival, and as such diplomacy is something that can benefit both sides. If one side does not properly respect the other, then negotiations are likely to go nowhere as both parties are offended by the other's actions, and suspicion and hostility is soon to follow.

The Skaven knew all about giving the illusion of respect. It was a part of daily life. Every day, Skaven made sure to grovel massively before those of a higher station than them, even as they plotted within their minds to usurp their positions. Such was the case with Greassus Goldtooth and the Ogre Kingdoms. It mattered not if Greassus was worthy of the respect of having his people called a true nation, of being respected enough for Skaven emissaries to treat him as something resembling an equal to the Skaven leadership. What mattered was that they pretended that he did regardless of facts, otherwise the Overtyrant's pride would be offended, and all of the plans involving the Ogres would likewise have no purpose.

It was with this in mind that the Skaven emissaries moved into Ogre territory, heavily armed and with a procession of rare delicacies and luxeries. On paper, this was the same thing done when they had simply been hiring mercenaries. However, these were not payment for services, but personal gifts to Greassus, Overtyrant of the Ogre Kingdoms with official intention of purchasing anything. The Skaven now ruled the Dark Lands. In surface terms, this made them and the Ogres neighboring nations, in a world where "neighbor" was a synonym of "potential enemy." So they came with gifts, from the Underlord of the Skaven to the Overtyrant of the Ogres, gifts that showed respect to the Overtyrant as a fellow ruler of a powerful nation worthy of being acknowledge, and with them the unspoken hope that their new neighbor would be appeased by them enough, not to assault their new land on a whim, as he no doubt held the power to do so.

Just as the Skaven moved to give the Ogres the illusion of respecting them as equals to themselves, so did the work in the Dark Lands move to ensure the Ogres respected the Skaven. Vast build-ups of infrastructure, from mines to forges to settlements and training grounds showed that the Under-Empire, now finally becoming visible on the surface, was a force to be reckoned with. Processions of troop columns, war beasts, and war machines showed they were powerful, adding onto the fact that they had already conquered the dreaded Dawi Zharr, a feat many would have considered impossible just a year before. Add to this the envoys' heavy guard of well-trained and equipped Stormvermin, outfitted with the finest and most impressive equipment of the Under-Empire, and it was clear the Skaven, just like the Ogres, were worthy of respect.

Now, negotiations for the interests of nations could begin in earnest. Both groups had shown the other worthy of at least the pretense of respect. Now came Cathay. Grand Cathay, possibly the greatest and most impressive of the human empires. Their star was rising, and unlikely to look upon either group with kindness. The Cathayans had already started a campaign of removing Skaven influence and corruption from their bureaucracy, and no ruler would enjoy the idea of an entire nation of Ratmen just under their feet. And while the merchants used the Silk Road that went through the Mountains of Mourne, and caravans did indeed pay the tolls enacted by the Ogres, they did not respect the Ogre Kingdoms as a nation, but as a group of troublesome barbarians. Perhaps a renewed Cathay would look to the West, and both their growing empires, and see a threat to be removed now. But perhaps a Cathay invaded could be prevented from ever rising to such an extent.

Did Greassus expect the Ratmen had some ulterior motive? Of course, just as the Ratmen had concerns about his own. But now the two groups had some measure of respect, and both believed, understanding of the others' motives, and concerns. With Cathay, there was no such understanding, and thus a much bigger threat. So long as such a state of affairs existed, the Skaven would achieve their aims. The Ratmen and Ogres would battle. They would raid. They would attack. They would expand their empires ruthlessly to attain the power they sought.

But not each other. Not yet.

 

[King Arthur]

The Rat that Walks like a Man!:

Skaven are a deceitul, hateful folk filled with paranoia, convinced of their own superiority and the incompetence and jealousy of everyone around them. The type that would murder their own brother for a piece of bread. Yet, despite this, there is a society there, it's not just never ending chaos and violence, and so we know that they, to some small degree, must be able to temper their murderous tendencies. They can grit their teeth and force themself to stay their hand, to not strike the rat that so vexes them and even, occasionally, if the planets are positioned just right and the Great Horned One gets involved work togther hand in hand despite their hatred of each other.

Except, just because they stay their hand does not mean their anger is gone, it is ever present, and it still needs a way to be expressed, to be fullfilled. Thus enters the word "competition." Usually it means some ... under the table work, best left outside of the eye of their horrid society, proof of a misdeed just gives the opposition an excuse to strike back after all. In these days however even such a minor transgression as that is avoided a tad bit more then usual, and so it leaves just outperforming your foe in their own field. Showing them that even in their own territory, at the thing they specialize in, their still inferior in every way.

Enter Horripila! Enter the form of the Skaven, rising from below to devour all that stands above ground, and the form of a Man the false rulers of the surface world! Has anyone elses feeble mind's even considered the potential there, to pervert the two? To twist a rat into the shape of a man, to gift the man with the soul of a rat? I thought not! Truly, the genius of Clan Horripila knows no bounds.

In truth this is a project they've been working on for awhile. The chance to show up both Eshin and Moulder at once does not come along every day after all. For what is a better tool to spy on the humans, a Skaven that will be attacked on sight or yet another human to not be noticed as anything strange? As for Moulder, well, they build monsters, biological engines of destruction .... and yet, was there not many a man that slaid a dragon with naught but a simple sword? Men so skilled that they could cut down a dozen Ogres without being scratched? If they could reliably make a Skaven look like a man, with the skills of a hero of a legend, well that would be something wouldn't it?

At first they toyed with the obvious, remove human brain and replace with Skaven. That did not go very well, sucess was, well, let's say minimal. Even when the patient survived the surgery the body and the brain would quickly reject each other. This is still tinkered with everyonce in awhile, some progress is made but it looks near impossible even to the best of the clan. They quickly moved on to their current method, altering the skaven. Surgery to alter their body and vocal chords to mimic that of the man-things.

Honestly, success came fairly quick. Ugly, horrible, disgusting success, but success nonetheless. The first batch looked to be mutants. They were sent to Norsca. Most of them have not fared well, either being shuned by society and driven away or killed outright, too cowardly and twitchy and, surprisingly enough, untrustworthy by even their standards as well as too weak and unskilleld to be of use, unusued to their altered bodies. They considered going further with this to try and make Beastmen spies, but quickly figured that no one gives a shit about Beastmen and it's best to ignore them for now. The second batch fared better, with more experience their skills at altering the skaven form have improved. Instead of making mutants they made really, really ugly and old people, all hunched over with pale and and wrinkly skin. There are a couple dozen of these sprinkled around human society. Not very useful spies, their just too strange to truly fit in, but they go unquestioned for the most and have a decent idea of what is generally happening in the area, the absolute basics.

Of course they improved upon that, more and more, always pushing their limits, always striving further, always reaching always grasping, climbing to higher and higher heights, uncaring as the wax of their wings melt and fall further then every before, screaming in terror as they crash and burn like a metoer of that warpstone they crave so much.

They've had breathroughs, their recent attempts even look like real people, and not just ugly old people. Like, people who could actually be important, some of them even average looking, tall, muscular, a few are even handsome. It takes insane amounts of work but they the appearance of a man is within their grasp. Yet it's still not enough, Only the appearance have they mastered, just the shell, these hybrids can barely handle their new bodies and their behaviour is just off, their cowards and paranoid and even with extensive training sometimes further speaking patterns just slip.

So, once again the Skaven pushed harder. They kidnaped hundreds of humans, thousands from all across the world. Studying them, they way they move and speak, the way they interact, the way they fight, dissecting them both through study and by vivisection. Every inch of their body must be mastered! Exact knowledge of what every muscle does and how it works and how humans use them. What part of the brain does what, when and why? How does fear work anyway? Courage? What is this thing they cal lurve ... love? Compassion, what fools these humans be, this explains why they are so pathetic in comparison to the grand Skaven form in all it's perfection and glory.

This, this was it, perfection. The perfect Skaven to Human surgery. So much work, probably not worth the effort and resources to even make one, but it was done, they had their spies. Skaven moulded into the human form, their bodies and their brains, their instincts and emotions reworked to that of a man's, perfect to be slotted into any human army or gang or buisness or political scene when backed by the resources of the Skaven Empire.

The vast majority of the clan was overjoyed and proud of their work, and yet a few saw the flaws, saw the potential for more. After all, what use is there in these replicas, there are millions of humans most of them worthless. How much can another human underling bring to the Skaven, would it even make up for the cost?

So they stole a handful of the best unattached human fighters in the realms and had them fight, studied their bodies. They stole the corpses of the greatest's human hero's in history, Grail Knights, Paladins of the Empire, Duelists of Estalia and Tilea, the martial artists of Nippon and Cathay. They looked at the most used neural pathways, the way these muscles differed from that of the average man, and with this they surpassed perfection. They gained the ability to make a hero, and they did.

Every millimeter of him reworked. Six feet tall, handsome, muscular. Blond hair and blue eyes. A voice strong and deep and beautiful. Altered to feel no fear, to be brave, to not feel the urge to betray everyone he meets. Born with the strength, the skills, and the instinct that can rival that of Ludwig Schwarshelm or Kurt Helborg but with none of the experience. Given training by the few still living human fighters captured by the clan, taught what to say, what to not say, what to do and not do both in fighting and in society, he was thrust out into the Old World with a single mission, become a legend. Fight the foes of man and rise in prominence, have the filthy man-things worship you like the fools they are, gain a following, and finally, when the time is right, when we demand it, turn against them. You shall not be alone of course, if you need help it will be granted, assasinate political enemies, sabotage some enemies, hell, even set up some enemies for you to kill and look good doing so.

So, out he walks, straining at first to see, unusued to the ball of fire known as the sun above his head, but he adapts. The food, it's so much better then the usual black corn, and the water isn't pure and can be seen through. The air is fresh, it's free up here not surrounded by walls not trapped by ceilings. He comes across a town, trouble. Beastmen strike and pillage, he steps forward, sword in hand standing there magnificent. The sun gleams upon his armour resplendent, the perfect picture of a knight. With but a blink his sword goes through the eye of a Doombull, piercing the brain. He kicks a rock and it flies into a bray-shaman's head, dazing it, stunning it as he moves forward and cut's it to pieces like a beam of light through the dark. A whirlwind of violence follows and soon he stands unopposed. The village thanks him, loves him, praises him, adores him. He gives them his name, his new name, Icarus, they sing his praises to the heavens, and he is amazed. For the first time he feels ... joy? Happiness? Affection? What is this, what is this strange world? What has been done to him? What is this emotion trying to burst from his chest, why are there tears in his eyes?

What makes a man a man or a rat a rat? Is a rat with the body and mind of a man still a rat or is he a man? Does the past dominate the future or can it be escaped or fought off? What of the soul, can it adapt and mimic it's current form and experience or is it stale and umoving, and does that matter?

Rise Icarus, now is your hour! Rise Icarus, the glory of the Skaven Empire and of the Human Race, rise and choose! Are you a rat that walks like a man, here to doom the human race, or are you a man that was once a rat, here to save them, the only one who understands the threat that's coming, that knows everything and how to stop it? Or, perhaps, will you fail and die a nobody, is all this worthless?

The Bell, the Great Horned Bell of Ancient Kazvar, that bell of man and dwarf and rat it rings and it rings for you! It rings so loudly, why can no one hear that bell and what does it mean? Is it the rise of the Skaven as it was before or does it now signal the fall?

Rise Icarus, the world is waiting upon your answer! Choose and burn like the sun in the sky, but if you fail you will fall and become like ashes.

 

[King Arthur]

This is terrible, but I really hope this becomes canon and Federat becomes either a hero or at least a potential hero.

Super Shameless Rip off Omake that I'm not really trying with time.

With Rat-like Tread

Federat was a Skaven from a rather minor clan, small time, and, like any Skaven who feels they like they are meant for greater things, like every Skaven really, he decided to find a way to flip the script. So, when the Navy started recruiting, when Vrisk's call to arm was sounded and you could see that the man was finally starting to get ships like he asked for, well, Federat knew his opportunity had come and had raced off to join up.

Competition would be much less stiff in the Navy then the USA after all, and here he could get right in at the ground floor.

Upon this fine night the undefeated Skaven Navy had a most serious mission, to steal from Estalia their ships in a rather grand act of piracy at land. Federat and a small group of his men were to be a distraction in another part of the city. At first rather typical Skaven thoughts ran through his head of destruction and assault, but alas, no, Federat was no ordinary Skaven, Federat was a Theater Rat, his clan had tunnels hid below many of the more famous theaters, he had always loved the places, and a singular moment from a rather famous play had snuck it's way into his mind.

Federat and the rest of his rather like-minded crew had stealthily made their way upon the premesis of a rather careless, but important, government official, crouching and moving most furtively all the while when, upon his command, a few Skaven hidden in the trees and bushes began to loudly play some music, a familiar score, as the Skaven without instruments began singing both very loudly and very well.

" With rat-like tread, Upon our prey we steal;
In silence dread, Our cautious way we feel.
No sound at all! We never speak a word;
A fly's foot-fall would be distinctly heard--"

The government official, hearing what was happened, alerted the guards and called in for as many of the troops and guards in the city as he could. The guards, not quite able to make the perpertrators out for Skaven in the dark and in their large and obscuring pirate gear, wanting to wait for back up, and just genuinely enjoying the scene of musical genious recognized the exciting sound of trumpets and drums for what they were and began to whisper.

"Tarantara, tarantara!"

The Skaven, in reply.

"So stealthily the pirate creeps,
While all the household soundly sleeps."

The thieves volume ratcheted up a volume for the next stanza.

"Come, friends, (Ra, ra, ra, ra)
who plough the sea, (Ra, ra, ra, ra)
Truce to navigation; (Ra, ra, ra, ra)
Take another station; (Ra, ra, ra, ra)
Let's vary piracee (Ra, ra, ra, ra)
With a little burglaree!
(Ra, ra, ra, ra)
Come, friends, who plough
the sea, (Ra, ra, ra, ra)
Truce to navigation; (Ra, ra, ra, ra)
Take another station; (Ra, ra, ra, ra)
Let's vary piracee (Ra, ra, ra, ra)
With a little burglaree!
(Ra, ra, ra, ra)"

In the middle of the clearing the Skaven sddenly stopped, both in action and in singing, and the leader of the group, Federat, let out a loud

"SHHHHH."

with a gentle

"Quiet"

echoing in from on of his companions before Federat began singing once again by himself while passing out equipment in a loud and clumsy manner.

"Here's your crowbar
and your centrebit,
Your life-preserver –
you may want to hit!
Your silent matches,
your dark lantern seize,
Take your file
and your skeletonic keys."

A little back verbal back and forth between the guards and the thieves ensued.

"Tarantara."

"With rat-like tread"

"Tarantara."

A really impressive dance manuever broke out among the thieves as their song hit it's penultimate moment.

"In silence dread,
With rat-like tread,
Upon our prey we steal;
In silence dread,
Our cautious way we feel.
No sound at all,
We never speak a word,
A fly's foot-fall
Would be distinctly heard –
Come, friends, (Ra, ra, ra, ra)
who plough the sea, (Ra, ra, ra, ra)
Truce to navigation; (Ra, ra, ra, ra)
Take another station; (Ra, ra, ra, ra)
Let's vary piracee (Ra, ra, ra, ra)
With a little burglaree!
(Ra, ra, ra, ra)
With rat like tread
Upon our prey we steal!
In silence dread
Our cautious way
We feel!"

As the song ended Federat looked around and whispered to his companions.

"Hush hush, not a word, I hear armour clang. The rest of the guards come, so quickly run and hide."

Upon his command Federat and the rest of his crew hid and ran just before the majority of the cities guard appeared, who unkowingly fit the playrat's purposes even more by stayign to question the guard on their bizarre story and examine a few of the musical instruments and robbery tools left behind in the thieves hurry to escape.

 

[Chimeraguard]

OOC: The reading about the sheer scale of sacrifices, and my looking into Warhammer Wiki about Hell Pit inspired this.
-----
The Dregs of Hell

Hell Pit is a city apart from any other in the Under-Empire, one that many could argue is the most horrific even by Skaven standards. Titanically over-populated, the city practically throbbed with the flesh of the living and the dying. Nine rings, each filled with laboratories, distilleries, breeding pits, and living quarters surrounded the inner citadel, winding like the intestines system of some gargantuan being. And deep within the grand stronghold lay grand and horrible towers, made of writhing flesh, where the Master Moulders and Mutators plied their dark arts. Even here, where they sat upon chairs that pulsed like beating hearts, and rugs of animated skin that moved with their owners, below was the home of yet more Skaven, entire shanty-towns lived around lakes of Warpstone-polluted water, the hundreds of thousands, millions of slaves scrabbling for scraps, wondering who among them would be the next to be devoured by some experiment, or harvested for extra flesh.

And now it was under threat. No one in the city, from the leading Mutators to the lowliest Skavenslave had missed what was occurring. The rise of Chaos and the coming of the End Times could be felt in the very bone of the Earth, as armies of Daemons materialized and walked the world and legions of Chaos Warriors rallied for the final war, the only conflict to have ever mattered that was about to be waged. Hell Pit was not their primary target, but it was with complete certainly that the Skaven knew this storm would eventually come to them. And so on a scale unprecedented in all of Skaven history, with the full backing of the Underlord, ruler of a united Skaven Under-Empire, the ratmen prepared their defenses, a titanic labyrinth to trap, hound, and crush any invader that sought to take the northern holdings of the Skaven, forged as one of the greatest monuments to the Horned Rat. But for the plans of the Grey Seers and Plague Priests to come to fruition, they would need titanic amounts of resources, one of the greatest concentrations of magical power. And they would need lives. Hundreds of thousands, and then more lives as fuel for the labyrinth.

It was fortunate then that Hell Pit was one of the areas to defend, for if there was one thing it had in surplus above all else, it was living beings. The mere proximity to the construction, bolstered by the knowledge that they were fighting for their very survival threw the inhabitants and rulers into a frenzy. Entire stockpiles of Warbeasts were offered up in sacrifice, armies of Stormvermin loyal to Moulder went out into the caverns, rounding up every stray animal that could be found, every escaped creation that had lived and bred for centuries. A shipment of Great Pox Rats that were bound for sale were redirected to the labyrinth, while the proximity to so many spare Plague Priests meant they were bred in unprecedented numbers for the sole purpose of dying in sacrifice. A particularly disliked(and disloyal) Warlord Clan protested the diversion of its purchases, and were promptly slapped with charges of treason and blasphemy against the Under-Empire and Horned Rat, the entire Clan also sent to join their former purchases as fodder for the tainted maze.

The Labyrinth drank and devoured the life-force of these wretched creatures greedily, consuming and devouring at a rate that one could equate the legendary Great Maw itself. And yet there was still more work to be done, for this massive sacrifice of life had only fueled the mundane parts of the labyrinth, and yet more sacrifice was needed to truly make the maze as it was needed. The rulers of Hell Pit wondered at what could be a suitable and large enough sacrifice to the task, when one particularly clever Skaven pointed out the existence of what was practically a second city's worth of lives.

The Lower Depths of Hell Pit, the bottom-most portions of the Moulder stronghold. For generations, it had been the dumping ground: The uncontrollable, the useless, the sickly, the weak, the failures, the prototypes, the dregs. This was an ecosystem of rancid flesh, and throughout Hell Pit cries from it could be heard as the miserable abominations fought each other for survival, atop the piles of those who had come before them. The vapors from the Depths were so vile, so sickening that many Skaven collapsed just from smelling them from a distance.

But now the Under-Empire had an unprecedented concentration of Pestilens assets in the north, and after some planning, its forces, along with those of Moulder and its subordinate Clans that came equipped for the job, descended into the Lower Depths. Buoyed by a religious fervor extraordinary even for Clan Pestilens, they beheld the sight with wonder. So much carrion, so much rot, so much decay, it was perfect. The descendants of centuries of Moulder's work on beasts found themselves hopelessly outmatched by a Skaven army that could not only survive, but thrive in the conditions. Emaciated fiends and bloated horrors were brought down with plague, gas, and nets, broods and hives dragged deep into the labyrinth for the final sacrifices, screeching in primordial terror, even their starvation-wracked minds realizing some terrible fate awaited them. More packs of feral creature-things lunged at the gas-masked armies of Moulder, but soon learned to fear and obey the crack of the whip and the jab of the Things-Catcher as their ancestors had. They to, were sent into the sacrificial tunnels.

The ecosystem of the Lower Depths continued to throb and hurl its entire complement of abominations, of hybrids, of monsters at the conquerers. Creatures more unconventional, more unrestrained, more grotesque were uncovered: from twisted Chimera-beasts of too many creatures fused at once, to tens-of-meters long amoeba-like beings, each one rendering hundreds of Skaven into a greasy sludge to be devoured. But in the end they to were brought to heel: Chimera battered and bruised by electric prods and spiked nets. Amoeba were infected with magic-derived microbes, which slowly and painfully broke them down cell by cell as their essence permeated entire tunnels of the Labyrinth.

Not even the rotting flesh of the dead was spared, Pestilens requisitioning practically the entire lot of up, some to help replace stocks spent in the creation of the defense of northern Skavendom, but yet more carcasses and piles and mountains of carrion were also sent to be devoured by the Labyrinth's hunger, offerings of pestilence and decay to the Horned Rat. Meter by meter, bit by bit, the entire Lower Depths was emptied of its former inhabitants, picked clean of meat in a matter not unlike the tides of Skaven that suffered from Black Hunger, that of their victims left not a single edible morsel, but only picked-clean and gnawed bones.

Yet more sacrifices trickled into Hell Pit and the north from across the Under-Empire, the resources of the Underlord allowing a vast selection of exotic offerings. Thousands of Chaos Dwarves, the last of their kind taken from civilians "lucky" enough to have survived this long, now conscripted as sacrifices in a device expected to repel armies, some of which may have included their own kinsmen serving within the Everchosen's horde. Villages of Cathayans overrun by Nippon, the Shattā-on having demanded a vast number of these specimens as additional payment for services rendered. Gorger packs from the Mountains of Mourne, driven out of their hiding holes by the rise of the Dragon Ogres into the heavily occupied Dark Lands, where they were ruthlessly hunted down. In Troll Country, just above Hell Pit, the remaining "Roppsmen" that had survived the passing of Archaon were hunted down and rounded up, alongside Norscan villagers left under-guarded by the grand musterings. A macabre procession of the doomed marched down the same pathways that the Lower Depths inhabitants had been dragged down, and none would be escaping with their lives.

For the leadership of Hell Pit that had organized this death on such a massive scale however, their minds had already turned elsewhere. The cleaning of the Lower Depths had been somewhat costly, but it had also opened a tremendous opportunity, as the formerly unusable dumping ground had been picked clean and ready for expansion. Some had been absorbed by the Labyrinth itself for defense purposes, elsewhere Clan Pestilens had laid claim to the bottom-most levels of even those Depths, where no regular Skaven had a hope of surviving. Yet still more remained for infrastructure to be built upon, and for Hell Pit to grow ever larger and even richer than before. Shipments of precious resources that flowed in from the Dark Lands provided enough to finance this expedition. The Mutators and Moulders poured over maps made of their new possessions, conferred with a number of Clan Horripila leaders who by necessity were present to oversee movement into the formerly disease-ridden Lower Depths, and greedily began planning another phase of glorious expansion, and with it: wealth.

That such an opportunity had come at the head of a consumption of life on a scale of hundreds of thousands, millions, and the death of what could be considered an entire ecosystem of generations of living beings was of course, scarcely worth mentioning or recalling. In death, the Dregs of Hell Pit would serve a far more useful function than they ever had in life.