If there is any one trait that can be relied upon to be present in every strata of skaven society, it is selfishness. This is why when missives from Skavenblight arrived at Glassvault carrying extensive demands from Thanquol himself, and worse yet, heralding the Rat-Emperor's imminent arrival in the burgeoning skaven metropolis, it was not any of the four comparatively prominent Great Clans, or the Council's private army, the USA, that acted in a significant fashion first. Instead it was the monolithic financial entity that was the Warpfang Bank that scrambled the most initial resources in response to the Wise One's predictions.
Skrisnik Goldfang himself snared more than thirty lesser clans in inescapable webs of debt and set them to a multitude of tasks merely to facilitate the quick organization of the warhost that Humble Thanquol demanded. Cringing slaves were set to scout the Plain of Bones and Ash Ridge mountains in great throngs, and the survivors were shipped back to Glassvault with the utmost speed. Clanrats in their thousands were worn to the bone just to enable the quicker movement of war material, and aspiring warlords were stuffed with extravagant meats and served as the centerpiece at feast-meetings conducted all across the Dark Lands as Warpfang bankers cajoled, threatened, and bribed the various officials, lesser heads, and other functionaries that had to be gone through to get anywhere with the other clans slated to form part of the undead pacification force. Entire clans were drafted and issued whatever materials were on hand to serve as the reviled but extremely valuable role of chaff. Such were the numbers the Bank called up that it was not uncommon for the slave clans to be loaned naught but shards of glass to use as weapons, thus earning the moniker of Vault's Leftovers.
Though this level of resource investment by the Bank had not been explicitly ordered by anybody, any skaven worth their tails knew exactly why the financial entity had taken those steps - if unchecked, the undead legion in the Plain of Bones represented a threat to their quickly growing investment in Glassvault. And no skaven would let anyone else take their belongings without a fight.
At the base of the Tower of Gorgoth, an army grew, drawing bodies and metal to it from all directions like a river of flesh and steel. From the tower itself a host of metal-clad engineers issued forth, bearing a wide assortment of fiendish war machines and technological terrors let loose from the vaults of Skyre only in times of war. The forges of the Tower churned out thousands of blender carts and warplock guns, sending the clans under Skyre's umbrella into paroxysms of glee at the sight of such an excess of high quality gear. The feared Warp Lightning Cannons were wheeled out of storage in great splendor, joined by their new cousins that took the form of squat mortar batteries that hissed and whirred, menacing rocket batteries that bristled with ammunition, and a wide variety of short-barrelled cannons forged by the greatest minds within the clan, some of which glowed from within with the light of the volatile warpstone paste they contained. Doomwheels revved their infernal engines, poison-wind was brewed in great vats, and ammunition was manufactured by the ton to supply the massing of a Great Clan's forces. Even that was not all; the Lord-Warlock himself had come to the Tower, and worked in secret with a cabal of underlings on an arcane project known only to his twisted mind.
But they were not the only components of Thanquol's assembly; from Crookback Mountain, Rictus ventured in force, offering a hefty contingent of slaves in addition to their cabals of necromancers, who had grown yet more disquieting to every other skaven they ventured near with the infusion of lore Kratch Doomclaw had bequeathed unto them - the sickly-sweet smell of death clung to their pallid flesh, and their behavior was odd and unnerving, for they did not reflexively seek the company of other skaven but would stay isolated and silent for days at a time contemplating their Corpse Geometries, and when they did speak they utterly lacked the subverbal communications comprised of subtle scents, body language, and flattery or bullying depending on relative social status - they gave off no other signals than their words, which were always directly to the point.
The USA came from the north in overbearing splendor, their Warlord-General at their head. Legions of stormvermin marched in lockstep, bearing the best armor and weapons the Army could muster, while whole packs of rat ogres with frightful maces and bludgeoning weapons chained and bolted to their oversized limbs prowled under the control of their handlers. But more impactful than the direct killing power they had brought was the support staff that swept into their wake. Impeccably dressed Drill Sergeants kept any interclan disputes to a minimum with their uncanny ability to attack the psychological weak points of any skaven they talked to with the unerring accuracy of a bloodhound, and soon the mere sight of one of their signature hats was enough to silence most disputes. Specialist skaven trained extensively in the use of Skyre's more exotic weapons ensured that the war machines would move in tandem with the rest of the horde and be used to the peak of their effectiveness, and everywhere the clerks and bureaucrats that seemed to be omnipresent in the USA ensured that everything flowed smoothly, directing the food, bullets and bombs required to feed the belly of the host in feats of bureaucratic wizardry surpassed only by the Warpfang Bank.
Even their attentive snouts, however, did not anticipate the sudden arrival of Eshin's contribution - cohorts of Gutter Runners and Night Runners seemed to melt out of the shadows one day as if they had always been there, and the various senior officials that were responsible for running the infinite minutiae of an army of this size found themselves unexectedly visited by the elusive Assassins of the clan, much to their fright.
Lastly came the Grey Seers, preceding the arrival of the Underlord. The majority of their order was occupied with their project in Norsca, but any gathering of skaven force on this scale was not something the priest-wizards would miss an opportunity to influence. When the Seers arrived, they did so in ones and twos, appearing on their lonesome from every direction, heeding perhaps the voice of the Horned One or simply some other arcane means used by the priests to communicate. Those among them who had attained proficiency in the lore of Flaming Ruin found their powers amplified in the Dark Lands, for the raw magic of earth and fire lay heavily upon those blasted plains. The war effort picked up in their presence, for to the common skaven the presence of the Grey Seers in actual numbers was a sign that the eyes of the Horned Rat were upon the war horde.
As the assembly of the skaven horde neared completion, its leaders gathered in a chamber at the top of the Tower of Gorgoth. Warlord-General Paskrit was the first (and only) one to arrive to the meeting at the designated time, marching smartly over to the round obsidian table in the center of the room and waiting patiently in parade rest, her silver-flecked muzzle perfectly still and her steely eyes kept fixed on the door. After a while, she spoke to the empty room. "I did not detect-spy your entrance. My commendations, assassin." At her words, Eshin's representative for the council of war melted out of the shadows to her left and bowed its head in respect. "Few see-see me if I do not wish-desire it, most perceptive Warlord-General," it spoke in a voice reminiscent of something skittering out of a corner. Silence fell for a further few minutes before Paskrit spoke again. "Tell-inform your Nightlord that my offer is still extended." The Assassin nodded in response, and they both returned to waiting.
After a relatively short amount of time relative to the egos of the various attendees, no more than an hour, the other participants began to arrive. Kratch Doomclaw ghosted in first, his presence further intensifying the uncomfortable silence filling the chamber, and the most senior Grey Seer in the Dark Lands at present was next, a comparatively muscled specimen whos fur had begun to be tinged a dark grey by her use of the Burning Ruin. She made the appropriate gestures of obeisance to Kratch and Paskrit, either ignoring or not seeing the Assassin before settling into a spot to wait in turn. Silence reigned as each skaven felt the eyes of the others observing them. None spoke for fear of shattering the odd illusion of civility that had sprung up, a fleeting thing that lasted no more than thirty seconds before the next occupant walked in. Unnaturally tall and lanky for a skaven, eyes suffused by neon green that contrasted his shock-white fur and emnating a plethora of mechanical clicks, hisses, and hums though he superficially appeared to be unaugmented, Lord-Warlock Morskittar entered. He observed his fellow skaven and sniffed disdainfully, his dismissiveness made clear by every move he made. "You know your place," the once-Emperor of Skavenblight sneered. "Good-good. Underlord will arrive soon-soon, but I see no reason to wait-delay," he said as he imperiously walked around his lessers towards the front seat at the table. "We will begin-start with--"
The door slammed open behind him, a vast shadow obscuring all light from the doorway. Heavy breathing wheezed in and out as the figure took one deliberate step forward, setting the floor to rumbling, then another. All the eyes in the room were on the figure as it loomed forward, seeming to tower above every skaven in the room...
Before the shadow hanging over it dispersed, revealing the corpulent figure of Skrisnik Goldfang, head of the Warpfang Bank, giving his characteristic wide smile. "My friends," he exclaimed, striding forth to clasp the Grey Seer by the shoulder. "So good-good to see that you all are doing well! I see your practice-skill of the Burning Ruin is going well-good, Skrettek. Paskrit, your fur is impeccable," he continued as he ambled down the side of the table, sliding around the various attendees with surprising agility considering his girth. He greeted everyone and complimented them on something, from Morskittar's new ocular implants to Kratch's robe. His aggressive friendliness gave his targets no option but to politely accept the compliment, but none of them missed the fact that every aspect of his demeanor was just barely over the edge of rudeness, from his excessive familiarity to the lack of addressing any of them by their titles to the way his lips slid back to show just a little extra teeth. He may have been all smiles, but the Arch-Economist was throwing his weight around, and everyone was painfully aware of it.
The odd tension and subtle bickering might have continued on for quite some time, but fell apart when Thanquol finally arrived. The Underlord had clearly been huffing warpstone dust - his eyes were green-rimmed and raw-looking, and his posture was different than his usual hunched shuffle. He held his head high, crowned with horns that had only been growing more lustrous since his ascension, and strode into the room with a confidence possessed only by the addled or the brilliant. Yet the Lord of the Dark Land's expression was troubled, and the other members of the war council subtly edged away from the Assassin and the Grey Seer so as to avoid backlash should Thanquol lash out as he sometimes did.
"Well-well?" Thanquol asked the room, placing both palms on the edge of the table as he stared at each of them in turn. "We discuss-plan the dead-things' obliteration, yes-yes? What have you decided?"
The collected representatives of six clans looked at each other, varying amounts of confusion playing across their faces. The three Lords of Decay, having been more exposed to Thanquol's erratic behavior, were the first to collect themselves. "I will lead-direct Skyre south through the Ash Ridge Mountains," Morskittar began. "We will rain-throw death at the dead-things from the mount--"
"Paskrit leads," Thanquol interjected, his eyes seeming to pull back into his skull. His gaze slumped down to the table, as if he intended to bore a hole through the obsidian. "The dead-things have set up fortifications in the mountains. I have seen it." His gaze intensified and two points on the table started smoking. "They have dragons and walls and necromancers to raise their dead. Taking the mountains with skaven bodies will only being death on us."
"Arch-Rat," Paskrit spoke up, rolling out a map of the Dark Lands across the table just before it was set aflame. The heat from Thanquol's concentrated gaze singed two dark spots onto the map, and after a moment Paskrit pointed with a claw towards the first of them. "The main thrust-push of our armies should go here, just east of the mountains. The Warpfang slave-clans, Rictus cabals, and most of Skyre artillery accompanies. I will command-lead here with USA support rats, keep clans from bickering, and take the brunt of dead-things force. Stalemate them, yes-yes, draw a bloody line they cannot cross." Her clawed hand then drifted to the other singed spot on the map, directly over the Ash Ridge Mountains. "When the dead-things have committed, then Army's main force, with remaining Skyre weapons, Eshin operatives not already assigned, and Grey Seers will punch-smash through the mountain fortifications. The dead-things will come running, and then shall our first-main horde-" she placed her other hand on the first singed spot "- advance, drive-pushing them back." She brought her hands together with a clap. "We will crush-smash them between two fangs from the same rat."
"And who will be horde-leader of this second prong?" Morskittar interjected. "Your old-thing underling is not here, Paskrit."
"Sleek is elsewhere, yes-yes," the Warlord-General acknowledged. "But my Army can lead-direct itself, and my officers are good-better than anyone else here," she insisted, leaning forward with earnestness.
Morskittar bristled, his fur standing up, lending a slight metallic sheen to him as implants in his skin became more visible. "Your Army would not exist without my benevolence, Paskrit," he seethed. "It was my influence that push-caused its conception in the Council, I who argue-fought against Pestilens and Moulder to allow-begin its creation. You would be nothing without me, do not dare-presume to think-speak that you are better than me!" He bared his chrome teeth, growling subvocally at the silent Warlord-General. The others at the table pricked their whiskers up, eyes fixed on the two Council members.
Thanquol's voice cut through the tension like a knife. "Shut up, Morskittar. I will go to the mountains, and open-clear the undead fortifications. You will go with me, and use the spirit-warp guns you are making against the necromancers." He stared at the both of them until they sat back down, although Morskittar obviously continued to fume over the wound to his fragile ego, and stared sidelong at his Underlord until Thanquol's gaze snapped back to him.
After that the overall strategy was mostly decided, though the minutiae was discussed for many hours afterwards. Thanquol left soon after his pronouncements with a distant expression on his face, muttering under his breath and scratching his nose. It was quickly decided by all present that Skrisnik would take no part in the actual warfare, having no talent for it. He would instead ensure that the skaven's armies would remain optimally supplied for the whole duration of the conflict with the Warpfang's resources. The Assassin and his brethren would be present on both fronts, working both on their own and in tandem with USA and Skyre Jezzail teams to find and eliminate enemy leaders. Kratch and his necromancers would primarily be in Paskrit's army, acting to prevent or at least slow the turning of skaven casualties into more undead. Grey Seer Skrettek and most of her order would also be present in the plains-bound army - there was some debate as to whether their magic would be needed in the mountains, where the fighting was sure to be intense and the spirits used by the necromancers would likely be present in high numbers. The argument was eventually resolved when it was emphasized that both whatever weapons the Lord-Warlock had devised to attack the ethereal and the Underlord would be present, upon which it was decided that further magical force would be rather redundant.
Eventually each member of the war council left one by one, each to attend to their own particular tasks. There was much to be done before the war against the undead could begin in truth. Paskrit was the last to leave, spending some time overlooking the map of the Dark Lands. Just as she was about to leave, something caught her eye, a settlement only recently noted to exist at all - Burnt Warren, newly established in the Dragon Isles. She noted the clan present - the Infurnal Legion, those dawi-zharr she had captured and turned over to the newly arisen Underlord some years before. As she had recalled, they had numbered scantly over a thousand at the time. It was interesting that they had regained enough strength to found an enclave for themselves, she mused. She would have to keep an appraising eye on their progress.
But that would have to wait, she reflected as she rolled her damaged map back up and tucked it away once more. She had work to do.
