Warp Token 2 Word Update

First short scene of warp token. 2k words.

***

Lord Gnawdwell had convened his council. There were schemes to be put in motion, and revenge to be had.  

He had summoned his most ambitious underlords in his personal council, nestled deep beneath the bowels of Skavenblight, the festering heart of the Skaven Under Empire. Skavenblight was not (yet) his seat of power, but there was a deep satisfaction to be had in convening his Clan right below the whiskers of the weak Lords of Decay, who had begrudgingly counted him among their number many years ago. He had yet to receive a single invitation to any of the Council of Thirteen summonings.

The rotting wooden tables were sat arranged around a sunken pit of warpfire, and the Clan Mors banner burned proudly from the green embers within, its eerie flames casting flickering shadows across the obsidian walls of the Council chambers. The black stone was obscured in places by mechanical fluid ducts where green, bile mucous could be seen pumping through the glass, and flanking every seat was a tall spike with the head of an enemy impaled upon the tip. Even Gnawdwell’s most accomplished warlords had to be reminded of what happens to those who made Mors look weak with their betrayal.

His top field commanders ringed the tables’ left and right arcs, most of them warlords and master engineers, but there was a Grey Seer sitting at his opposite, and he was the only one to favour a robe instead of an exosuit or battle armour like the rest, yet the other lords gave him a wide berth all the same.

“Why is this slave here?” one of the warlords chittered, gesturing at the foot of the ring of tables, were a ragged Skaven groveled his face against the dirt. “Is it a servant? Bring us our feast, slave, or I will eat you instead! Yes-Yes!”

“This one brings information, not food,” another countered, the Skaven’s salvaged battle raiment clinking as he shifted his weight.

The first warlord immediately lost interest, but all other eyes settled on the skavenslave. He was a despicable thing, barely preserved in a thinning wrap of loincloth, and with coarse fur running sprials down his bone-taught skin, but Gnawdell watched him with keen interest.

“M-My most gracious Lords,” the slave began. “I-I am unworthy of your presence, b-but my master said to deliver message with quick-quick haste.”

“I know, that was me!” the warlord who’d defended him shouted. “You disrespected prestigious Lord Gnawdwell with your stupidity. Speak-chitter, now-now!”

“Y-Yes yes,” the slave said with a solemn bow. “Skaven has learned information most valuable. Skaven bought it for a token from Eshin agent, who overhead Skryre gutter-runners from the south-lands. Vermintides took dead-thing city, but the relic inside, it is gone!”

“Improbable!” one of the warlocks interrupted, putting himself into a trance as he huffed down a pawful of warpdust. “Eshin rats wanted Skaven to believe false lies. Guards, have this stupid rat tortured.”

“I-It is truth, I swear it on my pathetic life!” the slave stammered. “All clanrats saying the same thing-thing! Rats from all Great Clans fight in city, each think other stole relic-thing. I saw it with this eye, and this one!” He said, pointing to his face.

“The Under Empire's of the south have been uproaring,” the Grey Seer admitted is a breathy voice, passing his staff from left paw to right. “Prospering clanpits are now wet with rat blood. The Great Horned Rat is not pleased…”

“With you, Seer!” another warlord added. “Your Seer visions promised great-big power for Great Lord, and now Mors’ prize has been lost-lost.”

“Not lost,” Gnawdwell reminded, leaning forward on his throne above them. It had been the first words he’d spoken since they’d assembled, and his voice was enough to quiet the room. “Stolen.”

“Millions of vermin surround the city,” the half-asleep warlock countered. “Each one skitters for relic. What Great Clan could scurry so far underpaw, lose-avoid all attention from the Great Horned Rat’s Eye?”

“Ours,” Gnawdwell said simply.

His council went silent with questions, but not one of them wanted to ask them. That was one thing Gnawdwell hated about his Council. Fear was good up to a point, but an ambitious rat had far more uses. He knew that more than any of them.

“A Mors assassin was sent ahead of the vermintides,” Gnawdwell elaborated. “I had it depart Skavenblight as soon as the Horned Rat’s vision departed. My spies beyond the blight followed it to the borders of the man-thing lands. It had scurried over the border before the Great Clans had even given their own assassins the same command.”

Gnawdwell studied their faces carefully, wondering who’s thoughts were those of surprise, and who’s were not. He didn’t detect any of the latter, even from the self-anointed wise Seer. Excellent. It was dangerous to have one’s Council aware of one’s movements.

“With my dark blessings, this assassin reached the relic of power before the vermintides,” he continued. “Its task was to bring it back to me, but instead she has betrayed me.”

“She?” one of his warlords echoed. “You sent breeder-thing to get relic?”

Gnawdwell looked at him, and the Skaven went quiet for the rest of the council. After a moment, Gnawdwell looked back at the rest of his assembled commanders.

“This was not any breeder,” Gnawdwell continued. “It escaped from the breeding vats when it was just a pup, and killed or evaded every ratwife I sent to reclaim it. It had a killer’s heart, breeder or not-not.”

“How can a singular breeder steal our relic right under Great Clan’s whiskers?” one of the Skaven asked. “Correction, your relic, Lord,” he added quickly.

“The breeder had help,” Gnawdwell said. “but not from the Skaven.”

“How can you be sure of these thing-things, Great Lord?” the Grey Seer asked. “not even Council of Thirteen know of breeder’s existence.”

“The Council of Thirteen fools do not hear the Horned Rat like I do,” Gnawdwell spat. “He has revealed the breeder’s treachery to me-me, as I will now show to you. Observe.”

Gnawdwell reached for his staff, the bones strapped arounds its glittering warpstones rattling as he raised it above his head. He made a circle with its tip, muttering the words of magic under his breath. The warpstones began to thrum with power, emitting a light powerful enough to cast shadows across the snouts of his Skaven onlookers. The swerved the stave faster, and smoke began to ooze from the stones, the very essence of the warp creating smoking trails that hung thick against the ceiling.

As the council watched, the green vapours began to move, as though affected by a breeze, yet no draft pieced the chamber. The emerald trails began to take form with each gust. The warlords chittered amongst themselves as the body of a Skaven began to take shape, first the pointy snout, then a thin body, followed by a flared waist and stout thighs. The warpsmoke pulled a cloak over its back, obscuring its shapely torso. Even the most abstinent Skaven knew a breeder when it saw one, and most of the warlords’ expressions became more intrigued, even the one who’d wanted to eat the slave perked up.

The breeder was not alone. Next to it, more vapors began to coalesce, but not in the form of a rat. It was taller, almost twice the size of the breeder, with a flat face and a mop of hair on its head. Mail and iron plates clung to its long limbs, and upon its head rested an ornate helmet with giant feathered plumes coming out the top.

The council watched as the image of man-thing and the Skaven joined hands in partnership, but in the breeder’s other hand was an object. It looked somewhat like the staff Gnawdwell held at this moment, as long as the breeder was tall. The Skaven demonstrated an obscene display of generosity as she placed it in the human’s waiting hands.

“The breeder… it gives up the relic,” one of the warlords breathed. “Improbable!”

“To a man-thing!” another scoffed. “Stupid creature! This is why breeders belong in pits.”

The warlords began to shout and argue, cursing the breeder with all manner of vile threats. When they quieted, the Grey Seer spoke up. “Did the Horned Rat show you where this breeder is?”

Gnawdwell waved his foul staff again, and the images shifted. The two figures shrunk down to the size of paws, and around them more vapors collected. They took on the shape of a sleek, intimidating warship, cruising upon unseen waves. More man-things scurried about the deck, manning the cannons bristling from the forecastle and the hull.

“The breeder has stowed away on a man-thing ship,” the warlock said, as if that was not obvious. “Where-Where? I have slaves in Clan Skurvy, I get own ship and bring you this breeder’s head, Great Lord.”

“No, pick me-me!” another demanded. “I summon greatest vermintide, burn every ship in your name!”

“Give me honour, Gnawdwell Lord! I give you relic and breeder both!”

“Be quiet,” Gnawdwell demanded, and the room went silent. “This breeder’s betrayal to Clan Mors is an insult, but I will not have my council bicker and grovel like the Thirteen. I have already decided on who will exact payment from the breeder. Ironsnout!”

“Yes,” a voice hushed from the table to his right. One of the council stepped forward with a clunk of metal. At just over six feet, he was a monster of a rat, and his bulk was made more evident by his exosuit. From the tip of his tail to the end of his snout, armour plating was strapped to his hulking figure, pockmarked by valves and snaking pipes and metal grills. Steam hissed from the chutes jutting from his broad shoulders, and while his heavy armour looked salvaged, it was as well maintained as the engine of a lightning cannon, which was probably where the warlock engineer had gotten the parts from, judging by the massive weapon barrel projecting from the shoulder.

Across his neck he wore a chain of skulls, some Skaven, most trophies from the other races that lived on the surface. They made a harsh knocking sounds as they clacked together, barely overhead by the wheezing mechanics chugging along beneath his chestplate. The only evidence to suggest this was a Skaven and not some automaton came from the skin visible around the eyes and the lower jaw, which weren’t covered by his spiked helmet, his black fur spilling from under the joints. A metal vent covered his nostrils, and nothing could be picked out from the darkness between the rods.

“Ironsnout, take your vermintide north,” Gnawdwell ordered. “The breeder’s ship sails that way. She is a weak, fickle thing, but do not mistake her for easy prey. She was armed from my own personal weapon cache, has the backing of many man-things, and possesses the relic’s power. Make me proud, Ironsnout, bring me back that which is rightfully mine.

“And the breeder?” Ironsnout rasped, each word punctuated by a hiss of warpfire gas.

“Clan Mors cannot be seen as treacherous,” Gnawdwell said. “that is the weakness of the other Great Clans, it will not be ours. To be Mors is to work with your fellow Skaven, not against. The breeder must be taught what happens to any rat who thinks otherwise. I leave the details of this lesson in your paws, Ironsnout. Do not disappoint me.”

“Let me join the warlock,” one of his council urged. “Two vermintides will track down this breeder fast-quick.”

“This task is Ironsnout’s alone,” Gnawdwell said. “One vermintide will bring enough attention, we do not need the Lords of Decay getting suspicious. The rest of you I will assign to protecting our Under Empire, but first…”

The slave messenger felt Gnawdwell’s stare even as he pressed his face into the ground. He slowly rose up, as if any sudden motion might draw more attention.

“Someone take care of our messenger,” Gnawdwell added.

“Oh, Great Lord, forgive me-me!” the messenger shrieked, cltuchign his filthy head in filthy hands. “Don’t take care of Skaven like you take care of breeder-traitor! I just brought-gave message, fast-quick as paws could!”

“Brainless cretin. I am gracing you with a reward for your efforts. Leave before I start to think otherwise.”

“Oh, thank-thank!” the slave said. He saw Gnawdwell’s impatient look and bounded off like his tail was on fire, one of his stormvermin escorting him out of the chamber.

Gnawdwell resumed his duties, giving his warlords their orders. Sending Ironsnout off alone so less attention went with him was only a half-truth. He had seen Ironsnout devour every one of his littermates when he was a pup, and the savage ferocity was a thing of such raw beauty that the Lord couldn’t pass him up. Even before he’d stuffed himself in that noisy suit, Ironsnout was a ruthless killer, and he was proud to have him in the Clan.

Almost as proud as the day he’d uplifted the bitch, Skyseeker. Ironsnout had not been gifted a breeder for some time now. Perhaps Ironsnout would take a liking to her, if the mood struck him. If not, then Gnawdwell would have his revenge, and another head to put on a spike. He couldn’t decide which he preferred.