Prologue
Skritch Gutcutter coughed. The air in his personal lair was choked with smoke and agitated dust- indeed, the entire warren of Clan Gnawmak was filled with an omnipresent smog. His ears twitched in anger at the news he had received from Skavenblight. The council were demanding more tribute, more Clanrats to fill their meat grinder instead of his own.
Skritch hated the Council with a burning passion, their constant meddling in his affairs, taking more than what they deserved from the great Murderlord Skritch. Had he ever been given the chance, he knew that he could easily surpass the worthless wretches of Clan Mors and even become one of the Great Skaven clans. But the council constricted and confined him to his meagre position.
To make matters worse, he has heard rumors that the surrounding clans were plotting to destroy everything Skritch had built. He cursed himself for not slaughtering the weaklings sooner. Naturally, he blamed his incompitent retinue for poisoning his mind against starting war against his neighboring clans, and was relieved to hear the news of their departure as food for the Skaven Slaves.
“Sorry-sorry, Murderlord. We are ready-ready to prepare your nest-lair for moving!”
The speaker was a meek Clanrat at the entrance to Skritch’s lair. Without a word of reply to the weaklings, he waved them in, where they wasted no time collecting prized artifacts and trophies for the great migration that was about to occur.
He chuckled to himself, Skritch was reminded of the secret project that his Clan had been constructing for many years. Thousands of loose ends and fodder were sacrificed to keep news of his great invention from reaching Skavenblight. The Skittergate!
His whiskers twitched in anticipation for the activation of his secret project. The Skittergate would allow Clan Gnawmak to expand their influence without the constant meddling of the Council of 13. A portal that would lead Clan Gnawmak to somewhere they could build undisturbed and without the Council’s knowledge they would not pester and limit his ambitions.
The warrens of Clan Gnawmak had been a scene of chaos as equipment, beasts, and most importantly, Breeders were prepared for departure. Only a precious few knew of the Skittergate, it’s reveal planned only once they were beginning their departure. The Clanrats who asked too many questions were dispatched with efficiency.
Skritch’s ears twitched as he heard the familiar sound of heavy reverberating footsteps echoing down the tunnel leading to his chambers. He stood from his seat and anxiously awaited the figure to appear, Skak, his chief Warlock engineer.
Skak covered himself in the characteristic metal plating of the Warlock engineer, a large cumbersome metal tank was affixed to the suit’s back, which was connected through a complex series of tubing to various parts of his body. His gunmetal mask covered the entirety of his face. Warpstone energy surging through his suit projected out of the glass eye sockets of the helm making them appear as though radiant green orbs.
He wore a great, rounded gauntlet on his left hand which glowed the same familiar green as his eyes. His fingertips cracked with warp energy, prepared to surge from his hand at any moment. In his right hand he wore a much more form-fitting gauntlet which projected long serrated razor claws. The rest of his body was hidden beneath the thick dull gunmetal robe.
“Murderlord Skritch, the Skittergate will be ready-working soon! Our Clan wait-waits for your signal!”
Skak’s deep metallic voice echoed through his mask, although it made it difficult to understand, Skritch was delighted to hear the news.
“Wait-waste no time, Skak! The Clan has pick-packed everything, yes-yes?” Skritch asked hastily. His patience upon hearing the news had dissipated and was replaced with an overwhelming eagerness to begin the migration.
“I am happy-pleased to talk-tell you preparations are complete.”
“No more waiting-watching? The Skittergate can activate, yes-yes?”
“Yes-yes” came a raspy third voice.
An extremely aged Skaven adorned in burlap robes approached the two, Master Moulder Brik appeared from the shadows, followed by a cadre of assistants.
Brik was partially hairless, his head completely bare of fur. Half of his right ear had been chewed off and the other ear was slicked back against his head. His tattered robe revealed little about his body apart from his withered right leg which forced him to walk with a distinctive hobble.
His followers looked similarly disheveled, each carrying a large sack filled with much-needed supplies.
The promise of operating on the creatures across the gate enticed Brik to align himself with Skritch. Despite the substantial risk the move might pose.
He nervously peered around, more so than would be considered normal, even by Skaven standards. His assistants shared the same demeanor as their master.
“Ah, Brik we’ve been waiting-staying for you,” Skritch said impatiently. “I told you to scamper-scurry quick-quick!”
Brik’s tail nervously jittered, “Sneaking-Skulking from Clan Moulder was hard-hard, had to wait-watch for right time.”
Skritch had no patience for Brik’s problems and chose to ignore his excuse-making. His mind quickly drifted to more important issues and scrunched his nose as he turned back to Brik.
“Brik where is Qwik hiding-crawling? Where-where is Yermak?” The metallic ratkin gave pause to Skritch’s questioning. Habitually grinding his claws against each other making a fine scraping noise.
“Yermak is about to start-start the ritual, nobody has spotted-seen Qwik and his host-host!” Brik finally responded.
Skritch grumbled to himself as he motioned for the party that had assembled in his chambers to follow him.
The scene outside of his lair was chaotic, Clanrat and Skaven Slave alike ceaselessly carried crates of supplies toward a great chamber waiting to receive them. A cacophony of screeching, scraping and hammering filled the caverns that made up Clan Gnawmak’s warren.
Despite intimately knowing the details of the preparation, Skritch was surprised to notice how bare many sections of the Skaven complex were. Where once the tunnels were crammed with loose material and supply, it was now clear enough to see the tiny burrows that the average Clanrat dug themselves as a home.
The burrows were shallow and destitute, only barely managing to keep the Skaven off the path of oncoming traffic. A few of the more motivated Skaven created much deeper burrows, which doubtlessly had swapped hands on multiple occasions as the more envious Skaven aimed to capitalize on their hard work.
The winding path the party took brought them to a tunnel sitting on a steep incline. The constant stream of Skaven thinned to nothing. Their skittering was replaced by the vigilant glares of his Stormvermin guards. Brik began to audibly wheeze, the straining effort of climbing the incline taking a great toll on his decrepit body. Two of his assistants rushed to assist the frail rat in his ascent.
Finally they reached the plateau at the top. The tight, claustrophobic tunnels gave way to a great open chamber which stretched down for many kilometers to what appeared to be a mustering ground. A great stockpile of Warpstone lined the walls in haphazardly stacked piles, the crates that contained them constantly threatening to topple at the slightest provocation. Their soft green lustre was always a welcome sight.
Beyond the muster ground was a gargantuan circular structure. Upon seeing it Skritch’s spirits were lifted immensely, the Skittergate. It stretched from one side of the chamber to the next and all the way to it’s ceiling. Wooden support beams stuck out of the walls and braced the structure from tipping or toppling. The gate itself was a patchwork of metal and wood supports. A hole with a large chunk of Warpstone protruded from the top of the Skittergate. Which would serve as a source of power to maintain the gate after the ritual was complete.
Suddenly, Skritch sensed the looming presence of an as of yet unknown party directly behind him. He drew his specially made sword from its scabbard and turned to face the would-be attacker only to immediately reconsider that course of action. Qwik the Assassin and his cadre of gutter runners had finally arrived.
“Quik! You took-used your time to get-get here!” The Muderlord absent-mindedly snapped. Soon realizing his mistake, his ears flattened against his head and prayed the Eshin Assassin not retaliate. But all he received in return was a slight nod from Qwik.
Qwik was dressed head to toe in black, belts and straps carrying equipment such as spare daggers and poison seemed to zig-zag across his torso. His hood shrouded much of his visage in mystery, what was visible was then covered by a crude cloth mask. Leaving only his eyes as the most visible part of his body. A cloak stretched down his body, stopping just shy of the assassin’s tail.
“The Skittergate is able-ready to activate, Murderlord! Failure-fall is not an option. We need only order-tell yermak to begin-start the ritual!” Brik echoed.
Skritch impatiently grumbled, as he scanned the platform for any sign of the senile Greyseer. He was surprised to see his silhouette at the far railing, how his presence escaped him for so long, Skritch didn’t know.
Yermak wore simple, filthy robes. Any colour they may have had long since faded. His horns stretch high above his head, the signs of curling present at their ends. His eyes were a cloudy grey. Yermak had been rendered blind long ago, however this did little to inhibit his greatness. He gripped an ornate staff which bore the symbols of both Clan Gnawmak and the Great Horned Rat.
“Yermak! Begin-start the ritual!” Skritch impatiently spat.
The Greyseer hardly payed the Murderlord any attention, already mumbling an incantation under his breath. The Skittergate jolted to life, the giant Warpstone chunk now glowed radiantly. The ground rumbled and the very foundations of the platform began to rattle. Loose soil fell from the ceiling in great clumps, only adding to the poor air quality of the warrens.
Warp lightning crackled and lashed out, now from within the gate. A green miasma now began to swirl from the innermost edges of the gate, spiralling towards its center. The energy became more concentrated until one could not see to the other side of the Skittergate. The platform rustled and shook violently, Skritch skittered towards the tunnel he emerged from in his desperate search for stable ground. The rest of his retinue had already disappeared down the tunnel long before he took notice. The only one left on the platform was Yermak who not only seemed unafraid of the happenings, but unphased as he chanted louder and louder.
A bolt of warp lightning surged from the portal and struck an unlucky group of Clanrats who’s bodies lit a radiant green their screams penetrated Skritch’s ears despite being many kilometers away from the source. Their bodies exploded into ash which now coated the floor. The only other sign of their existence being the pungent stench of burnt flesh within the area.
The tremors became more violent until the hapless Murderlord cursed himself, himself! For being so hasty in the Skittergate’s activation. He covered his head and pleaded with the Great Horned Rat for mercy in going behind his back. But just as instantly as the rumbling had started, it suddenly ceased. Skritch lowered his arms and scanned his surroundings. Was he dead? Had his Grey Seer sabotaged his ambition?
He looked through the hole at the entrance to the Skittergate’s chamber, his eyes brightened and squealed in joy. The Skittergate, apart from the occasional bolt of Warp Lightning, had stabilized. The radiant green pool at its center spiralled and danced erratically. None were more proud of this success, however, than Brik. Despite being incapable of reading his emotions due to the metal mask he wore at all times, his jubilation was nigh uncontainable, though he did much to conceal this fact.
The doors to the mustering grounds were opened and a constant wave of Clanrats flooded the open ground, many stopping to marvel at the magnificent gate before them. This turned out to be a foolish endeavour however as they were promptly knocked over by other eager ratkin and trampled to death. Their cheers soon filled the chamber and left very little room for Skritch to make the speech he had mentally prepared for.
A horn sounded from beside the Murderlord and the crowd quieted to a whisper. As they awaited Skritch to speak. He composed himself and revealed himself plainly for all to see.
“Clan Gnawmak,” he began. “We must migrate-move! We are stuck-trapped here, weak-weak Clans plan to kill us! The Council want-must keep us weak, they fear us!”
The countless Skaven below roared in approval, raising their crude weapons high in the air. Skritch cackled, this is the moment he had been waiting for and he wished to savour it for all it’s worth.
“Listen-follow Skritch, go through the Skittergate! Crush-kill all you find, burrow-build our city, leave no survivor-meat!”
The crowd below him fervently cheered and chanted for Skritch and Clan Gnawmak. They would go where no other Skaven had been before, none knew what lies beyond the gate but each great Clan found their greatness by venturing and Gnawmak would be no different.
“Now, scamper-scurry! Skitter-go! We must slaughter-stab for Skavendom!”
And with that the countless hordes of Skaven surged through the Gate many were trampled, but many more washed over their remains. Crates of Warpstone were picked and carried through the Skittergate, weapons and supplies followed shortly thereafter, Skritch had ordered that even the Breeders be dragged from their dens and brought through to the other side. There was no time to lose, the neighboring Clans were sure to have noticed the earthquake, they would soon come to investigate what Skritch had hid from them. He wanted them to find nothing but empty warrens when they arrived.
Finally, Skritch and his retinue gathered, and began their descent to the muster grounds themselves. There was much to do once they reached the other side, after all.
Skritch hated the Council with a burning passion, their constant meddling in his affairs, taking more than what they deserved from the great Murderlord Skritch. Had he ever been given the chance, he knew that he could easily surpass the worthless wretches of Clan Mors and even become one of the Great Skaven clans. But the council constricted and confined him to his meagre position.
To make matters worse, he has heard rumors that the surrounding clans were plotting to destroy everything Skritch had built. He cursed himself for not slaughtering the weaklings sooner. Naturally, he blamed his incompitent retinue for poisoning his mind against starting war against his neighboring clans, and was relieved to hear the news of their departure as food for the Skaven Slaves.
“Sorry-sorry, Murderlord. We are ready-ready to prepare your nest-lair for moving!”
The speaker was a meek Clanrat at the entrance to Skritch’s lair. Without a word of reply to the weaklings, he waved them in, where they wasted no time collecting prized artifacts and trophies for the great migration that was about to occur.
He chuckled to himself, Skritch was reminded of the secret project that his Clan had been constructing for many years. Thousands of loose ends and fodder were sacrificed to keep news of his great invention from reaching Skavenblight. The Skittergate!
His whiskers twitched in anticipation for the activation of his secret project. The Skittergate would allow Clan Gnawmak to expand their influence without the constant meddling of the Council of 13. A portal that would lead Clan Gnawmak to somewhere they could build undisturbed and without the Council’s knowledge they would not pester and limit his ambitions.
The warrens of Clan Gnawmak had been a scene of chaos as equipment, beasts, and most importantly, Breeders were prepared for departure. Only a precious few knew of the Skittergate, it’s reveal planned only once they were beginning their departure. The Clanrats who asked too many questions were dispatched with efficiency.
Skritch’s ears twitched as he heard the familiar sound of heavy reverberating footsteps echoing down the tunnel leading to his chambers. He stood from his seat and anxiously awaited the figure to appear, Skak, his chief Warlock engineer.
Skak covered himself in the characteristic metal plating of the Warlock engineer, a large cumbersome metal tank was affixed to the suit’s back, which was connected through a complex series of tubing to various parts of his body. His gunmetal mask covered the entirety of his face. Warpstone energy surging through his suit projected out of the glass eye sockets of the helm making them appear as though radiant green orbs.
He wore a great, rounded gauntlet on his left hand which glowed the same familiar green as his eyes. His fingertips cracked with warp energy, prepared to surge from his hand at any moment. In his right hand he wore a much more form-fitting gauntlet which projected long serrated razor claws. The rest of his body was hidden beneath the thick dull gunmetal robe.
“Murderlord Skritch, the Skittergate will be ready-working soon! Our Clan wait-waits for your signal!”
Skak’s deep metallic voice echoed through his mask, although it made it difficult to understand, Skritch was delighted to hear the news.
“Wait-waste no time, Skak! The Clan has pick-packed everything, yes-yes?” Skritch asked hastily. His patience upon hearing the news had dissipated and was replaced with an overwhelming eagerness to begin the migration.
“I am happy-pleased to talk-tell you preparations are complete.”
“No more waiting-watching? The Skittergate can activate, yes-yes?”
“Yes-yes” came a raspy third voice.
An extremely aged Skaven adorned in burlap robes approached the two, Master Moulder Brik appeared from the shadows, followed by a cadre of assistants.
Brik was partially hairless, his head completely bare of fur. Half of his right ear had been chewed off and the other ear was slicked back against his head. His tattered robe revealed little about his body apart from his withered right leg which forced him to walk with a distinctive hobble.
His followers looked similarly disheveled, each carrying a large sack filled with much-needed supplies.
The promise of operating on the creatures across the gate enticed Brik to align himself with Skritch. Despite the substantial risk the move might pose.
He nervously peered around, more so than would be considered normal, even by Skaven standards. His assistants shared the same demeanor as their master.
“Ah, Brik we’ve been waiting-staying for you,” Skritch said impatiently. “I told you to scamper-scurry quick-quick!”
Brik’s tail nervously jittered, “Sneaking-Skulking from Clan Moulder was hard-hard, had to wait-watch for right time.”
Skritch had no patience for Brik’s problems and chose to ignore his excuse-making. His mind quickly drifted to more important issues and scrunched his nose as he turned back to Brik.
“Brik where is Qwik hiding-crawling? Where-where is Yermak?” The metallic ratkin gave pause to Skritch’s questioning. Habitually grinding his claws against each other making a fine scraping noise.
“Yermak is about to start-start the ritual, nobody has spotted-seen Qwik and his host-host!” Brik finally responded.
Skritch grumbled to himself as he motioned for the party that had assembled in his chambers to follow him.
The scene outside of his lair was chaotic, Clanrat and Skaven Slave alike ceaselessly carried crates of supplies toward a great chamber waiting to receive them. A cacophony of screeching, scraping and hammering filled the caverns that made up Clan Gnawmak’s warren.
Despite intimately knowing the details of the preparation, Skritch was surprised to notice how bare many sections of the Skaven complex were. Where once the tunnels were crammed with loose material and supply, it was now clear enough to see the tiny burrows that the average Clanrat dug themselves as a home.
The burrows were shallow and destitute, only barely managing to keep the Skaven off the path of oncoming traffic. A few of the more motivated Skaven created much deeper burrows, which doubtlessly had swapped hands on multiple occasions as the more envious Skaven aimed to capitalize on their hard work.
The winding path the party took brought them to a tunnel sitting on a steep incline. The constant stream of Skaven thinned to nothing. Their skittering was replaced by the vigilant glares of his Stormvermin guards. Brik began to audibly wheeze, the straining effort of climbing the incline taking a great toll on his decrepit body. Two of his assistants rushed to assist the frail rat in his ascent.
Finally they reached the plateau at the top. The tight, claustrophobic tunnels gave way to a great open chamber which stretched down for many kilometers to what appeared to be a mustering ground. A great stockpile of Warpstone lined the walls in haphazardly stacked piles, the crates that contained them constantly threatening to topple at the slightest provocation. Their soft green lustre was always a welcome sight.
Beyond the muster ground was a gargantuan circular structure. Upon seeing it Skritch’s spirits were lifted immensely, the Skittergate. It stretched from one side of the chamber to the next and all the way to it’s ceiling. Wooden support beams stuck out of the walls and braced the structure from tipping or toppling. The gate itself was a patchwork of metal and wood supports. A hole with a large chunk of Warpstone protruded from the top of the Skittergate. Which would serve as a source of power to maintain the gate after the ritual was complete.
Suddenly, Skritch sensed the looming presence of an as of yet unknown party directly behind him. He drew his specially made sword from its scabbard and turned to face the would-be attacker only to immediately reconsider that course of action. Qwik the Assassin and his cadre of gutter runners had finally arrived.
“Quik! You took-used your time to get-get here!” The Muderlord absent-mindedly snapped. Soon realizing his mistake, his ears flattened against his head and prayed the Eshin Assassin not retaliate. But all he received in return was a slight nod from Qwik.
Qwik was dressed head to toe in black, belts and straps carrying equipment such as spare daggers and poison seemed to zig-zag across his torso. His hood shrouded much of his visage in mystery, what was visible was then covered by a crude cloth mask. Leaving only his eyes as the most visible part of his body. A cloak stretched down his body, stopping just shy of the assassin’s tail.
“The Skittergate is able-ready to activate, Murderlord! Failure-fall is not an option. We need only order-tell yermak to begin-start the ritual!” Brik echoed.
Skritch impatiently grumbled, as he scanned the platform for any sign of the senile Greyseer. He was surprised to see his silhouette at the far railing, how his presence escaped him for so long, Skritch didn’t know.
Yermak wore simple, filthy robes. Any colour they may have had long since faded. His horns stretch high above his head, the signs of curling present at their ends. His eyes were a cloudy grey. Yermak had been rendered blind long ago, however this did little to inhibit his greatness. He gripped an ornate staff which bore the symbols of both Clan Gnawmak and the Great Horned Rat.
“Yermak! Begin-start the ritual!” Skritch impatiently spat.
The Greyseer hardly payed the Murderlord any attention, already mumbling an incantation under his breath. The Skittergate jolted to life, the giant Warpstone chunk now glowed radiantly. The ground rumbled and the very foundations of the platform began to rattle. Loose soil fell from the ceiling in great clumps, only adding to the poor air quality of the warrens.
Warp lightning crackled and lashed out, now from within the gate. A green miasma now began to swirl from the innermost edges of the gate, spiralling towards its center. The energy became more concentrated until one could not see to the other side of the Skittergate. The platform rustled and shook violently, Skritch skittered towards the tunnel he emerged from in his desperate search for stable ground. The rest of his retinue had already disappeared down the tunnel long before he took notice. The only one left on the platform was Yermak who not only seemed unafraid of the happenings, but unphased as he chanted louder and louder.
A bolt of warp lightning surged from the portal and struck an unlucky group of Clanrats who’s bodies lit a radiant green their screams penetrated Skritch’s ears despite being many kilometers away from the source. Their bodies exploded into ash which now coated the floor. The only other sign of their existence being the pungent stench of burnt flesh within the area.
The tremors became more violent until the hapless Murderlord cursed himself, himself! For being so hasty in the Skittergate’s activation. He covered his head and pleaded with the Great Horned Rat for mercy in going behind his back. But just as instantly as the rumbling had started, it suddenly ceased. Skritch lowered his arms and scanned his surroundings. Was he dead? Had his Grey Seer sabotaged his ambition?
He looked through the hole at the entrance to the Skittergate’s chamber, his eyes brightened and squealed in joy. The Skittergate, apart from the occasional bolt of Warp Lightning, had stabilized. The radiant green pool at its center spiralled and danced erratically. None were more proud of this success, however, than Brik. Despite being incapable of reading his emotions due to the metal mask he wore at all times, his jubilation was nigh uncontainable, though he did much to conceal this fact.
The doors to the mustering grounds were opened and a constant wave of Clanrats flooded the open ground, many stopping to marvel at the magnificent gate before them. This turned out to be a foolish endeavour however as they were promptly knocked over by other eager ratkin and trampled to death. Their cheers soon filled the chamber and left very little room for Skritch to make the speech he had mentally prepared for.
A horn sounded from beside the Murderlord and the crowd quieted to a whisper. As they awaited Skritch to speak. He composed himself and revealed himself plainly for all to see.
“Clan Gnawmak,” he began. “We must migrate-move! We are stuck-trapped here, weak-weak Clans plan to kill us! The Council want-must keep us weak, they fear us!”
The countless Skaven below roared in approval, raising their crude weapons high in the air. Skritch cackled, this is the moment he had been waiting for and he wished to savour it for all it’s worth.
“Listen-follow Skritch, go through the Skittergate! Crush-kill all you find, burrow-build our city, leave no survivor-meat!”
The crowd below him fervently cheered and chanted for Skritch and Clan Gnawmak. They would go where no other Skaven had been before, none knew what lies beyond the gate but each great Clan found their greatness by venturing and Gnawmak would be no different.
“Now, scamper-scurry! Skitter-go! We must slaughter-stab for Skavendom!”
And with that the countless hordes of Skaven surged through the Gate many were trampled, but many more washed over their remains. Crates of Warpstone were picked and carried through the Skittergate, weapons and supplies followed shortly thereafter, Skritch had ordered that even the Breeders be dragged from their dens and brought through to the other side. There was no time to lose, the neighboring Clans were sure to have noticed the earthquake, they would soon come to investigate what Skritch had hid from them. He wanted them to find nothing but empty warrens when they arrived.
Finally, Skritch and his retinue gathered, and began their descent to the muster grounds themselves. There was much to do once they reached the other side, after all.