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Skaven Story Update
🕑 Added 2024-01-22 05:50:57 +0000 UTC2k words
***
“The Commander sent for you,” the scout answered. “he’s in the war tent.”
He nodded, stopping to pick his decorated helmet off a nearby rock. Feathers the colour of blood plumed out of the apex of the metal, plucked from an exotic animal not native to this province. Tucking the helmet under his arm, he gestured for the scout to lead on, the two moving down the path.
As they descended, the camp came into view. The band had set up next to a running stream that hugged the base of the hill, hundreds of tents bearing blue and white colours stretching out and below in uneven rings. Barricades of wooden stakes pointed out from the very edges of the camp, the perimeter lined with trenches to ward off any potential attack.
Scattered about the bustling camp were cleared spaces, where swordsman flourished their weapons in synchronocity as they went over basic stances. There were also fenced off areas penning in the livestock and the horses, as well as smithing areas devoted to the sharpening and tinkering of wargear, the sound of weapons scraping against whetstones present at all hours of the day.
The Captain dodged out of the way as a pair of soldiers marched some rowdy horses off the beaten track, the handlers stopping to salute as he passed them by. Campfires were sprinkled between the tents here and there, adding a pleasant scent of roast to the body odour and blood tainting the air. The men gathered around said fires were laughing and chatting as they ate their rations. The last few days had been mostly absent of warfare, resulting in a busier camp than normal.
After navigating the maze of tents a few minutes, the Captain stood before the larger tents that made up the heart of camp. Visually, the headquarters looked the same as the rest of the camp tents, but upscaled appropriately to mark its importance, and crowned with the Tilean coat of arms – a pair of crossed swords
The scout waited outside while the Captain pushed the flap aside, blinking his eyes as he adjusted to the gloomy interior. Carpet had been rolled out to give the war tent some decorum, parts of the sheet interrupted by the wooden beams keeping the structure erect. A round table took up most of the floorspace, candles casting wavering lights across a map of the immediate region, red and blue figurines placed upon some of the landmarks
Leaning over the maps was an older, but certainly not feeble man, dressed from feet to neck in silver plate armour. He pinched at his combed moustache as he slid one of the figurines across the map with a frown, his expression not changing as he looked up at the Captain.
“Ah, Captain Roderick, good morning.”
“You wished to see me, Commander?” Roderick asked, nodding respectfully as he stopped beside the table, waiting patiently as the Commander moved one of the blue pieces further inland.
“Indeed. I have received a troubling report from our scouts watching the western flank. Yet another warband has slunk into the province, and is crossing the fields to Miragliano’s immediate north.
“More rodents?” Roderick scoffed. He’d spit in disgust if not for the carpet. “That’s the second Vermintide to cross the border this week alone.”
“And more crawl out of the Blighted Marshes every day,” the Commander continued, scratching in chin in thought. “Tilea has always been besieged by those blasted lands, but to this degree? I fear whatever it is that has the Skaven so riled up.”
“Rats are opportunistic things,” Roderick replied, waving a dismissive glove. “Even the slightest whiff of weakness can set them off. Do they plan on attacking the city?”
“Not according to their latest movements,” the Commander explained, placing a hand on the northern half of Tilea. “This warband circles Miragliano from north to east, using the forests for cover, ignoring every inn and town they possibly can. Whatever their goal is, it is not here in the North. I’d put my money on them hitting one of the southern cities if I were a betting man.”
“Has no one intercepted them?” Roderick asked, looking to the other figurines placed on the map. “What about the other mercenary bands?”
“They are more interested in butchering each other than to face external threats,” the Commander replied with a shake of his head.
As usual, Roderick thought, but instead he said: “Then, it falls upon us to rid these lands of infestation. What are their numbers?”
“One thousand strong, perhaps more. Compared to the last Vermintide, this one seems to favour more weapon teams than shock troopers. They will make perfect targets for your cavalry, but we must lure them away from their infantry first.”
“A sound plan,” Roderick said. “What do you propose?”
The Commander explained the plan in detail, and when he was done, Roderick nodded in supressed enthusiasm. Whatever his opinions of the Tilean Commander, he was a born strategist. “We must move swiftly, however,” the Commander continued. “lest the Skaven cross further afield and cause untold chaos to my lands.”
“I’ll assemble the knights immediately,” Roderick said. He was about to turn away when the Commander held up a hand.
“Before you go, some good news. I’ve come to the conclusion that your service to the company has exceeded my expectations as of late. Bring Tilea victory this day, Captain, and I’ll consider your debt repaid in full. You have my word.”
Roderick’s brow furrowed. In these lands, it was more convenient to trust a man’s purse than his word, but he had little choice, and the Commander seemed an honest sort so far.
“The rodents are as good as dead,” Roderick declared.
“One last thing,” the Commander added.
“Yes, sir?” he replied, the prospect of freedom leaving him eager.
“I wish to know what these ratmen are doing,” the Commander mused. “Why they pick now of all times to march east. This request may strike you as… unusual, impossible even, but if you can bring one of these Skaven back alive, you would be doing Tilea a great service. Do not compromise the lives of your men for this task, but if it’s at all possible, capture one and bring it to me, unharmed.”
“I… I will make it so,” Roderick replied after hesitating. The Commander didn’t add any more, and he took that as a sign of dismissal, donning his helmet with a look of determination.
-xXx-
It wasn’t very difficult to infiltrate the warband.
Right before making her move, Skyseeker had rolled around in a pool of mud for a few minutes, making sure each individual strand of her dark fur was caked in filth, setting aside her goggles and daggers so they stayed clean. They were gifts from the Lord himself, and she’d treat them as such.
Once she was sure her bredder-musk was hidden beneath the horrid stench of earth, she retrieved her gear, and stumbled through the underbush towards the warband’s rearguard ranks. She’d watched the Skaven column for long while, waiting until they delved into the dense forests before making her move. The broken sightlines would make her incursion even easier.
She soon spotted a group of gutter-runners, stumbling over the many protruding roots as they struggled to stay in formation, Skyseeker hurrying towards them. She rushed a little too hard and fell clumsily onto her front as she tripped on a root, purely to help sell the image of course, but when she piled into the ranks, none of the ratmen even batted an eye in her direction, her relief palpable as she quickly absorbed herself into the masses. They probably thought her goggles were scavenged off some other dead Skaven, and as long as her prized daggers stayed hidden under her cloak, none would be the wiser. Another outstanding victory for Skyseeker.
While sneaking into the ranks was easy, maintaining her composure was not. Clanrats with authority over the slaves ensured that the stragglers kept pace with the warband, and her unit of gutter-runners was full of lazy welps. Whips were flailed across the scurrying Skaven, the resulting cracks bringing her straight back to the marshes when she’d killed that slaver. She had to fight the urge to sever the paws of the Skaven lashing the gutter-runners into shape. While her confidence had been boosted since the marshes, killing now would just draw more attention to herself.
With a resigned sigh, she swallowed her pride, flinching as one or two whips were sent her way, drawing stinging cuts on her back and arms. All for the mission, she told herself as she clutched her wounds, the pain would be worth it once she succeeded in her task.
Skyseeker couldn’t get a good look at the warband’s numbers until many hours of marching passed, when the procession crested a hill, leaving the rearguard at a higher elevation while the rest of the Skaven extended out and over the meadows like a furry stain of fecal matter. She could see scores of ratling gunners and jazzails composing the middle of the column, with a smaller, but no less numerous amount of clanrats heading the procession. Here and there, banners poked up from the army, the symbol of Clan Skryre catching her eye. That explained why there was so much ranged weaponry.
Doing a double-take, she realised this wasn’t the only Great Clan banner she could see. There was also one of Clan Pestilens, even the Eshin symbol if she wasn’t mistaken (which she never was). Her Lord had warned her about this, but actually seeing the Great Clans working together troubled her greatly. Mors was a powerful Clan, but not nearly enough to challenge an alliance on this scale, however fickle it might be…
Many hours of lashing and marching passed, the skies starting to darken, until finally word travelled up the column for an order to halt. Skyseeker collapsed alongside her fellow heaving gutter-runners, noting that even the Skaven flogging the ranks with their whips looked tired, though that was likely because they had hardly ever let up all day.
Minutes passed with no movement from the idling warband, Skyseeker taking the opportunity to shut her eyes. She tried imaging herself in her personal burrow in the warrens below Skavenblight, how her favourite stone felt so comfortable if she laid on it at just the right angle.
She was snapped out of her fatigue by the stomping of heavy footfalls, she and the other Skaven darting their heads round in search of the source. Something big was coming up from the forward ranks, she could see the heads of the ratmen part like water as a hulking figure stalked through the troops, the sound of a pained howl reaching her ears. Some of the more fearful gutter-runners whimpered as they turned their heads away, as though readying themselves for punishment. She would have asked them what was going on, if she wasn’t shaking beneath her cloak as well.
The waiting was terrible, but soon the hulking figure was mere paces away, and she watched with a hanging jaw as what appeared to be a hand made of plates and gears shoved a pair of ratling gunners aside, the sound of cranks and winches very loud as a hush fell over the warband.
The figure looked like a Skaven in the most basic sense, as she could not see a strand of fur on it, save for the few whiskers protruding from beneath its sloped helmet. Out of the collar of its armoured neck, tubes snaked out to connect to a harness that probably weighed more than she did. The wargear was covered in all manners of valves and dials, the suit constantly squeaking and hissing as wisps of unknown gasses slipped out of the seams in its armoured limbs.
Mounted on its back was a giant tank, similar in design to the packs worn by the warpfire-throwers, the signature green glow of technomancy seen through the many eyepieces covering the machinery. It was big enough she could have crawled comfortably inside it, but the hulking figure showed no signs of discomfort.
One of its arms wasn’t an arm, but a warp-blade, protruding from the spot where a Skaven’s paw would be, the weapon linked to the harness by more pipes and devices she couldn’t begin to guess the function of. The other arm, while somewhat the familiar shape of a paw, was instead entirely metal, ending in three flexible grippers tipped with dagger-sized claws. It was anyone’s guess as to whether the Skaven’s limbs were hidden beneath all the equipment, or completely replaced by these mechanical counterparts.
“Listen to my greatness, stupid minions!” a low, powerful voice called out, its owner obvious enough. The Warlock Engineer bobbed its helmet as it spoke, the grill fixed over its muzzle giving its voice a menacing effect. “The enemies of Clan Skryre are many in these tainted lands. They shall all die-die for the glory of Great Horned Rat. But first!” the machine added, warp-lightning travelling along a circuit wrapped over its harness. “Nap time!”
