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Skaven Story Update
🕑 Added 2024-01-14 00:04:47 +0000 UTCGot the first 3k words for the Skaven story for yall today. Spent a bit of time researching warhammer lore, skaven speech, procrastinating, etc, but I've got a good grasp on the story now so buckle up.
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Lord Gnawdwell had summoned her to his tower. This meant one of two things. Either she would be showered with praise and rewards for her dedication to the clan, or he would smite her down with his majestic staff because of that putrid bearded-thing bread she’d stolen this morning. She was leaning more towards the latter on this one – as a healthy dose of suspicion had saved her life on almost thirteen occasions.
The steps leading to Gnawdwell’s chamber almost reached her knees, forcing her to vault the steps by swinging her legs up first, the fine layer of moisture clinging to the black stone making her grip slippery. Mounted sconces illuminated the way up the twisting staircase, casting the charred stonework in acrid green hues. The dark, silky fur on her arms reflected the lights as she passed them, the sheen on her coat making her appear to shine. The malevolent colours were soothing, but her heart still hammered inside her chest as she made the climb.
It was hard to tell how high exactly the tower reached, but the corkscrewing staircase must have reached the very limits of the surface world. She could have examined the tower on her way in, but she’d kept her eyes downcast the whole walk. Not out of fear of death, of course, to be flattened by the Lord’s most unholiest of staffs would be a great honour, but to die was to escape proper punishment – that was Lord Gnawdwell’s exact words.
At the peak of the steps, a landing gave way to a momentous door, its surface reinforced with iron brackets and spikes. If she were to triple her height, she would still be able to walk through it with room to spare. Guarding it was a pair of stormvermin, the ratmen leaning on their halberds as they peered at her from behind their horned helmets.
Standing at just over six feet, they were an intimidating sight. The finest war gear the clan possessed covered them from head to tail, the pauldrons on the left guard creaking audibly as he swivelled round, shoving his weight into the door. Despite its sheer size, it swung inward on creaking hinges, and she slipped through the gap, tugging her hood higher so as to avoid making eye-contact as much as possible.
She emerged into a vast, circular chamber, vertical slots in the walls revealing the sprawling burrows of the under-empire that lived beneath the tower. Tomes and scrolls lay stacked from floor to ceiling everywhere she looked, a few of the columns leaning unnaturally against one other, seemingly defying basic physics. She almost gave herself whiplash as her gaze flittered round the room, such an amount of written knowledge in one place was an amazingly disgusting sight.
She bent her head backwards over her body as the door slammed shut behind her, one of the stormvermin meeting her upside-down gaze through the sliver before closing her in, the sound of a turning lock twisting her chest into a knot. Her eyes darted to the narrow window on her left, and she briefly wondered if she could survive the fall from this yet-unknown height.
“Come closer, little runner. My patience is finite, yes-yes.”
All immediate thoughts of escape left her mind as she straightened up, the firm tone of the voice drawing her across the chamber. She weaved around a pile of books taller than her, spying an ornate throne decorating the far side of the room. Metal and wood were moulded and bent into the approximation of a chair, with flowing red sheets providing some measure of softness. The fabrics were patterned with runes that looked like they’d been scratched on, the tapestries draped over the bones from all amounts of surface-dwelling creatures.
In front of the throne was a table, its surface messy with scrolls and parchments. Standing over it was Lord Gnawdwell, his striking, emerald eyes lifting from a manuscript to meet her gaze. He wore a long, blue robe that bagged around his wrists and ankles, exposing his gnarled hands and feet, his skin sucking up against his bones. A hairy string tied around his waist sported a manner of charms and fetishes, and around his neck he wore a necklace, the teeth decorating it jangling noisily with each micromovement.
He radiated magic, a sensation she could only describe as a cold so intense it almost burned washing over her. Despite his withered appearance, he stood tall and proud, moving with an ease that was at once powerful and relaxed.
Two more stormvermin stood vigilantly beside the throne, and Lord Gnawdwell raised a hand at them, curtly gesturing in their direction. Was that a sign to seize her? Cut off her head, maybe? The guards exchanged curious glances, but retreated without a word towards a balcony projecting out of the wall to the right. She sighed under her breath as they slunk out of sight, drawing up the courage to break the following silence.
“You bid-summon me, great one?” she chittered, snorting through her muzzle. She lowered herself to her knees, dipping her head in unfiltered reverence to appear as meek as possible. It wasn’t a hard outcome, considering he was over twice her size. When Lord Gnawdwell opened his hairy lips to reply, he spoke with much greater diction than she, which she found both disturbing but inspiring at the same time.
“Clan Mors has need of you, little runner,” he began, pacing around the table towards her. “Even one such as you must have seen the signs. The Great Clans are on the move, assembling warbands in the tunnels, preparing to march into the not-man-things lands.”
“Why so far-far?” she asked, her muscles constricting beneath her fur as he stood before her.
“One of the Council was given a vision,” he replied, emphasising the last word by spitting out flecks of warpdust. “I’m not precisely sure who it was, as the Council failed to acknowledge the Mors seat and assembled without me, as they so often do. Cowards, all of them.” His muzzle twitched as he snorted, his chapped lips turning up in a grin. “Of course, I was privy to the meeting regardless, I wouldn’t let such petty creatures stop me from serving the Horned Rat so easily.”
Lord Gnawdwell had spies in the Council he was a part of? Truly his genius knew no bounds. “What vision say?” she asked, failing to supress her giddiness. Was she about to serve the great Horned Rat too? She’d trained all her life for this moment!
Though she’d kept her eyes locked to the floor, she could feel him regard her with his cold green eyes. “The Horned Rat’s ambitions are not for the ears of a lowly gutter runner, especially one that is a breeder, no less.”
Her glands squeezed until she felt a draining sensation prick her fur. She had kept her gender one of her most closely-guarded secrets, slaughtering the many unfortunate who’d found her out and thought she’d make an easy target. All logic demanded she kill the Lord now, but he was near twice her size, wreathed in magics that were more felt in the air than seen with the eye, he would smite her down before she could even lift a whisker. How did Lord Gnawdwell know? It took her a second to realise she’d answered her own question. This was the Lord of Clan Mors, he didn’t need any further explanation than that.
“I can smell your fear-musk,” he grumbled, closing his eyes as he leered closer, his muzzle twitching as he breathed her in. She wanted to flee, but just like in one of her nightmares, her body wouldn’t obey her thoughts, and she could only close her eyes impotently as he gripped her by her shoulder.
“Your scent betrays you,” he continued, and she winced as she felt his tail slide up her leg from somewhere behind her. “You are fortunate that very few are as attuned to the scent of a female as I am. Yes, I know what you are, I’ve been watching your strange journey through our ranks for some time now, right from when you escaped the breeding pits with the help of…. well, that hardly matters now.”
He lifted away from her, his tail stroking her thigh one last time before departing. She released the breath she’d been holding in, her fear replaced with a kind of weary caution as he returned to the table.
“You’re afraid I shall throw you back in with the other breeders, as you should be,” he started, rummaging through his many parchments with his long fingers. “And yet, your ability to avoid detection for as long as you have speaks of your cunning. You may yet be as valuable to me outside of the breeding pits, as you would be inside them.”
“M-My tail is yours, great one,” she squeaked, bowing her head until it practically touched the floor. She wanted to plead him not to throw her with the other females, but voicing excuses would just make things worse than they already were.
“It is the Horned Rat’s tail,” he corrected. “But, your loyalty to the Clan is recognised, and is one of the reasons I shall entrust to you the details of this vision. The Horned One spoke of an ancient weapon, hidden in the deserts of the not-man-things. Skavendom would benefit greatly if such an artifact was to return here to Skavenblight. Get up.”
She did as commanded, Lord Gnawdwell gesturing for her to come closer as he cleared space on the table. She slunk over, peering round his bulky arm as he smoothed out the edges of a large scroll. Interestingly, the parchment wasn’t woven from the usual materials, instead made of a smooth, white substance that was mostly free of wrinkles.
A bunch of mismatched shapes were etched onto the surface, and she couldn’t make sense of what she was looking at. There were words engraved between the shapes, the letters so flowing and curvy that they hurt her eyes. Why the surface-dwellers didn’t just adopt simple Skaven script, she did not know.
“This map shows the landmasses of the surface-world surrounding Skavenblight, which is here in the middle. The not-man-things lands are here.”
She followed his finger as he dragged it down the map, the land giving way to a large body of water. The continent wrapped around it to the right, the lands first giving way to wastelands, then to deserts.
“The Horned Rat told the Council of a temple located somewhere in this province,” he continued, tapping at a spot near the heart of the barren wilderness. “Very few Skaven have travelled so far and lived, so our information on the area must rely on scavenged maps like this, and the foresight of the Seers.”
“Am I to go-move there?” she asked.
“Of course you are, don’t be stupid,” he grumbled. “The Great Clans are already preparing their forces for the journey, and you will join this advance. However,” he added, holding up a hand. “it is imperative that Clan Mors be the one to lay claim to the weapon. The other clans, they would misuse its potential, and use its power only on each other as they squabble over it. They see only a relic capable of furthering their own petty standing, and not as a fountain of power that would see the Vermintides wash across the surface-world. Clan Mors must be victorious in this gambit, or we all face stagnation.”
“We leave now-now?”
“We?” he scoffed. “No, you must face this task alone. The Great Clans have made a point that none from Clan Mors may join their forward groups. The Council knows if I were to gain possession of this weapon, they fear Mors would finally be recognised as a Great Clan ourselves.”
“Would finally get-get recognition from Council,” she nodded, her chest swelling with pride. “I will do this, great one. Work better alone, yes-yes.”
“That is one of the reasons why I have chosen you,” he replied. “Of course, you won’t be short of company. I have no doubt the other Clans have sent spies and assassins of their own to get to the weapon first. I had considered smuggling you onto one of the Clan Skurvy fleets gathering at the port, but in such confined spaces, your breeder-musk would get you caught. You must travel by land, keep the sea to your right as you journey south, and you will reach the not-man-things lands in time.”
“What does relic-thing look like?” she asked, daring to look up at him. He went to reply, then hesitated, scratching one of his curved horns idly.
“That is where my knowledge becomes… limited. The Seers percieve it as a staff, while the other Great Clans claim it to be a sword or knife. I have no doubt you will know the relic when you see it, its influence on the winds of magic will draw you, among others, to its location.”
“Others?” she echoed, Lord Gnawdwell giving her a weary glance.
“It is not just the Skaven who are aware of the weapon’s emergence from the sands,” he explained. “Man-things, green-things, strange-things and dead-things, we would be fools to think we are the only ones who are aware of this resurgence of power.”
“Then, I have no time to lose-waste,” she answered.
“Indeed not,” he replied, giving her an approving nod. “Yet, it would be unwise of me to set you loose without first preparing you. Two gifts do I have for you. Hold out your paws.”
He shifted through more scrolls, and when he turned around, he was clutching a case to his chest. He placed it in her outstretched arms, and after she flashed him a questioning look, she pried the lid open with a claw.
The inside of the case was laced with a horribly soft material, and resting upon it were two of the finest daggers she’d ever laid eyes on. The handles were wrapped in dark leather, the black material contrasting with the silver blade. At the tips of their harsh points, the blades glowed a sickly shade of green, not unlike the torches that lit this very chamber. A glowing rune was pressed into the blades just above the handguards, the hum of magic weaving itself through all her senses.
“Weeping daggers, plucked from the latest Eshin assassin who tried to infiltrate my tower,” Lord Gnawdwell explained, watching her lift one of the weapons. It was practically weightless, her paw wrapping comfortably over the handle. “No amount of armour can withstand their bite. They should prove much better than what you’re used to.”
He handed her a pair of scabbards, and she slotted the weapons inside them, the sound of metal scraping on metal filling the chamber. She stuffed them inside her belt, watching the Lord turn around once again.
“Next, something for your journey across the surface-world.”
“Already gave two gifts,” she started. He turned on her, opening his muzzle to speak, pausing when he saw she was holding out the pair of daggers to him.
“Those are… a collective one,” he explained. The next item he gave to her appeared as two circles connected by a strap, her cloaked reflection peering back at her in their glass surfaces.
“The sun is hard on the eyes, especially in the following seasons,” he continued. “These goggles will shield you from the elements, among other benefits I will let you discover on your own.”
She pushed the elastic strap over her furry ears, resting the lenses against her eyes, the world taking on a baleful green quality, the edges of the goggles making everything in her peripherals stretch. She had fun using them to distort Lord Gnawdwell’s face for a few moments, then settled them on her brow.
“There is one last boon I can grant you,” he continued, grinning when she tilted her head at him. “You need a name, not one the ratwives or your mother gave you, but a title befitting of your new station as my newest blade. What to call you, what to call you…”
She squirmed with barely contained excitement as he paced left to right. To be granted a title from the Lord himself was an unthinkable gift, but she couldn’t help but feel a bit of shame at being so eager to replace the one she currently had. Her earliest memory was of her name being whispered into her ear by her mother, and forsaking her parent’s gift felt... wrong.
Perhaps she didn’t have to get rid of it for good. She could take both names, and use one or the other depending on her whims. She supressed a grin upon recognising her own ingenuity, and at outwitting the great Lord Gnawdwell, but then she remembered he could read minds and her glands vented with fear-musk again.
“You will be called… Skyseeker,” Gnawdwell announced in a very non-mind reading tone. “On account of your insistence on escaping the way of the breeder. Rise, she-blade, and bring Clan Mors to victory.”
Her heart welling with anticipation, she rose to her fullest height, baring her teeth in a grin. This mission would be nothing like the warrens, where she’d spent her life butchering her way to some semblance of freedom. The very Horned Rat himself would speak of her exploits when she returned, the name Skyseeker would be chanted by all the clans. It would be glorious.
“I will not fail-lose, great one,” she assured.
“See that you don’t,” Lord Gnawdwell replied, turning his back on her. “the breeding pits have been… underperformingas of late, and we need more luscious mates if we are to keep our numbers stable for the wars to come.”
She trembled on the spot as he walked to his throne, laying his arms across the boned armrests as he leaned back, fixing her with a commanding look.
“I shall have someone bring you provisions, and escort you to the surface,” he continued. “Remember, tell no one of your mission, slay anyone who gets in your way. The Great Clans, even your fellow Mors brothers, must not discover you.”
She cocked her head in confusion, but nodded her understanding at the Lord. Treachery among Clan Mors didn’t happen often, except for the times when it did. It was one of the many reasons the Great Clans saw Mors as weak, that their members didn’t slay their superiors as a show of strength like theirs did.
“The next time I see you, Skyseeker, I expect you to climb my tower, weapon in hand.”
He called for his guards to return, one of them escorting her from the chamber. Skyseeker gave Lord Gnawdwell one last nod before the doors sealed behind her, she and the stormvermin clambering down the oversized steps of his tower.
