From a Dead World (Skaven Quest)

[EVA-Saiyajin]

We are All One

Having Skreech Verminking appear in any Skaven's lair would incite feelings of awe, wonder, and fear. Mostly the latter, sometimes more of the former.

For Thanquol...actually, it was pretty much the same for him.

For all that he had been elevated to his supreme and long-deserved position by the Rat King, for all that he benefited from his assistance, he had not spoken with the supreme Verminlord but a pawful of times, with claws left over. For all his ascendant power and confidence, his benefactor was of such terrible nobility, dread and might that he could not help the good Skaven instincts.

That he came so soon after his last visit, in the midst of the Underlord's burgeoning preparation to determine how best to apply his own prodigious might to the assault on the interlopers in the Plain of Bones, did nothing to help his anxiety.

"Ah, it is...surprising to see-smell you so soon." Thanquol murmured as the Verminlord stepped out of the shadows like a mirage of dark ash and fumes, brilliant horns bedecked in an emerald glow. "Something more-related to the dead-things?"

"As it happens-is, no. And normally I would not call-fetch you until much later, but circumstances allow-conspire for an opportunity." the massive rat's voice echoed with weight even as it gurgled like a knife over a tumor ridden throat. For whatever reason, the enigmatic being seemed to speak with what the Underlord could only describe as anticipation. "Your operation-plan to make both shield and trap in the north has had-made most intriguing consequences."

The summoning of a tiny portion of their god's domain was blatantly obvious, so-"Beyond-beside the Hungry Catacombs?"

"Precisely. Come. There is time enough-possible for this, but only if done-handled now." That said, with a spine-chilling creak the Verminlord carved open a hole with one great claw into the Warp. Once more, Thanquol followed the greatest of his deity's children into the void.

Having spent some time in the hellzone the Horned Rat called his home and realm before, it had downgraded from mindbogglingly terrifying to merely extremely frightening. As wonderful as it was to tread in the warren of his god, he'd much rather receive his just rewards of personal supplication in a place that didn't feel like a thousand and one much, much larger rats were eyeing him with malicious intent on every single line of fur in his body.

As the skitter of countless feet, the chatter of rats big and small and the weight of bloody paste and mud and viscous mist played against his fur he drew strength from the indomitable stride of his ally, who tread through earth and walls of rats and ever-shifting and squealing muck with nary a glance. His spine straightened, he recalled the glorious moment of his ascension, of reveling in the power of the molten and ruinous earth. For a moment the chittering seemed to die down, the air cleared somewhat, the howl of air echoing a gargantuan breath a deadly and vicious but caring overlord, before it all pressed in again. The weight was greater, the sound more deafening and all the more subtle in its obviousness at his challenge to the aura of the Infinity Warren. But he had his bearings now. He was the Underlord, the representative of the Horned Rat himself, greatest living Skaven in the entire UnderEmpire, and he would not-

The feeling of fleshy, bulbous rodents running down his spine set his heart pounding as every ounce of his being was devoted to not displaying the turmoil within him. This was going to be a very long walk. Why did he have to acknowledge his surroundings this time around he wondered? The journey seemed so much longer than before.

Either not noticing or not caring of his small companion's great battle of will (sort of), the Verminking spoke up, his voice a rumbling hiss that echoed in the masses of shifting rodents like a massive throat in time to his words.

"All Skaven are of the Horned Rat. We are his children, his essence, his servants. But not all of his servants-subjects are purely Skaven. Not all of the Horned Rat is of the Skaven. Rather, the Horned Rat is everything-anything the Skaven are and embody. He is a great, almighty-encompassing force in the form-shape of a god. Society, ideas, character, civilization, history, and yes, beings. He is all-entirety. That-there is why the Horned Rat is the greatest-mightiest of the gods. Those entities-manifestations that rule over Chaos are mighty, encompassing whole basic ideas and trains of thought-thinking formed from the mind and twisted-shaped into form. But like a tidal wave or an earthquake, those mighty-strong forces are wild, uncontrolled, and time and again lose-drop their strength, wasted against themselves."

The double-segmented, whip-like and quill-edged tail curled around Thanquol's body with deceptive gentleness as it hoisted him unto the Verminking's back. Then they were going up, and the tunnels were suddenly different. The walls transparent masses of rats, giving way to an ethereal maze of flesh that crisscrossed all the way to the dark horizon. At times they were climbing up, then sideways, upside down, along warren paths that defied logic and mixed and intersected with others at incomprehensible angles as often as they ran alongside each other.

The feeling of eyes and ears focused on him never changed, but Thanquol noted that the surroundings did. The rodent structure was at times of flesh, at other times of ooze and rotting vitae, choking ash from burning waste, broken and shattered rubble cobbled into verminous, twitching form.

"The dwarf-things, the elf-things, the man-things, even the lizard-things-their gods are focused into true form and identity, but such has left them bereft-lacking of power. Venerated by fractions, divisions, split into many very-highly distinct beings along very specific existences, singularities of intent-idea able to draw from a select source of genuflection and energy. Unable to manifest signs of power and blessing into both avatars and blessings."

"But the Skaven have-need but one god, and he is everything that the Skaven are. In every action-move, every prayer-exaltation, every concept that is unto the Skaven is unto the Horned Rat. Thus, he is mightiest, greatest, the essence of perfection."

The Rat King was typically of unholy charisma and persuasion, but as he talked now, to the Underlord he seemed a terrible messiah writ in unearthly flesh, every word a chorus of faith and belief, veneration backed by sublime Skaven intellect to create . Listening to his reasoned adulation brought a feeling of calmness near unto bliss despite the dreadful habitat, and Thanquol burned every word into his brain even as the lair of the Horned Rat became increasingly like Skavenblight to his senses: crowded, every corner or glance at the edge of the eye a potential knife in the back or teeth in the throat, but rich with familiar Skaven scents and body-warmth and power. It felt almost like...home.

"And with-along that all-encompassing nature-identity are us, the verminous daemons, alongside the tangible blessings of the Horned Rat. Where Skaven of the earthbound realm-place are his children and life, we are his essence, fragments and avatars of his aethyric self, offspring of the body whereas the multitudes in the Underempire are of the soul and mind. Shaped-formed by the ruling powers of the Skaven and the will-thought of the Horned Rat into the many-varied forms representing all that is Skaven, all that is our god. But as I said-spoke before, all are one. The souls of all-every Skaven belong to the Horned Rat, and in either death or life, if mostly the former, there exists the potential to form new-great daemons from those souls, oftentimes from many-multiple Skaven essences into one conglomeration-thing."

"The latter...the Horned Rat gives unto the living as they give-gift unto him. Daemonhood for a living, mortal child of his is a reward, one granted-allowed by the gift of accomplishment-deed. Whatever that is varies, but inevitably such is rarer-lesser than those beings stitched-patched into a greater identity with others after death. Our cruel and loving god takes freely as is his right-due, but gives to those who earn it."

"I was one of those-them."

Memories of ancient records, perusals into the aethyr, studies about the grand monsters benevolent and not and both beyond the realm of reality come Thanquol's mind. A rumor and record of a Council of 13 long ago dead and taken by the Horned Rat, made unto a single being of power and destiny, both punishment and relented reward by a terrifying god fond of his children for defeating their greatest enemy and taking much land for the UnderEmpire, then failing to capitalize on it.

"There have been others. But I have seen-smelt all of the Skaven before and after, and none like this."

As clouds of tiny still-born, drowned and melted rodents flew pas them in clouds of noxious vapor, the pieces came together. All that Skreech Verminking had been talking about, leading up to-

"You mean-think...Helkic Stain?"

His heart skipped a beat or three at the merest glance of the edge of his ally's grin, full of bared teeth, anticipation, interest, and malice. He was no longer certain that he was necessarily the safest he could be in this realm.

"Two significant displays-shows of tangible faith with a catalyst-sacrifice of devotion. The Horned Rat deemed her worthy of his recognition-notice and the circumstances convenient. The Infinity Warren subsumed into her then out, making this tiny-small portion of it of her as much as of the Horned Rat. We have arrived-come."

The abrupt change in topic prompted Thanquol to take greater notice of his surroundings. The aspect of the Horned Rat's great labyrinth was similar but different. The tunnels of rats and slime and dirt and sound were slightly muted and less tangible. It was like an especially but not quite solidified mirage, an especially clear dream.

More than that, here the presence of plague and pestilence was especially prevalent. The air was filled gas and fog died a myriad of malevolent green shades, floating through the air with unnatural twists, forming noxious shapes and looking closer there were countless, unfathomably large quantities of extremely tiny little ratlike things that looked like a cross between a corpse, an abomination of Moulder and an especially twisted Skaven. Slime and mucus dripped and fell from the walls, and the paws and fangs of rotting, tumor covered rats broke the surface of the puddles that formed squealing in mixed joy and terror. Coughs and hacks and spit echoed down the tunnels rather than chitters and snarls.

Thanquol was uncomfortably reminded of some of his extended ventures in the Southlands...and a few far too long boat trips with members of Pestilens.

Except they at least could be killed and would stay dead.

"This is..." he murmured as he was lifted off by one massive claw and deposited in front of the rat daemon.

"Mm. She will take proper form-shape in time, and like the avatar-segment powers in the north and south this section-area could become hers to administer, a realm of the gods in the realm of mortals. She is already tied-connected deeply to it. As is, we daemons are mightiest in the Warp, but it is in the dominion-realm of our god that we are mightiest, that the land-area does not so much change-shift at our presence-person as obey it. This is good-well, but also a problem-issue. Right now, it can turn back and ruin-wreck those scattered elements of Chaos, and even a strong push, but it's mere presence will draw much attention-focus to it from those in the north. And then they will throw everything they have at it, to blasphemy the sacred and dread-terrible home of the Horned Rat. It is only a matter of time. They will bleed-die in droves, but it will happen. Unless we use-take the opportunity and stabilize-secure the area. Fully controlled and with the support of the Skaven, it could serve as a bulwark-defense for as long as the UnderEmpire requires to deal with the rest of the interlopers in the world-place above. Thus, we cannot wait for her to coalesce-come on her own."

The Underlord realized now why he was here. Well, perhaps. She was his subordinate a very short amount of time ago, if not one he was especially familiar with, and the Verminking has implied that he could not appear especially often even with this unexpected chance where the Infinity Warren was connected to the mortal world.

He spun around, stammering. "I, my-my skill-ability with the arts of Pestilens are almost entirely-largely based around analysis-thought and counter. I have only been-gone in the Horned Labyrinth twice with this venture-move today. I-"

"You are the Horned Rat's chosen-pick." The Verminlord boomed, the gas around his form bursting out in a wave that burned a grinning rodent skull into the air before fading like a dream. The eyes Thanquol could feel gazing at him were suddenly much more focused.

"You will succeed. You need not worry-fear---much---I will prevent the domain itself from devouring you."

The absently added "much" was not particularly helpful at soothing the Grey Seer's nerves.

"Know this Thanquol." was it just him or was the Verminlord getting larger and taller despite quickly exceeding the dimensions of the tunnel? "To be Skaven is good-good, but to be the UnderLord is to be everything-all that is Skaven, and everything beyond it. All are one, all are Skaven, all are the Horned Rat. Remember. You have thirteen hours. You may begin-start."

The way he stated the last sentence suggested it was not, despite the wording, a choice.

At that point the only thing keeping him from scurrying back and forth in fear was the fact that it would be a very bad idea to have the only thing keeping him alive unimpressed, or worse.

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The following events were...enlightening.

As he shook off his fear and confirmed with his own arcane senses that yes, the Warp-den was not going to eat him or worse, Thanquol tentatively extended his senses and began to consider the problem.

For all any but the Horned Rat and his favored Verminking knew, he did so for perhaps hours, coming to terms with the nature of the environment and seeking out some sign of existence beyond the typical.

Though he had little experience beyond dabbling in manipulating plague and pestilence, he had skill in perceiving it. And the Verminking's presence still served as an anchor to steel his nerves.

It was decidedly different gazing when already in the aethyr, but it was far easier looking for Helkic Stain's self from there than the mortal realm. As he scanned and sniffed (with much grimacing and consternation) he pondered just how blatant a sign this was of the plague priests' doctrine being a part of the faith. Yes, the Lore of Burning Earth had a part in it as well, but that was effectively a sub-section of the far more common and practiced Lore of Ruin. A complete aspect of the Horned Rat's realm had been manifested because of the actions of two halves of Pestilens and the Grey Seers, with a Plague Priest serving as the trigger.

Yes, Nurglitch had been accepted as a Lord of Decay after passing the perilous test of the Horned Rat over two centuries ago, but faith, exaltation, worship? There had never been a sign as clear as this one that the ways of plague and pox and pestilence were ingrained into the identity and being of the Horned Rat.

All are one. Perhaps...well, he was UnderLord now. If any Grey Seer had the right and privilege to delve into "rival" doctrines, especially when they were quite clearly proven to be authentic in their holy veneration.

As is, he'd been in the presence of Nurglitch, walked in Bubonicus and Ebolag, and shared cramped quarters with plague monks and priests for months on-board ships, their flies and mucus held off only by constantly maintained wards. This...well, it wasn't completely unfamiliar, now that he thought about it.

Besides his exposure to those aspects of Pestilens and the Infinite Warren, there were certain structural similarities to differing aspects of the Horned Rat. Pestilens was focused on life, the decay of living matter and the rotting of flesh, the idea of the world as a living organism and those beings on it aspects of it. His Grey Seers' doctrine was based on pure physicality and subject, foreseeing the world as a great, fractured piece with the Skaven the ones to gnaw the pieces in a tide and bring it down, laying upon the debris a new civilization. Both were focused on entropy, deterioration, but with different ideals.

The rats and the walls...did they always look so similar? Was it merely a shade? Color? Is the mud submerging the city so different from the mucus dissolving it? Is the gas and vapor flaying one's flesh and bursting one's organs so different from the lightning that flays flesh and sets the body jerking into death throes? Is the rippling, rumbling earth that swallows up the village so different from the rot that leaves it empty of life? Did that terrifying gaze always creep in?

Oh, found her.

There was a confluence about this section of the maze, a central point to the seemingly random gesticulations and jerks of the fog and walls. As Thanquol made his way over in a daze, he failed to spot a satisfied gleam in ancient, emerald eyes following him.

As he neared the practically invisible singularity, the UnderLord's pace firmed, and his eyes narrowed. This was...he stopped, jaw slack and arms dropping to his sides.

He was still for several minutes.

Yet Verminking didn't move or say anything.

Then with swiftness he took up his staff, slammed it point first into the ground, skewing several vapid, degenerate rats that squealed fumes the color of blood, and started to chant.

A long, rising chant of words ancient and terrible, starting at a whisper and edging up in volume every thirteenth word. The malevolence pouring from his mouth seemed to breath even more life into the surroundings as he slowly, haltingly, drew on the realm of the Horned Rat for power and shape.

All are the Horned Rat.

The gases were speeding up, dread maws and bleeding furs and blackened, rotting saliva forming a tapestry of decay and decay in the air. The verminous tides began to melt into liquids so foul the very unnatural air seemed to bleed at their fumes. No, it was bleeding. Bloody mucus and ooze writ with black blood and boils seeping out of what was already the prime of pox and plague.

Yet most ominous was how even as Thanquol looked to be submerged and buried in much while death flashed by him, was the sound. Besides his voice and the noise from the mutating surroundings, as his voice rose, the sounds of decaying and degenerating life slowly died down until naught but his roar echoed down the tunnels. The world seemed to hold its breath, and then tendrils of mist and sludge were hurtling towards a single area, piling into a block of wretchedness that grew and grew and grew.

And yet as it seemed to reach out for the UnderLord, he merely continued his shrieking chant, his arms moving into eye-burning patterns.

Then suddenly it stopped. The muck began to recede, collapsing inwards to form into a great, verminous shape.

Size seemed a suggestion to the flickering, living essence of pestilence. Magnificent horns flailed back out of a mask of bone, stains of vitae oozing across both like living and dying artwork. Sickness and disease hung off it in condensed quantities fit to kill life itself, literally bleeding holes where the eyes might be somehow conveyed an intelligence and diseased malevolence fit to capture the attention of a horde, then convince them to let it cut their throats with their own yanked out teeth. It was vaguely Skaven shaped, but far more deadly in its sinuous, muscular identity, and the air seemed to shriek and die before it, only to live and die again and again and again.

"Rise, Helkic Stain." the Underlord intoned with a terrible calmness. "We have work to do."

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This had been quite the day, Thanquol mused.

The newly risen Verminlord had been surprisingly up to date on the situation, particularly her own. Her orders were thus easily made: Take control, such as it is, of this segment of the Infinity Warren, prevent it from inefficient and unnecessary levels of Skaven deaths, turn it into a uniquely-flavored death trap for any enemies that might defile it, and teach all that she knew and learned to Skrolk and his followers, who had yet to depart the Pestilens site in the Hell Pit.

He had made it clear he didn't care whether she had any particular grudge against the Papulus, merely that he be kept alive and knowledgeable.

He really did have no idea how she would act towards him. On the one hand, he had nearly ruined it and might in other circumstances have killed her. On the other hand, it was only nearly, she had noted devotion for him prior, and...well, she certainly wasn't complaining about her new state.

Regardless, if she happened to want some manner of retribution, well, her knowledge and ability was currently ahead of the one who had nearly ruined his commands (one of two really, but Skrolk was more conveniently located). He wouldn't have spared much of a thought towards the condition Pestilens' second highest member before he'd earned his displeasure. Now? Well, either way he'd make himself useful, and possibly suffer, and maybe even enjoy it given the opportunity he had. A win-win, as far as Thanquol was concerned.

Especially given his...insight, into certain matters.

All are one. All are Skaven. All are the Horned Rat.

Idly, he considered a map of the Dark Lands, focusing on the Ash Ridge Mountains, a series of peaks and volcanoes just to the north of the Plain of Bones.

Off to the side, treatises and notes made by the diseased and not particularly lamented Dawi Zharr on something known as, volcanic lightning.

And in a pile at the edge of his desk, letters and reports stating the same thing in different levels and tones regarding the influx of lightning storms across the world, most prevalent on mountains and ridges and peaks.

A smile curled up, revealing sharp teeth as he considered a recently mastered lore of magic, and a particularly favored spell of one long used and mastered.

 

[Cecylene]

Finally done, I stayed up all night and have to get up in two and a half hours but I churned out an entirely unedited version of the omake that clocks in at over 3.5k words because I was inspired and then refused to let myself stop just so I could be done with it.

As always, any feedback or stuff like that is appreciated. Feel free to highlight anywhere that I misspelled something, missed a word or added one, or if you think I need to just generally work over a section.

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The Horned Herald

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As the Chaos Warriors entered the Road of Skulls the Skaven retained the element of surprise.

Riding atop his Juggernaut of Khorne, the Chaos Lord rode along the Road of Skulls with his honor guard of eight Knights of Chaos and eight times that number in Warriors, each of them clad in Chaos Armor forged by maddened smithies that dwelled farther North than even the Norsii frequented.

Far ahead of the rest of his legion the Lord desired to see just what manner of ruin the chittering Ratmen of the Southern lands had heaped upon the Dawi Zharr. After rounding the final turn the Lord looked out upon the rolling desolation and breathed deep of the frigid air as if inhaling the carnage and slaughter of the dwarves.

In a moment between breathes, when the Juggernaut and the Chaos Warsteeds were silent, a low thud was heard from behind them. Reversing direction and commanding the Knights to his side the Chaos Lord realized the trap too late to stop it.

The Ratmen had been far closer than the Chaos Lord had suspected, from behind every stone and shadow poured hundreds of Skaven in scarce armor, wielding swords and carrying shields. Hundreds of barely armored Skaven filled the pass shoulder to shoulder, and behind the Clanrats assembled six platoons of regimented Stormvermin, three platoons in front and three behind the Warband, each platoon commanded by a stoic and better armored Skaven who had a saber on their hip and a musket whose barrel glowed with a green light in their hands.

The Chaos Lord seethed, his eyes filling with red and his mind with whispers from his spear when a loud BONNNNNNNNNNNNNG pulled his entire attention behind him again and towards a towering structure of wood and stone topped with a Bell. The structure rolled and shook slowly towards the encircled Warband as the Grey Seer who rode atop cackled wildly with eyes trailing green smoke. One of the six platoons of Stormvermin was pulling the structure and the carriage it rode on while the bell itself was worked by an absolutely massive Rat Ogre.

The Warband's attention pulled in every direction, and the Chaos Lord's toward the Grey Seer in particular, they were caught off guard as with a thunderous roar, explosion of stone, and the crushing of a dozen of the Clanrats that had composed the front line half a dozen other Rat Ogres burst from a tunnel below and lumbered into a charge towards the Chaos Lord and his Knights.

With a cracking whip and a shock-prod the Master Moulder who rose out of the tunnel behind the Rat Ogres drove them forward with such fervor that the Ogres cracked the stone beneath them with their charge. Bracing atop his Juggernaut the Chaos Lord called for his Knights to gut the beasts but the Warsteeds and their Riders had not been prepared for the all-out charge of a Rat Ogre squad led by a Master of Clan Moulder and his personal creation. Half the Knights were swept away in the initial clash, crushed in their armor or eaten by the mutant Skaven. Rallying himself the Chaos Lord brought his Daemonspear to bear and decapitated one of the beasts and gutting another, and though its organs and blood were pouring out to the ground the Rat Ogre did not fall.

The Knights knew that to falter so close to their Lord was to invite their own doom and so pulled their steeds back around for the counter-attack but the Master Moulder had already begun corralling the Rat Ogres with his shock-prod sending visible bolts of electricity across the flesh of the Rat Ogres, and when the Knights rode in for their attack the Master gestured contemptuously and touched the shock-prod to the helm of a Knight. As the prod was intended to force even a frenzied Rat Ogre to heel the Knight was cooked alive in his armor and his steed was sent twitching to the ground before bursting into a fountain of black and red ichor.

Cursing the Knights' incompetence and threatening to eat their hearts the Chaos Lord called for his Warriors to aid in dealing with these pests.

Sixteen of his Greatswords responded with zeal as, with warpstone ammunition flying by their heads or deflecting off their armor, they charged the Rat Ogres and like a tidal wave of daemonic steel and blood the Warriors washed over the Ogres and slew them all, the Master of Moulder's attempts to flee back to the safety of the horde of Clanrats cut short by an iron boot snapping the Skaven's knees like dry tinder before a sword found the vermin's throat.

With another roar the Chaos Lord, his remaining knights, and attending Greatswords formed their line and charged into the mass of Clanrats that blocked his path, the Knights and Greatswords joining in with ululations and cries of, "Blood for the Blood God!"

The Skaven, proving that their time training with the USA had paid off, absorbed the charge with ease, that is to say that only thirty Clanrats were trampled to death or cut down by Daemonspear and Lance. The rest of the horde was able to hold their position and prevent the Chaos Lord from breaking through into the backlines and trample the Stormvermin gunners.

While the Chaos Lord attempted a break into the Dark Lands to his rear the remainder of his Greatswords had moved to engage and stall the procession of the Clanrats and the Grey Seer atop his Bell. Ratling Gunners sprayed warpstone ammunition over the dozens of Warriors but, save for the unlucky few that caught a bullet through their eye-slits, the Warriors of Chaos were undaunted. However the same wild sprays of warpstone had far more of an effect on the Skaven themsevles, perforating all the Clanrats that had stood between the Ratling gun and the Warriors.

Watching the ambush begin to turn against him the Grey Seer order the attending Rat Ogre to begin ringing the Bell as the Seer began to crackle and spark with eldritch lightning. As the Rat Ogre struggled to ring the great Bell the Grey Seer hauled back with his hands and for a moment a crack in the Veil was opened as the Bell tolled once and the Seer hurled a great bolt of Warp Energy into the charging Warriors disintegrating four of them, armor and all.

Despite the men beside them evaporating in a burst of color and heat the remaining warriors tore into the Clanrats that made up the front line and cut through half of the first wave like so much chaff, nearly causing the frontline to collapse upon impact. Only the screaming toll of the Bell and the knowledge that a Grey Seer was present and watching prevented the Clanrats from attempting to scurry away. Crawling over the still gurgling bodies the Clanrats managed to rat-pile a few of the Chaos Warriors, jamming swords and daggers into the handful of openings in the armor or suffocating the Warriors beneath the sheer press of bodies.

While the Clanrats struggled to find any weakness in the Chaos Armor the Ratling Gunners and the Fang Leaders were finding that warpstone ammunition made for a much more effective weapon than sword or claw. Warpmuskets and Ratling guns vomited a hail of green glowing metal that cut through another crowd of Clanrats but leaving luminous holes in the black armor of the Chaos Warriors. Reloading their guns they judged the gurgling death rattles of nearly a dozen Northmen worth far more than the Clanrats killed in the hail of bullets.

Despite their sudden casualties the Warriors fought twice as fiercely, crushing the first two waves of Clanrats thrown in an attempted rear charge against their Lord. However the third wave was composed not just Clanrats pulled from Mors but the three full platoons of Stormvermin and the tide of fur and still was able to meet and stymie the relentless assault that had trampled and pulped the previous two. The Warriors momentum halted, the loses for the Skaven mounted quickly and in minutes the remaining Clanrats and two of the three platoons of Stormvermin, nearly two hundred Skaven, had been reduced to a squelching, mewling, and bleeding carpet beneath the heels of the Warriors who continued to froth and wail with an unholy fervor.

Now numbering only nine of their original thirty-two the Chaos Warriors of the rearguard were to the Grey Seer's eye easy picking. Pulling upon the Winds of Magic again the Grey Seer bid his attending Rat Ogre to toll the Bell with even greater force and with an earthshattering BONNNNNNNNNNNNNG the ground beneath the remaining Warriors burst upward in a gout of flame, cooking half the remaining Warriors as if they had been within a brass bull.

Taking advantage of the Horned Rat's generosity and example, the Grey Seer began pulling not just from the Winds but the bones of the Earth and with a soft stamp of his foot and a guttural curse a maw formed around the Warriors, long fangs and sharpened teeth visible as the last of the Chaos Rearguard and dozens of Skaven corpses plummet into the chittering maw that swiftly slams shut leaving a line of cracked earth that glows a baleful green to mark their consumption by the Horned Rat.

With nothing impeding his path forward the Grey Seer turns his eyes towards the Chaos Lord who was battering his way through Clanrats and Stormvermin like a Hellpit Abomination through a nursery. With a gesture and a shout of, "March-March!" the remaining Stormvermin push the Screaming Bell forwards and closer to the Seer's quarry.

-----

"RAAAAGGGGHHH!"

RIP AND TEAR​

Ragnvald the Fleshtaker's spear split the skulls of three of the disgusting Ratmen in a single strike before tearing it free with an eruption of bone, blood, and brain matter as he swept the Daemonspear through the neck of a fourth while the Juggernaut gored and ate a fifth. Searching over the mass of fur and leather armor the Lord of the Fleshtakers pointed his spear towards the only rat on the frontline that wore an appropriate amount of metal armor.

"FACE ME YOU GUTLESS WORM!"

REND AND MAIM​

Even over the constant chittering of the multitude of vermin surrounding him and the voice of the Daemon within the Misericorde that echoed constantly in his mind, Ragnvald could hear the "Eek," that the coward gave as it scurried even further away from the front line. Letting loose another roar he drove his Juggernaut of Khorne to trample and crush the pathetic creatures that thought to trap him, as the Juggernaut's brass and burning blood turned Clanrats into paste so too did Ragnvald's spear cut throats and open chests like uncorking champagne.

"FLEE THEN."

RUN IT DOWN.​

The Skaven lines shattered as the Juggernaut and the Chaos Lord seemed to become shrouded in heat like a furnace, Ragnvald's shouts drowning out even the tolling of the Bell and his presence overshadowing even the knowledge that a Grey Seer was on the other side of the battlefield.

"COWER IN YOUR WARRENS."

LET NONE ESCAPE.​

The Knights and Warriors followed in the wake of their Lord, trampling and cutting down the fleeing Skaven. Hooves shattered bones and crushed skulls, bodies pilled upon lances like meat on a skewer before falling off as the width of the lance's base split the chests completely apart, and the Warriors took great joy in splitting Skaven nave to chops then leaving them to writhe adding their blood to the growing mat of caked earth and fur.

"HIDE IN THE DEEPEST PIT YOU CAN FIND."

TAKE THEIR SKULLS.​

"Regroup and brace-brace! For the Underempire, else be put to the Lash-Lash!"

The fleeing commander shouted and for the Stormvermin the threat yanked on fears drilled deep into the most animalistic parts of their minds, so shaking with fear they reformed their lines. This did nothing to aid them rather ensuring that they were lined up in neat rows as the Juggernaut barreled into them without slowing its canter.

"COVER YOUR TRAIL IN PUTRID FILTH."

BURN AND KILL.​

The Stormvermin did not have time to break this time, dying in droves, as the Knights were still catching up with their Lord and the Warriors yet behind even the Knights. Ragnvald's pace was slowed only by the fact that the Juggernaut was forced to pull short by the pit that the Rat Ogres had burst from, the still fleeing Skaven having simply leapt the gap.

"I WILL BURN THIS WORLD AND-"

CRUSH THESE INSE-​

Whatever Ragnvald had been about to say was cut off, as the moment his eyes found the cur that had run from his challenge the head of his Juggernaut disappeared like someone pulling a stuffed animal's head inside out and he was sent tumbling to the ground.

------

Fang Leader Archipiebald was possessed of a grin that would have made any of his former subordinates evacuate their bowels as he watched the Chaos Lord become unmounted as his steed evaporated under the concentrated fire of the Ratling Gunners that the Grey Seer had ordered him to bring. Twenty warpstone rounds flew from the Ratling's barrel towards the great beast of Brass and Blood that the Chaos Lord had ridden and now the creature was a puddle of molten blood and brass that was steadily evaporating in the mountain air. Better still many of the rounds that had missed the beast had found their way into the bodies of the Knights that had been following close behind their Lord, the final three Knights falling with their steeds and Lord.

Archipiebald's smile was short lived as the Chaos Lord picked himself up, rising to his full height of ten feet.

"DIE."

"DIE."

With that echoing word the Chaos Lord raised his spear to the sky and in an instant hundreds of gallons of blood were swept into the air. Pointing the spear towards the Ratling Gunners, who were still braced behind their smoking gun, hundreds of needles formed from the boiling blood rained down and tore them apart, penetrating their flesh and flash boiling their blood in a horrific display as parts of their body ruptured from the sheer pressure of steaming blood building in their extremities.

Archipiebald managed to duck and dodge in time to avoid the assault which seemed to have been centered slightly off of the gunner's position, a mistake on the fool-fool Chaos Lord's part. Archipiebald was not one to look such a fortunate even in the face and took advantage of his distance to turn tale and make a decent head start.

"LOOK AT ME, YOU PUISSANT SACK OF MEAT."

At least, that had been his plan. It appeared that even on foot and in plate armor the Chaos Lord was still faster than he was. Towering over the trembling Skaven the Chaos Lord stared down and seemed to wait for the Skaven's response.

Seeing no alternative but to fight Archipiebald swiftly flicked his poisoned tail blade up and into the knee joint of the armor. The blade bit deep into the Chaos Lords's flesh and the poison mingled freely with his blood.

The thunderous laughter that followed was not what Archipiebald had expected but he did not have much time to expect anything as his head soon slipped from his neck before being caught by the ears in a gauntleted fist.

-----

Hoisting the decapitated head and his spear to the sky Ragnvald roared in triumph, "SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!"

SLAUGHTER FOR KHORNE!​

With that utterance the flesh began to slough off the Skaven head and reveal a perfect bleach white skull. As the ears disintegrated in his fist, Ragnvald adjusted his grip and buried his spear into fresh corpse so that he could behold the skull in both hands.

CROWN TO CROWN, SKULL TO SKULL, GIFT OF GODS TO MORTAL MAN.​

Ragnvald's hands spasmed and the skull turned to powder as his fists clenched. His skull felt like he was being branded with the Mark of Khorne anew. The moment passed quickly and, shaking his head, Ragnvald felt a new sensation. Reaching up to it he found that the once sweeping horns attached to his helm were now anchored much more directly to him! Laughing again he hefted his spear and turned to see how the rest of the battle was fairing.

The last thing that Ragnvald the Fleshtaker ever saw was the face of an enormous rat with countless horns and eyes that burned like Morrslieb.

----

Finally he was within range; the Bell ringing out as the carriage ground to a stop. Pulling out one of his warp tokens and cracking it with his teeth the Grey Seer crooned at the sensation as he swallowed it. Reaching into his robes he withdrew the Orb of Power he had spent months and dozens of favors preparing for this very moment.

With a gesture of his staff and the Dread invocation, the Orb cracked and raw power flowed out from the Grey Seer and cross the battlefield. As the Chaos Lord turned around he was enveloped within a growing tear in the fabric of reality. A Presence descended upon the battlefield causing the Stormvermin to huddle closely, the Rat Ogre to moan piteously, and even the Grey Seer to tremble at what they could feel reaching out from Beyond.

-----

"What is happening?!"

You are waste-wasted on the mindless god.​

KILL THE VERMINOUS GOD.

"Reveal yourself and let us see whether the power of the Blood God is something you are willing to face sorcerer!"

I already have, but your eyes remain shut-closed to my glory.​

MAKE IT BL͚̞̭͙̃ͪ̔̚͟E͈̯͕̭̤̳̼̍̔ED-BLEED

"Khorne give me strength!"

Such rage-rage is useful and many of my children have forgotten that to bring the world to ruin will require more-more than just bombs or spells or disease.​

WHAT-WH͎̖̙̗͍ͤͦ̓͂̂ͪ͒ͬA̤̯͔̒̀́̎̅̽͆̊̀T IS IT DOING TO US?

"AAAGGGGGGGHHH!"

​

That fool-fool of a god thought to give you a gift of another weapon when you already had one that was more than adequate, allow me to show you true-true power and a true-true blessing for someone worthy of such things.​

AAAAAGGGHHHHH!

"What have you done-done to me?!"

Made-made you far better than you ever had been but know-know that I do not give-give gifts. Go and work-work my will Ragefang Fleshtaker, and prove that I need not make you regret-regret my infinite benevolence.​

"Y-yrk-yes oh most terrible of Gods, Su-hng-Supreme Master of the Winds, and fon-nnt-font of Skavendom, Thy will be done."

----

As the green glow faded where a Chaos Lord of ten feet in brass armor festooned in trophies and emblems of the Blood God stood now a Skaven seven feet tall remained, kneeling on the all fours and breathing heavily. Replacing the brass and skulls, the armor had become an alloy of iron and warpstone possessed of only a single sigil, that of the Great Horned Rat and the Council of 13 blazing brightly on the breastplate.

Scampering down from his perch atop the Screaming Bell the Grey Seer chittered and shivered with excitement. He had done it, as Lord Thanquol had commanded he had turned one of the great champions of the Dark Four to the Great Ascendancy! As he approached with a hop in his step the Grey Seer began to slow as he took in the finer details of this new massive Skaven.

Its fur was… grey. Once the Grey Seer was mere feet away from the kneeling form he could tell that the helmet was no longer a single mass of steel with horns attached but that the helmet now went over and around the horns! He had created a Grey Seer, this was something unheard of! Unprecedented! The Underlord would have to honor him exceeding all expectations in such a way!

Continuing his inspection the Grey Seer chittered and squeaked excitedly, looking for any other oddities about this new creation. Satisfied that he had seen everything he marched up to the fresh Skaven and stood tall before placing a paw on top of the helmet, "Rise-rise, Quickclaw an-"

"Too loud-loud," Ragefang rumbled as his hand mashed the Grey Seer's head. Turning to face the still terrified Stormvermin and moaning Rat Ogre he spoke, "We must go-go back to great-great Underlord Thanquol and Skavenblight. I have much to learn-learn and report-tell. The Great Horned One wills this!"

Ragefang wasn't sure exactly whether the Great Horned One truly willed it but he would rather tear out anyone foolish enough to squeak a word in protest's spine than let them delay his getting somewhere to learn about and adapt to his new body and instincts. His tail's uncontrollable swishing suddenly stopping as he felt it wrap around something, like a creeper vine around a stem.

It appeared that his daemonspear had been captured by the spell's effect as well for his spear was no longer the barbed instrument of blackened iron and gleaming brass it once was. While the blackened iron was still present the brass had been transmuted to warpstone and where the barbs has once formed the a crude Skull of Khorne they had melded with the spearhead now forming the shape of the Horned Rat.

KILL-EAT THEM BEFORE THEY CAN PLOT-SCHEME AGAINST US.
​

Looking back at the Stormvermin as they struggled to turn the carriage around while rapidly loading it with the armored corpses of his former servants, Ragefang grinned beneath his helmet and hefted his spear and the Grey Seer's staff, "Soon-soon, the slavethings are necessary. For now-now."

------

Spoiler: Ragefang Fleshtaker

EDIT: Some editting done, nothing structural just some polishing and final touches. Also Ragefang's picture is appropriately Green.

 

[DaLintyGuy]

So, there's some stuff happening in Araby or something.

I might expand on these characters in the future.

=====

In the face of losing everything, some people became resigned to the inevitability. Others grasped at any straw available to them, be it unwise or not. In Araby, more and more were rolling into the second category as time went on and the true scale of the threat was seen.

Ibn Daryus made that choice at the very beginning, with his tribe's elders. Unfortunately, mere zeal did little against an enemy that was incapable of breaking and had no fear of destruction, and their first fight went poorly. Daryus himself thought he'd die fighting as well, but had torn through the lightly armed skeletons with a ferocity he could never remember happening before that point. And in his dreams that night... Well, he had lost most of his tribe, everything he had owned, and should have lost his life. Why wouldn't he accept Khorne's offer?

He had wandered a few months afterwards, picking up survivors from other defeats who similarly wished only to gain some measure of vengeance against the enemy that had slaughtered them. Ironically, their first fight as a new group wasn't against the invaders, but slaughtering their way through a nascent Slaaneshi pleasure cult. Partly out of disdain, for what sort of man sought to escape reality than try to change it to suit him? But it gave them the veneer of a mercenary group. And, in this land where the Gods had previously been a very distant threat, only kept alive by the tales from the Empire and Kislev, it was easy to keep their true nature simply not mentioned.

Returning to the front lines under contract, their first engagement was a resounding victory. Daryus personally tore the bleached skull from the silent commander of the skeleton block, causing some other intelligence to cause the rest of the undead soldiers to withdraw. But before the dispersed remains of the Nekeharan fallen could fade away into the sands, the various skulls were brought into the center of the battle and consecrated by Daryus personally rather than the honored dead. Assembled into a pyramid, the weather beaten skulls lost the yellow tint of age and became simply bleached edifices of Khorne's power.

Whether or not it truly destroyed the Nekeharan constructs, it was a powerful symbol, and a potent offering for the young group.

From there, the newly christened Desert Hunters hunted down the smaller bands of Nekeharan raiders, those groups spreading terror and the Imperishable's demands in advance of the main hordes. Other groups were folded into theirs, out of survival or revenge, and the developing warband, grew, split, and grew. Focusing more on fighting than simply glorying Khorne, Daryus knew that he was missing opportunities.

And so, he gathered allies. Normally, Tzeentchian cultists were just as fickle as their god, looking for any opening to advance themselves. But in the face of the armies sweeping into the land... Well, an aspiring Sorceress would prefer to have dumb muscle between her and the Nekeharans. And Khornates were often seen as only being that.

Gys Ehraman was only a relatively powerful user of the Winds, by herself. Having walked into the Hunters' main encampment and bluntly offered her services, and that of the necromantic constructs she had acquired in her travels, she was enthusiastically albeit carefully allowed in by Daryus (with several magically binding agreements made). Some of the more... Fundamental worshippers disagreed, but simple strength at arms was wholly inadequate for defending against a magical attack.

And with this source of strength, the entirety of the Hunters was assembled, readied, and brought to battle the unholy enemy. Was it the most powerful of the defending armies? Not hardly, but it made up for that with a core of soldiers who had accepted some of Khorne's blessings and a caster of some power and developing skill. In the immediate aftermath of the inconclusive battle (however, it had given time for those in the path of the advance to ready themselves, although more realistically it would change almost nothing) one of the more orthodox forces in the area attempted to destroy the 'tainted' warband.

And, despite Khorne being satisfied with the offering of the Nekeharan's and the fallen Hunters' spilled blood, was far more pleased at the carnage wrought amongst the mortal soldiers of Araby. More blessings were given, and the first daemons were brought forth by the Sorceress to cut through the enemy with cruel abandon.

There was no overt compunction, but the warband was converting from an alliance of soldiers to a group of unholy marauders, with Daryus having to brutally put down challengers to his leadership. For he was still looking to the war, and not personal accumulation of Favor from his patron god.

 

[Cecylene]

Behold, the lead up to and immediate aftermath of Archaon's attack on Kislev!

So many thanks to @Xantalos for their help with writing this!

-----------------------------
The Fall of Kislev
-----------------------------

The sun shone upon a Kislev that would have looked more familiar to Sigmar or Magnus the Pious than any Tzar in recent memory.

The Storm of Chaos that swept across the land was an invisible hand of devastation and corruption. The Kingdom of Ice and Snow was plagued with unending nightmares, mutated animals, and failing crops. The Ice Witches, Hags, and Hedge Wizards were abandoning their estates, secret havens, and hidden caves to run screaming to the Tzarina with the same message on their lips, the foretold time of the Man-Witch was at hand and the Kislev must prepare itself if it wished to survive its prophesized doom.

The Tzarina sat at her desk amidst reams upon reams of documents and reports on topics of every kind from tactics and after-action reports of the war against Asavur Kul to the conquest of the Ungol people by the ancient Gaspodar, the annual harvests and population growth of Kislev for the past century, the size of the treasury, and the long list of favors, promises, and debts owed to Kislev by every nation known to Mankind.

Katarina was surrounded by abacuses and ledgers and the room was filled with the sound of her fireplace crackling low and the scritch-scratching of quill on parchment. Furiously and with abandon the Tzarina wrote out novellas worth of letters ranging from desperate promises of anything the recipient might desire to vitriolic demands for a centuries old favor's restitution in Kislev's hour of need to surreptitious requests for someone's attendance at a coming ball in the Palace that would never happen.

Messengers were coming and going from her chambers at all hours, from dawn to dusk to dawn again they would collect dozens of letters addressed to Merchant Princes, Boyars, Elector Counts, Dukes, Dwarfen Kings, Overtyrants, Warbosses, Priests of every denomination, and three were addressed to the Emperor himself each tied with a different color ribbon.

One letter remained unsent, sealed with wax mixed with glowing green stone and a crude triangle the Tzarina had written in a moment of weakness. She didn't feed it to the fire, like she did so many other letters, keeping it as a reminder for herself that when facing even the imminent destruction of her country and people that there were salvations worse than death.

Signing one final letter the Tzarina Katarina of Kislev, greatest wielder of Ice Magic since Khan-Tzarina Miska, called for her generals and advisors to be woken from their sleep and brought to the throne room. Kislev would be prepared to fight this coming war with or without the aid of others.

-----

Thus had Kislev and its people been transformed overnight. Fields were harvested and abandoned as armies of hard-faced men and women marched by, the fields reaped seemly overnight to stock the larders of the ever growing military of the Tzarina. The once-farmers were given either a halberd, a firearm, had they the experience to avoid damaging the gun in battle, or hand axes and a bow if judged as lacking in any other more useful skills. None were deemed "useless" as every back that could carry a pack, every leg that could march, and every arm that could swing was considered invaluable.

Every person of age and strong enough to heft a travelling pack and the weapons of the infantry were conscripted. Towns were emptied and children sent to the city of Kislev for safe-keeping, and some whispered for insurance of the armies' loyalty. Wailing babes were placed in the arms of their siblings who themselves sobbed and cried out for comfort as they were pushed onto vast caravans of wagons carrying yet more seemingly abandoned children.

The next decade would be one of hardship and scarce food as every farm began to fallow, but the Ice Witches and Hags spread the word that without such measures there would be no-one to suffer those hardships at all.

So the people of Kislev made plowshares into swords and guns, homes were pulled apart for the wood and iron and turned fortifications and bullets, and the towns that dotted the country side returned to wilderness as everything was taken to fuel the battles that were to come. Any food capable of it was salted and stored in the vast larders of the walled forts and settlements south of the River Lynsk, meals were restricted to those who showed up for work in the morning and those whose hands bled from labor in the evening.

Whilst the populace was gathered to the south to be forged into a unified army in service to Kislev's survival, at the borders of the Northern Oblast the Ice Witches gathered in numbers normally reserved for the Caucus in Frosthome. In the weeks leading up to the longest night of the year both Noble and Peasant Witches travelled in caravans escorted by the Kreml Guard itself to various points along the Lynsk. With the authority of the Ancient Widow evident in their magic and the might of the Tzarina on display through the Kreml Guard the witches were able to arrive in time for the great working.

Together, as the sun fell and the clouds gathered to cover the night sky the Witches met the Hags of the Ungol people. No words were spoken and no hospitality offered, they both had gathered this day for the same purpose and would tolerate the other for mutual survival today agreeing to settle their differences in blood after the Man-Witch was slain.

The Kreml Guard trembled as the true reason for their own journey to the northern border of Kislev proper was made plain as the long train of wagons was uncovered revealing dozens upon dozens of sealed iron chests emblazoned with the sigils of every College of Magic. Bringing the chests before the assembled Ice Mages the Kreml Guard opened them to gasps of astonishment, wonder, and trembling in equal measure.

Each chest was filled to the brim with Orbs of Power, products of a careful process of solidifying all the winds of magic into a solid form that lacked the mutagenic and corrupting properties of Warpstone yet losing none of the power. On that field, commissioned and paid for by the Tzarina herself, were hundreds the orbs each engraved with the symbol of the Ancient Widow. With a nod from Boyar Frederick Bol'shoyrev, the Kreml Guard upended the chests and poured out a cascade of solidified magick into the Lynsk River. This process was one repeated along the whole length of the river that defined the border of civilized Kislev, covens of Ice Witches and Hags that had been selected to journey to other critical points along the riverbank each looked on in shock.

As the Lynsk strobed with the glow of mystical stones the assembled Ice Witches began to reach out and grasp the water of the river and sky, drawing it upwards and inwards. The sky above began to churn as clouds formed above the assembled witches, churning, roiling, and at last plummeting from the sky to the river. The river rose up to meet the clouds and in an earth quaking crack billions of gallons of water froze into a single sheet of ice that soared tens of feet in height and stretched from Erengrad to Volkolamsk. The effort of delving so deep into the magic of the land and channeling it, even spread out amongst so many, proved too much for all but the mightiest of the Ice Witches, and when the sun rose again it would see hundreds upon hundreds of icy statues lining the banks of the Lynsk

As the Ice Witches of the Tzarina drew upon the teachings of the Ancient Widow and a portion of the borrowed magic within the Power Orbs the Hags of the Ungol people offered the remaining arcane spheres along with their remaining firmity and what youth was present to entice and bind the most ancient spirits of the land within the Lynsk. Prospective hags aged decades in moments and fell to the ground with the sounds of glass-brittle bones snapping under their own weight and the ripping of suddenly paper thin skin, and of those who had already bargained away their years were left gasping and gulping for every breath. Their skin tightened across their bones like curing leather and their muscles and limbs were robbed of any vitality and mobility and were left laid out upon the ground like mummified spiders. Soon these withered and ancient hags suffocated under the weight of their own flesh and their last shuddering breath crystallized in the midnight air before being swept into the Lynsk by grasping hands of snow and shadow.

With the sacrifice of so many lives and resources, within a single night a great fortification of ice had been erected and the invisible teeth of winter roused in the defense of Kislev. The Widow's Wall was twice as large as the walls of Pragg, whilst the river that ran on the far side of the wall roiled and frothed with the hunger of terrible spirits of ice and darkness.

A reindeer approached the river with caution and lowered its head to drink of its waters became a statue of ice in the span of an instant, before cracking and crumbling into snowflakes that were sucked into the depths of the Lynsk's waters.

When the survivors gathered at first light and saw what had been wrought in the dark of the night they shivered and shook, beginning the long march back to the capital without a single glance back. Hag and Witch walking side by side and surrounded by the Kreml Guard drawing some comfort from the camaraderie of having a single collective fear.

'Would this be enough?'

-----

The armies of the Everchosen were impossible to number; the cultists writhed and excruciated themselves in homage to their gods leaving altars of viscera, bile, bodily fluids, and impossible geometries along a miles wide path from the Northern Wastes through Black Fire Pass. Despite the ceaseless march and bitter, driving, cold of Kislev the horde of maddened zealots grew only larger as it passed through the Northern Oblast. Villages and towns had their doors beaten down and their people dragged from their homes and forced to either participate in or be subject to the debauchery, slaughter, infection, and mutation that characterized the servants of the Four.

Wandering amidst the disorganized mobs of cultists were the daemons, summoned by the sorcerers who travelled behind the tide of meat that were the cultists, buoyed by the strength of the Winds of Chaos and the glorifying acts constantly being performed by the mortal servants of the Dark Gods. Bloodletters scythed through the horde, cackling and enlarging the skull-thrones being built along the path to the Old World. Daemonettes of Slaanesh danced through the crowd and trailed their claws across the flesh of all who gazed upon their beauty, the sign of Slaanesh forever scarred into the gawkers flesh. Plaguebearers trailed behind Kislev's doom, their tallymarks recording every putrescent disease spread from weeping sore into open mouth and every bloated and twitching person dumped into a mass grave. Pink and Blue Horrors cackled and screamed out as they shifted across the wastes and through the dreams of the slaves of Darkness, their forms ever shifting and phasing in and out of reality, whispering terrible secrets and lies to all foolish enough to lend them half an ear.

Of the countless Daemons that were being called forth every day, thousands were entombed within cursed steel and trinkets to lend the mortal servants of Chaos even a minor fragment of the gods' own power. Scythes made of more rust than iron that left festering wounds that could not be healed by mortal means, circlets of rainbow-fire that stretched and tore at the limits of the wearer's mind, skull goblets overflowing with blood that drove all who drank into the berzerker's frenzy, and obsidian armor that made their wearer proof against the a myriad of weapons. All these and a thousand variations more flowed from the ritual circles, covens, and soulforges that heeded the command of their Everchosen.

Armed with weapons beyond mortal ken and clad in armor whose every inch venerated the Dark Gods the Northmen obeyed the command of their long foretold Archaon and the will of the Ruinous Powers came crashing into the south as an avalanche meets a torch.

------

Marching perpendicular towards the oncoming hordes of Northmen and saemons a discordant array of mutants, madmen, and chaospawn could be seen. most numerous of all though were the Trolls.

Two years prior to this parade of twisted mockery of a nation, Throgg the King of Trolls had received a vision and a final blessing from the Dark Gods. He saw his deepest dreams fulfilled as the people of Kislev and beyond burned in terrible pyres, the forces of Chaos ruling from horizon to horizon, and the trolls of the world kneeling before his throne. Always he could see a twin-tailed comet in the sky, a common sight on the shields of countless knights, but it was paired with a thunderous and growing roar of war and battlelust that came from the north. As the comet sailed across the sky it seemed to hang in the sky for a moment before Throgg's vision expanded revealing the comet as a blazing third eye in a helmet, and upon feeling the gaze of the one upon whose brow seemed to rest a fallen star Throgg knew that such would be the sign he must watch for.

So did the Troll King leave his labyrinthine caverns to gather and beat obedience into his subjects. Travelling the width and breadth of his nation and gathering together tribes of the forsaken and forgotten, having every stream and shallow dredged for River Trolls, every boulder was over turned to dig the Stone Trolls from their dens, and the forests were scoured for common Trolls that were beaten into service. Most telling to Throgg that his endeavors were blessed was came from the most northern stretches of Troll Country the Chaos Trolls heeded the clarion call and ventured southwards. After they had consumed hundreds of war bands and villages, Throgg found the advancing wall of gaping maws and corruption wracked flesh.

After seasons of crushing sense into regenerating skulls and beating fear into the hearts of an entire countryside, the twin-tailed comet appeared in the sky. The heavens burned with the sign of the End Times, the hills and dales of Troll Country came alive with shouts and roars of anticipation and bloodlust, forests burned and rivers flowed with blood forming arcane symbols writ upon the landscape itself. Thousands of Roppsmen who showed even a moment's hesitation at joining the horde were dragged from their homes and sacrificed upon ancient stone altars or in unhallowed clearings surrounded by broken standing stones; such was the jubilation of these distance followers of Chaos.

Then came the final sign, Morrslieb appeared one night looming large and bathing all in its terrible incandescence. With the evil moon's appearance Throgg could feel of the Harbinger of the End Times' gaze and call. It took little time to corral and prod the tens upon tens of thousands of Trolls, men, mutants, and giants that Throgg had spent two years gathering under his banner.

Travelling in the direction that the Dark Moon bid, there came a night when from across the horizon the howls of millions of ecstatic and torn throats, tinged by the screams of terror and grief of the dying, could be heard. Throgg could feel every set of his teeth crack and wrinkle into a rictus grin at how far he had come. Soon enough, the roars of a nearly a hundred thousand trolls and thrice again as many mortal men joined the nightmarish chorus.

-----

The great river Lynsk's shores were rimed with frost and the statues of countless beasts and men all frozen in the moment they made contact with its waters, and on the river's far side rose a wall of ice over four dozen feet high and stronger than steel, proven by the countless grappling hooks and ladders that lay turned to ice after having fallen into the river and the men holding the rope now missing hands and limbs from the frost that had crawled up the rope like lightning.

The legions of Chaos had arrived at the river bank the night before and as the sun rose the hordes of the Troll King lumbered in and joined their ranks, both armies were swollen by the pillaging and corruption of the lands they had passed through. Noe the assembly of men, monsters, and steel that stared angrily across the Lynsk was larger than any single battlefield had seen in the history of the Old World.

As the day passed and the sun began to hang low, the Everchosen himself arrived at the front of his army the throng parting for him like flesh around a surgeon's blade. Silence and stillness fell across the legions and all could feel the burning gaze of Archaon upon them, with food falling from the mouths of Ogres and Trolls, Cultists freezing mid-adulation with some biting their hands to stifle their treacherous tongues, those blessed by the Gods all looked on with anticipation like coiled springs, and every last daemon wore a mockery of a smile and an expression of terrible hunger.

His eyes combing the banks of the river and the fortification that stretched across the far bank from horizon to horizon the Lord of the End Times was the first to break the silence. First with a snort, then a chuckle, and finally a full-throated laugh as he drew his sword, the contemptuous and murderous glee spreading throughout the horde like a plague of Nurgle. When Archaon gave the order the Cultists charged alongside daemons, adorations and prayers spilled from mortal mouths that were swiftly silenced when blood froze and flesh cracked. As the bodies of the cultists began to pile in the river and the red stain of blood-ice tinted the water the daemons all simply cackled, gurgled, squealed, and roared in exaltation as they dove into the spirit-infested waters.

Archaon's plan made itself rapidly apparent as the daemons rather than freezing burst in sprays of ichorous warp-stuff. As the volume of daemons spent and replenished by sorcerous covens grew, the warp-stuff began to spread up and down the river anchored as it was by the sacrifice of so many worshippers. Steadily the crystal clear waters began to dance a thousand colors and the water frothed with the sound of countless dying screams.

Soon the river was silent of screams, flotsam that smelled alternatively of blood, mucus washing up on the shoreline rather than ice, and the water shimmered like quicksilver coated in oil.

Raising a closed fist Archaon, who had remained unmoving 'til now, halted the torrent of sacrifice. Looking up to the sun as it began to dip behind the wall the Everchosen gestured with one hand and from the tainted water rose a bridge of bone and skull lashed together by flesh and sinew. Stepping onto it even as it was forming Archaon drew Kingslayer and held it aloft with both hands, point towards the sun. As the sun touched the top of the wall Kingslayer suddenly burned with rainbow colored flames and with furious shout Archaon brought the sword down and tore into the wall.

From that blazing wound cracks began to creep across the wall, and where the cracks appeared the fire spread. The process repeated itself endlessly across the whole structure until eventually the wall began to collapse under its own weight. Sections fell into the river causing great splashes to wash over and mutate any who were touched by it where others fell on the far side and their landing with a shuddering boom that could be felt as much as heard.

Soon enough the city of Pragg became visible, a city fortified with barricades and ringed with palisades both formed from ice, and the river was so filled with ice and slurry that it had turned from impassable to merely difficult to ford across.

King Throgg waited for no signal, and with a shout he began a charge that was joined by all present. Leaping over the river and ignoring the cannon shots that rained about him and the trolls that disappeared under the increasing barrage, the Troll King ran pell-mell towards the towering gates of the city. As he approached he could see shots slow as the cannoneers desperately attempted to aim at the legendary beast that was tearing towards them, cries of "Wintertooth!" audible now that he had come so close.

Finally, one of the cannons struck true and Throgg felt his left arm shatter under the impact as he was thrown to the ground by the force. Rising up, Throgg was astonished for a moment to see that the cannonball that struck him was still intact and seemed to be made of perfectly clear glass. Clearing his head and feeling his arm pull itself back together, the broken fragments become new spines along his forearm, Throgg took to running on his three intact limbs. Swiftly he reached the gates and bracing himself, reached out with both arms, and tore stones from the wall around the gateway. The stones gave more easily than they should have, and when exposed the wall seemed to be partially made of teeth, bone, and petrified meat. Disregarding the ease of doing so, and gripping both sides of the barred door Throgg was able to heave the doors up and with his unholy strength, laughing at the shouts of terror and panicked calls for men to form up ranks.

But it was too late, the front gate was open for all the forces that may. Throwing the two doors forward Throgg's mirth only grew as he watched it crush and cripple the men who had been trying to hold him back. As the rest of the forces of Chaos tore into the city they began putting the place to the torch and the defenders to whatever depraved tortures were being imagined on the spot, Throgg took in the sights of the city. Pragg seemed to be relaxing a muscle it had been holding for centuries as daemons and Chaos Warriors swept across the city in a wave of brutality lids seemed to lift on stones revealing multi-pupiled eyes and the streets seemed to be undulating.

As the screams of men and women rent the sky, a lone man riding south as hard as his steed could did not turn around. He did not imagine his city burning, his friends and family being torn limb from limb, nor did he imagine the unfleshed bodies that were already being hung from the city walls. Most of all, he did not see a man with three burning eyes watch him ride away.

-----

Under hundreds of deep blue banners bearing the Tzarina's sigil thousands of kossars and Streltsi, hundreds of Ungol Horse Archers, a full pulk of Winged Lancers, the full might of the Gryphon Legion, and Boyars from the Tzarina's own Kreml Guard marched forth towards the most likely point for the forces of the Northmen to attack, the city of Pragg.

Upon receiving word that the forces of the Ruinous Powers had finally been spotted marching towards the Widow's Wall they had set to marching. The reinforcements brought with them hundreds of cannons, thousands of guns, and enough supplies to resupply Pragg's larders thrice over. The wagon train stretched long and was filled to the brim with the most mundane use of Ice Magic yet, the forming of spheres of varying sizes. Tens of thousands of bullets and thousands of cannon shot had been created within months using only cast molds and water.

As they passed through nigh-abandoned settlement after settlement they came upon a single man stumbling his way down the dirt path. Swiftly circled by Lancers, the man was pale as a sheet and frostbitten across his entire body. Shoeless and gloveless, the man's clothes were frayed and torn all over and his fingers were blackened with cold where they hadn't turned green from the obviously infected cuts that covered his entire body, his limping walk gave away that the same had likely happened to his feet.

A Boyar came forward, "Where do you come from and why are you alone."

The man turned bloodshot eyes towards the Boyar and when he opened his cracked lips pale gums and long teeth could be seen, "Lost! Pragg has been lost! The Wall did not stand and the river runs foul! Foul like the stones, like the horse! It was tainted, it drank of a well and I knew it was of Chaos!"

The Lancers stirred at the news, Pragg lost? They had received the missive that the forces of the North had been on the march two days ago and mustered as quickly as they could, how could the Widow's Wall have failed so quickly?

Raising a hand for silence the Boyar questioned further, "Lost how? Cut off from supplies and men? How long was it besieged?"

The man's legs gave out and he lurched forward, grabbing onto the Boyar's pants, "Burned and corrupted! A day from when the city called for aid, all is lost and the screams will last forever! They sang songs and they still ring in my skin but I needed to tell someone! I ran and ran and the horse died but I sti-!"

Shaking his head and pulling out his pistol the Boyar pulled his leg out of the man's weak grip. Aiming down, the man died with a bang and the Boyar stepped over the corpse, "Aleksandr, take a group of outriders and get us news of Pragg. If Pragg has truly fallen then we must draw back and consolidate all our forces until the forces of the South can ride North to aid us. Nikolai, ride out with whatever priests you can find and see if what he said about the River Lynsk is true, if it has become corrupted than we must know if it can be purified or we will have to be prepared for mutants to come crawling south."

As the men began to disperse one of them let out a shout, and the Boyar felt someone grab the back of his shirt. Spun around at a dizzying speed he saw the hollowed skull of the man he had just killed and opening its mouth unnaturally wide the corpse began vomiting forth a spray of bile and viscera.

The zombie was brought down swiftly enough as a lance took it in the chest but the boils and rash that had already blinded the Boyar told the truth of Pragg's fate more surely than any of the men needed.

The Boyar's putrefied corpse was burned within the hour.

-----

The might of Kislev, prepared like never before and propelled to heights never before dreamed, was spent like pebbles cast before the tide.

The forces of Chaos numbered as many as there were living Kislevites, and nearly a third of them were monsters capable of being shot with a cannon to minimal effect or men girded in armor stronger than any forged by mortal hands with weapons capable of parting steel and bone like smoke.

Despite this Kislev fought and across a dozen battlefields heroes rose, and died shortly after for the hordes of Archaon wandered Kislev looking for sport, cities and villages to burn and sacrifice in great rituals to call forth ever greater blessings and daemons.

The Lancers and Ungol riders were hunted wherever they went, whole warbands diverting to run them down like the foxes of a hunt.

The Gryphon Legion was stalked endlessly, each time they took wing Archaon himself was there with a cadre of Knights riding manticores, discs of Tzeentch, or even Chaos Dragons. After the first week the Gryphon Legion was no more.

Drutsk was wiped off the map by a sorcerer's spell as the entire populace devolved into mutated spawn that tore apart and consumed those who escaped the effect.

Every isolated village that had lain untouched for centuries was found and slaughtered to the last. Their men and women sacrificed to the gods, the young used as target practice, and their wise women's minds emptied and their souls turned into vessels of fel power.

Erengard, weakened after the tainting of the Lynsk, was taunted for three days with offers of perfumed water and succulent meats by Sigvald the Magnificent. As the supply of water within the city ran dry the doors were opened to the invaders. When Sigvald's forces left the city he rode atop a palanquin carried by those who had pledged everlasting loyalty in exchange for mercy, and when one fell they were fed to the rest and replaced.

Boys and girls as old as eleven were being sent from the Capitol to reinforce weakening lines. At first simply as pages, then as runners, but before long they were standing shoulder to shoulder with men thrice their age driving pikes into oncoming charges of Chaos champions. They died just as easily as any other beneath ironclad hooves and before warp-touched blades.

Kislev was a nation no more, the Legion of the End Times wandering hither and thither across the Dobryrion with absolute immunity. A civilization that had withstood millennia of incursions reduced to sport and something to whet the appetite of the Northmen before they reached the Empire to the South. Millions were dead and every scrap of arable land lay corrupted beneath the tramping of warp-empowered boots and daemonic tread.

As the country burned and its people lay dying, in the heart of the Capitol the Tzarina was enacting a gambit she had feared since discovering it.

-----

The remaining members of the Hags and Ice Witches stood within the palace walls, and no longer could a difference be found between peasant, hang, or noblewoman. Every robe and face was covered with blood, dirt, and filth as the assembled woman continued a unified chanting.

Across the entirety of the Capitol the leylines of Kislev were outlined with scrawled glyphs and it formed the shape of a spider web, and at the center of the massive web stood the lone woman whose posture if not regalia gave away her identity.

The Tzarina of a Dead Land, the Ice Queen of Nowhere, Katarina Bokha stood at the center of this web and held Frostfear flat across both her hands. She could hear the susurrus screams of the spirits across all of her country, could feel the wounds being carved into the landscape as the corruption of chaos seeped deep into the earth to await the world's coming end, but most of all she could hear the whispers of the creature that dwelled beneath the palace and the font of Ice Magic.

The Tzarina repeated words only she could hear, as she had since the glyph networks completion two days priors, when a tremor shook the souls of all present in the room. It was nearly a physical thing, like an anchor dragged its way across the leylines towards them.

Looking around at the trembling but still chanting women arrayed around her, Katarina knew the thought that cross all their minds, 'The Man-Witch is here.'

The ritual was not ready, the Avatar of Kislev could not be made manifest and the soul of Miska would never inhabit its perfect form.

Grasping for straws as the ritual continued on in vain, Katarina heard one final whisper from below before it fell silent. Closing her eyes and nodding, she reached out and pulled on the assembled threads of power that had been wrapped around her and instantly she felt like she stood within the heart of a volcano as she held the leylines in the grip of her indomitable will. The magnitude of power surged in her ears, but over that noise she could hear that the room had fallen silent.

Opening her eyes as snowflakes fell in place of tears, Katarina looked across a room full of icy statues and shadows made of snow cast on the floor. Holding Frostfear to her lips, Katarina whispered a single word to the blade and, by kissing the sword of her foremothers, imbued it with all the power of Kislev. Instantly the sword was changed, the cross guard becoming a Widow spider and the leather of the grip turning to dust before the sheer cold of the blade. Lowering the blade from her frostbitten lips, Katarina knew the blade in the right hands could fell any foe who dared stand against Kislev. Yet it was too little too late for her country, she would never get close enough nor could she pass the blade to another before Archaon would be upon her.

Gripping the blade in one hand and the hilt in the other, Katarina brought the sword down upon her knee shattering it like glass.

For a moment the sound echoed across the room and she stood alone in the room holding the broken fragments of her ancestral blade.

Then all she knew was COLD and WHITE.

-----

From the Palace of Kislev erupted a blizzard unlike any ever seen before, not by any Northman or by even the Slann during the Coming of Chaos.

The capitol was devastated and shattered by massive spires of ice that burst from the palace and that erupted from the ground. A wave of ICE continued in an ever expanding wave across the country and never weakening in its intensity. Hail like broadswords fell from the sky with enough force to split dragon skulls, the winds flayed flesh from bone through even the smallest gap in armor, the cold penetrated even the thickest layers of cloaks, and the driving snow buried houses within hours.

Every cultist that had been brought into Kislev was flash frozen by the oncoming wave of snow and ice, the blessed of the Chaos gods who survived the absolute cold were swiftly overcome by the torrent of snow entombing them beneath tens of feet of ice, and the monstrous followers who had answered the Everchosen's call were skewered by the hail.

The land was silent after the first day save for the howling of the wind and the crunching of hail and snow. The daemons having been pulled screaming back into the warp with the cessation of bloodshed and tormenting of souls leaving them unable to sustain themselves within the storm.

All was silent across the land that was once called Kislev.

-----

Archaon, The Everchosen, Lord of the End Times, The Three-Eyed King, Kingslayer, Man-Witch, rode across the wasteland atop Dorghar and in his wake blackened and frostbitten hands broke the snow crust, milk-eyed bodies pulling themselves from beneath the snow. Periodically a massive troll's hand tore itself free and the rest followed as a deathly pail creature rose from a snowbank. Other times it was a black armored helm as plate armored warriors trudging their way through the snow, scaling the packed ice like a stairway.

The living and dead marched south, the ranks of Chaos swelling with the bodies of Kislevites rising alongside cultists. Hundreds of thousands of cultists had died in the blizzard, but the Tallymen of Nurgle were gleeful in their accounting and worked tirelessly to find every last body.

It would take time to regroup and find their way in the storm, but the world's death had only been delayed for a time.

Archaon pondered if it would be enough to make it a challenge.

 

[BigFungus26]

Im going to try and write an omake styled around this idea (My first one so be gentle)

The SkavenSpire:
One of the more questionable tales about the verminous ratmen is that of a colossal tower made from hundreds of thousands if not millions of Skaven all stacked ontop of one another, the story begins with an aspirant warlord of a (relatively) small clan, named Scratchitt FleaNibbler, Scratchitt was afflicted with a more potent form of Skaven insanity and paranoia conpared to the rest of his kin (The result of being hit on the head by a mace spiked with warpstone that broke off into his skull by a rival) but was still considered one of the smartest skaven that Clan Scritch would ever get (Although in comparison to the rest of the clan a few IQ points would make you appear like a descendant of The Horned Rat)

In another one of his fits of rampant insanity, he proclaimed that he would build a tower all the way to morrslieb so that he may touch it and scratch his clan symbol into the surface of the warpmoon, Clan Scritch agreed with their intelligent (And unbearably psychotic) warlord.
The first problem that Scratchitt had to solve was that of balancing 1.4 million skaven on the shoulders of one slave, if the slave so much as twitched then the tower would collapse in on itself. So Scratchitt came up with an alternative.
Using his (Small and woefully underdeveloped) connections in Clan Pestilens and Clan Moulder, he was able to procure a plagueclaw catapault and one grotesquely huge rat ogre, which would form the "Foundation" of the tower. In order to keep the dim witted beast still, Scratchitt used the residue from the plagueclaw catapault to "stick" the creature's legs and arms to the ground and used the remainder of the residue to coat the remains of a prototype drillfiend he "Found" and fed it to the rat ogre.
With the beast stuck and distracted, Clan Scritch was given the order to climb the beast and create the spire, the lowliest slaves at the bottom, clanrats at the middle, and Scratchitt along with his personal guard at the top of the spire, Scratchitt beholded the colossal moon of pure warpstone, and lifted his claw to begin inscribing the symbol of Clan Scritch...
But fate disagreed with Scratchitt.
Meanwhile at the bottom of the spire, the rat ogre had finished devouring as much of the drillfiend as the sticky residue could allow it to, and ever so slightly stuck its neck out for another bite.
The whole spire became unbalanced and thousands of skaven were now falling to their death, in the meanwhile Scratchitt's claw slipped and what was once the symbol of Clan Scritch was now in fact a teleportation rune, charged with the collective power of the entire moon. Scratchitt, his personal guard, and atleast half of Clan Scritch vanished off of the face of the planet, leaving the rest of the spire to its inevitable collapse.
No one knows what happened to Scratchitt. But some grey seers still recognise the faint incredibly psychotic glow of Scratchitts soul.

 

[BigFungus26]

This is my attempt at making an omake featuring how the average village is attacked by Skaven
The POV will be centered on one of the villagers, a young girl named Lily as she experiences the horrors of a Skaven slave raid/weapons test firsthand.
Apologies in advance if this omake is bad, i messed up some names or the characters seem one dimensional, i cant accurately write or predict characters and their emotions at a moment

The Nightmare of Things to Come

It all began as an average summer day for the Empire village of Mannheim, farmers worked the fields, children played in the sun and people worked their crafts, while they weren't the wealthiest of people they still lived a comfortable and safe life, they were well fed and happy.

Meanwhile, below the village of Mannheim, the Skaven gathered, the materials and equipment needed for wars to come would require slaves, their ambitious warlock engineers have made a great many prototypes and experimental weaponry, and what better way to accomplish both their own material needs and their research than by testing it on the man-things above, Eshin scouts were sent up to the surface to scout out any potential strengths, weaknesses or flaws in the village's defenses, planting potent explosives, crafted by the engineers of Skryte that would be set to explode and release potent gases once the assault begins.

The preparations were complete, the Man-things were still unaware of the threat looming beneath their feet.
All that was needed now, was for their leader to give the order.

It began as any other day, the farmers were hard at work, the children were playing and Lily was walking back home from the marketplace, but a sudden and incredibly abrupt series of explosions from the walls happened all at once, popping her eardrums and sending splinters of rock and wood flying in all directions, some lucky villagers died from the makeshift shrapnel, unaware of what was going to happen to both them and their kin.
A bone chilling warcry echoed through the streets as hundreds, and then thousands of slinking rat-like humanoids poures forth from the breaches like the rancid pus from an infected wound, each one bearing rusted weapons and beaten armour, along with large polearms meant to capture human sized creatures

Struggling back onto her feet and with adrenaline flowing through her veins, she ran. By the gods did she run, behind her the screams of both the rat-men and her kin melded into one nightmarish cacophony but still she ran through the streets. The buildings were alight with sickly green flames that boiled the flesh of those who got too close, the streets were filles with bodies both human and not, but she Still. Kept. Running
She was familiar enough with the village's layout to find that there would be an emergency exit for occasions when the walls are breached or when the villagers were to evacuate. Whatever remaining sliver of her mind that was not coursing with adrenaline knew that it would be her best chance of survival if she were to leave through this exit.

As the rat-men continued surging into the city, more bizarre and dangerous weaponry began to rear its ugly head, six barreled guns carried by two rat-men tore into whatever minuscule defenses the guards had established, large tubes belching forth that sickly green flame that not only burnt, but changed those affected by it. And rat-men with strange masks and backpacks hurled globes of toxic gases into blocks of guards.

Whatever villagers that were not killed outright were dragged to Sigmar only knows where by the rat-men, a fate worse than death for those involved.
Meanwhile Lily had almost made it to the emergency exit, her muscles screamed for oxygen and rest, her breath ragged and caked in sweat, blood and ash, but she'd make it out alive if she followed the nearby river upstream to the next village-
CRACK! BOOM!
There was a pain in her kneecap, a pain that she had never experienced before, followed by an intense burning, collapsing onto the filth encrusted floor, she twisted her body to see what had happened.

The culprit responsible for her wound was an incredibly large Skaven in comparison to the other rat-men she had seen in the attack, black furred and donning crimson armour, wielding a pistol in one paw and a wicked curved sword in another.

Skrettesh had seen the small Man-thing running for the exit and had managed to shoot it in it's knee, stopping any chances of it running away, sheathing his sword, he skittered and scurried towards the wounded Man-thing and examined his "catch"
It was a weak one, frail and it would die by the second day it was captured. It was quite frankly a waste of a bullet, but Skrettesh was hungry, and while the man-thing would be a waste as a slave.

He could still get a good meal for his troubles...


Alright thats my omake done, apologies in advance if i accidentally stole Skrettesh's name from someone else/QM (it sounded properly Skaven-like at the time) or if it isnt up to snuff (these usually only come about as a result of not sleeping much which helps improve my imagination and creative writing)
Thanks for reading and cya