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Hans answered Falderan with a slight nod, but nothing more after that. He once more found himself at the mercy of Bjorn, who forcefully tugged at his trouser leg. "We're molding a lad into a man!" The Dwarf cheered, raising his fist in accomplishment toward the loin of his Elgi friend. Bjorn's hoarse voice dominated the grounds, and was thus half blemished by the heckling of brigands who marched past.
"Aye, keep away from that one, lads." Laughed a grizzled, bearded fellow in Estalian regalia, pointing toward Hans as fellows from his band looked on with devilish smiles. "That poor bastard'll be the first one to die down there. Get the skinny fool up front, Myrmidia knows we need some fodder for the Rats!" The laugher only raised in volume, as did Bjorn's own frustration on the behalf of his young friend; the jeers continued to echo in the distance as the soldiers turned their heads toward the sewer tunnels.

'...Dumb northerner...'
'...Which sod let their kid sail into Pirate town..?'
'...Has the twerp even been in a fight before..?'
'...Poor Dwarf, carrying his little hide like a babe's soiled nappy...'

Bjorn was furious, as though the very insults that slithered from the mouths of these mercenaries were not directed at Hans, but at the Dwarf himself. As his friend's dignity was left at the mercy of these dogs of war, so was his own. He unsheathed his pick, and waddled toward the moving group like an enraged seal upon the stone cobbles, until he felt a small tug at the brown felt of his tunic before he could even reach halfway. He felt no force from the grip, yet it was the bond for his friend that had stopped him in his tracks. He turned and stared into the sullen eyes of Hans, who shook his head in disapproval of the Dwarf's impulsiveness. The band of soldiers had already entered the sewer grating when the laughter and gossip and finally subsided.

"Hans, lad." Bjorn comforted softly. "I am a Dawi in both shape and character; such words would never have been left unavenged in the halls of my Karak. I would have fought in your honour had you not stopped me." He continued to sulk.

"Leave them be for now." Hans replied, his voice flavoured with a surprising touch of reservation and strength. "They are right to some extent; I'm not a warrior; I've most certainly never been in a proper fight, and my chances of survival down there are dependent on you and Falderan - But if Morrsleib holds any power over this world, then perhaps their thirst for slaughter will make them the first casualties of overconfidence."

Bjorn gave a deep sigh, and shook his head, pulling his Reikland companion by his left hand. "Don't talk such tripe, lad." Murmured the Dwarf as he marched alongside his Elgi fellow. "A bunch of Skaven are not going to frighten anyone." Bjorn continued, his and Hans' bodies becoming immersed within the darkness of the sewer tunnel as they entered past the broken grating. "Keep with us both, and ye'll be safe, not a doubt in me mind."

The way forward was lit by the flaming torches of the various dregs looking for a fight, but the resonating flames became dimmer as the mob dispersed with the tunnel complex. Bjorn made sure that he and Hans stuck with Falderan, but keeping the Elf in plain sight became more difficult as the drippings of sewer water snuffed out many of the torches as the trio delved deeper within, and thus much of the light in front of them had been erased.

"Gunna git me some Rats..." Whispered a crooked, bloodcrazed voice in front of them. Hans recognized the croaking immediately: They were in the same tunnel as one of the raving lunatics from the plaza; the fellow who had planned to sell the stolen treasures of his newly extinct family.

"I'll tear der little legs off like chicken wings, watch 'em scream as ah shove me spear in der hide; I'll rip the fur from their necks with me bare teeth, and I'll make me way to Bilbali once ave got back me little girl's savings. Don't worry little Mary, Daddy won't forget ye, never, and the Rats that ripped open yer sweet little guts out won't neither."

The lunatic snickered like a ghastly wraith in the darkness. But neither Hans nor Bjorn paid him any attention. In truth, both of them were more focused on the bloodcurlding wail that haunted one of the other tunnels nearby. They could not turn back, however: the tunnels had become swallowed by the pitch black maw behind them.

A chill of primal fear radiated within the tunnel. Total blackness shrouded the way forward.

Total silence; not a tall, sentient Rat in sight, Yet they trudged on in the dampness. But the way forward seemed to be endless as the seconds passed as minutes. Mere yards began to feel like miles upon their feet.

Then a roar. A huge, booming roar shook the tunnel like a Sigmarite church bell that ran for the first time since the Vampire Wars. A Jade glow lapped and waved in the distance, scraping upon the rancid floor. The terrible shroud suddenly conceded for the stark image of a beast that was neither Rat, nor Ogre.

It was both.

"By Grimnir's burly beard!" Screamed Bjorn in fury, as he unsheathed his pick at the sleight of hand of a lightning strike. "I thought this was supposed to be some basic raiding party; this attack's got more bite than I first guessed!"

Hans did not reply. The groans of anguish that emanated from his open mouth were muted by the terrible snarling of the abomination in front. The malevolent bravado of the mourning lunatic also seemed to quickly subside. From his stunted view, Bjorn could barely spot the fellow curl up into a fetal position as he embraced his death, before being colorfully reunited with his murdered kin as what looked like a giant, squished tomato. Various irregulars in front of the trio had also lost their manhood, whimpering like children at the mercy of this muscular freak of nature. Unable to react, the quivering soldiers were swatted across the tunnel like flies; they fell to the ground dead and broken with a crude smack upon the wet stone puddles of filth.

It was then that the creature had turned it's ugly head toward the survivors: Bjorn, Hans and Falderan. The raid upon Sartosa was just a small taste of the verminous power the Skaven would offer: the true fight for their lives had just begun.

The hulking monstrosity was even larger than Fal himself. A bulky mess of fur, muscle and scars. The Ogre like beast let out a growl and slammed it's fist into the ground. But through the green glow radiating from some form of growth on it's back to the torchlight on the ground the right hand was seen to be a metal mace. Fal had never seen such a monstrosity with the Skaven. It was foul and feral. A creature picked from the very pits of the world and by the many stitches just noticeable no more natural than a gun. Fal had his sword drawn as screams echoed through the tunnels. Cries of war, fear and fury roared out and bounced around the echoing tunnels. Rats scurried across the ground. Larger then normal they seemed more like the size of small cats. Fal slashed them as they ran past. His blade shrieking as it tasted blood. With the brittle snap of bone Fal saw the large Rat Ogre threw a guards body to the side. His skull crushed in the beasts jaws. Wasting no time it lunged for the group.

As the beast charged Fal shoved Hans out of the way into the wall and causing him to fall down. However he was out of the way of the creatures charge. Sliding across the ground in the foul smelling fecal water the creature stormed past. It wasn't able to stop easily. That was something Fal took note of.
"Dwarf you better no be slacking over there!" Fal cried as he rolled out the way as it pounced. Slamming the bloody mace hand into the stone it cracked it. Fal narrowly avoided his head being pulverized. Taking his chance he shoved his blade into the creatures left wrist. It swung its arm up and flailed. Fal pulled out the blade but was elbowed away. Despite stabbing it clearly through the beast only seemed angered. "By Morr what is this thing?" Fal pulls himself up and with the glowing boil on it's back giving the same eerie glow as Morrslieb Fal was even more unsettled. One torch on the floor remained burning providing little light in the dark tunnels. The Ogre roars and charges again.

Elsewhere the Skaven struck. It seemed almost planned. As the groups of men split up and Skaven struck individual groups and revealed new and frightening tools. A group of four men armed with hammers and kitchen knives were set upon by the sneaky vermin. Leaping from the shadows were tooth, claw and beady red eyes. One man stabbed an attacking rat and forced it to back off. But as he was knocked to the ground dozens of large cat sized rodents began to attack him. Biting into his flesh and eating into him like a swarm of frenzied wolves. He cried out but his friends couldn't help. Two were dragged down by the Skaven and brutally cut up with rusted blades while the final man armed with a hammer beat the skull of a Skaven in. But before he could get any satisfaction a metal ring latched around his neck. He fought at it but the metal had snapped shut and he was pulled along. The narrow torchlight showed his a scarred Skaven with grey fur an dark eyes. He held a large pole which was connected to the ring.
"Slave-slave! Yes-yes you worth lot." The Rat said as another came by and clubbed him over the head with a rock. Similar ambushes occurred across the sewers. The price people paid for not thinking the Skaven as cunning.

Into the sewege fell the Reiklander. His sense of smell was suddenly overloaded by the stench of filth, fresh carcasses and excrement (which he had barely avoided being stained by). Dazed by his fall, Hans was delirious to the terror that occured around him; his ears caught the muffled wails of various unfortunate folk who had dared test the Skaven in their very home. Those many hardy, arrogant veterans; the bravest of the brave by any regard: they had found themselves begging for mercy as they were dragged through the lurid sludge.

A chittering voice cackled among the pleas. "We eat whole island soon-soon! Sartosa is Captain Rotflag's now!" The Student held his ear toward the stonework, the Skaven raved and laughed with a maniacal glee, but it said nothing more; nothing intelligible anyway. He was snapped out of his tranquil state once the Rats came in their legions, crawling over Hans as though he was a living mountain; gnawing upon his leather hide. Finally unsheathing his shortsword, he wildly swung and stabbed in desperation at the pests that came to feed.

"I've seen one of these boys during me Prospector years!" Yelled Bjorn in reply, swatting away the horde in their tens with each swing of his Rubypick. "And don't you dare accuse me of any slack, Elgi!" He protested. "Today, I avenge the grudge of Thulgrim Pantherbeard's mineshaft!"

Bjorn ran head on upon his stubby legs as he met the Ogre's ferocious charge. The pick itself loomed above Bjorn's head; held by stretched arms as he met the Ogre's booming roar with a deafening shout of his own:

"Time for your reckoning, RAT!" Bjorn flung himself into the air, like a flea about to latch onto flesh. His pick gouged the left eye of the beast as it attempted to pummel him. The shocked monster reeled back in agony, but it was hardly rendered defeated, as it madly flailed it's head, causing the small Bjorn to swing for a few seconds before the bloodied pick was freed from it's place and the Dwarf was sent crashing into the wet muck with a rather comedic 'Whooarg!'

The beast snarled once more as Bjorn plopped: the luminescent jade light of warpstone revealing the newly made hole of sputtering red ichor that was once the Rat Ogre's left eye. It thumped it's huge fists into the ground like a rabid gorilla, causing much of the complex to rumble alarmingly as the Ogre once more began it's charge.

Only this time, the poor sod doomed to endure the recieving end, was Hans...

The Ogres charge was directed to Hans in a blood driven fury. With one eye horrifically gouged out and half blind it didn't care who it hit as long as it was somebody. Fal saw the mucus glow from the large back growth and the swinging of Han's panicked blade tipped him off. Sprinting forward he slid on the wet stone floor. His Elven body slender and dynamic for such movements. As the Ogre went into a charge Fal was able to with the slightest of seconds slide behind the hulking beast and slash at it's back tendons. The change to it's footing led all momentum to being changed. Instead of thrusting forward with arms raised like a ram it tumbled face first into the stone wall right next to Hans. The hulking mass knocked back the stones as it hit back first. A wet crack was heard a it would likely suffer several shattered bones from the impact which fractured stone. Beneath it were several smashed rats. Looking more like a red ooze with some fur and bone sticking out though. Fal slid forward into the water and was covered in the foul mess of the sewers. He panted as he pulled himself to his feet. Using his blade as support.

Smashed to a colourful pulp barely cloaked under the raised dust and muck, the Rat Ogre struggled to rise - too fatigued and battered to even drag itself upon it's rippling, patchwork stomach. Hans reared his head toward the Ogre, he jolted in surprise against the crashing monster as it conveniently landed next to his shadow. Those rats who were not squashed under the weight of the beast scattered back to whatever black womb which birthed their foul shape. As the rodents dispersed, Hans impulsively rose his shortsword above the Ogre as it groaned in pain, puncturing it's bald head. As he wrung the blade from it's place, a sanguine fountain manifested from the gaping wound - the eyes of the Ogre rolled backward as it embraced death.

As the monster expired, Hans himself regain his footing. He raised himself from the mire of filth, partly lost in delirium as he scaled the corpse. "By Sigmar..." The Student whispered aloud. "How is it that I still live?"

"Did ye listen to what I'd said earlier, lad?" Yawned the bruised Dwarf, raising himself from the dirt as he made sure that no rat droppings descecrated his noble beard. "Yer with us. Ye'll live." Bjorn laughed in bravado, still seemingly blind to the danger the three of them had placed themselves in.

"You still breathin' well,' Elgi." Chuckled Bjorn, wrapping his bloodied pick across it's holster. "I s'pose the lad owes you his life again, you even gave him your kill. No self respecting sod of your lot would ever give away summat like that." He commented.

Fal spat a glob of bloody saliva to the ground. It was tough to see in the dark but the faint glow from small drains about peeked in faint green moonlight.
"The monstrosity would have turned him into a bloodied mess. That was the best strike I could make on it and I'm just glad it worked. Not as bad as a Minotaur mind you. More horns on them." Fal brushed off pieces of filth from his coat and snickers. "Besides Bjorn. I thought you said you dealt with them before. Can't go having me finishing up all your messes. He says wandering over to them and seeing the squirming form of a leg broken rat in the corner puts his foot on the Skaven mutant an crushes its neck without a second thought. "As for thanks we don't need to worry about that. It seems the Skaven were more prepared for us then we thought. I'd wager the raid up top was a means to lure us down here. Chances are they could have a whole Undercity, I think they are called, down here." Fal heard things on travels. Rumors mostly that under major cities and towns the Skaven had set up their own horrific worlds. Places that bastardized and mimicked the cities of the Empire but under the verminous guidance of the Skaven themselves. "So what's the plan for now? If I'm right chances are we only got the attention of the guard dog." He says glaring at the Rat Ogre.

"Oi! Had I lodged me pick any further into the thing's skull, it would have been dead then and there." Argued Bjorn as he surveyed the collateral damage across the tunnel (that which was not hidden under the shroud of darkness, of course). "The scourge of the Pantherbeard was a beast I indeed saw, but I never had the chance to fell." The Dwarf explained. "Through the death of this overgrown rodent, I have partly avenged that personal grudge of mine. Let's hope I avenge many more before this Chaos moon wanes."

He gave his neck a satisfying crack in an attempt to combat a sore pain brought on by his fall into the wet pit. Bjorn had been violently flung by the Ogre several metres in the air; the impact of his drop had even left a faint, noticable crack in the hard stone. Were Bjorn of any of the Umgi ilk, he would have most certainly have been dealt a crippling injury, or a quick death...
...But Bjorn was a dense and formidable Dawi - a dangerous wrecking ball molded from mortal flesh.

"Whether to go back to the city, and escape with our lives..." Hans brooded silently, paying his fellows scant attention as he thought aloud. "...But the voice I heard from the other tunnel. Are they actually planning to attack the city proper?"

Bjorn paid no notice the boy's hushed ramblings, picking from the waste a longsword that had been tossed by one of the victims of the Rat Ogre, as he was cast aside like a bug under it's unrelenting force. Climbing atop the huge corpse, he punctured the monster's back with the blade; infront of Hans' face. The Student jumped for a moment, but came back to reality as - like a scolded dog - he gazed toward the Dwarf's gloom face with his own innocent eyes.

"Get over yerself, lad." Chided Bjorn, gripping the blade in his huge fist. "There was nottin' up there for ye anyway. Yer probably safer down 'ere with us than you ever were in the City alone. Now throw away that letter opener you call a sword and take a true Umgi's blade. I'll have no more of this whimpering from ye."

Hans gave a weak nod as Bjorn released his grip. It took a few seconds for the fellow to release the blade from the Ogre's cadaver: His and Bjorn's stunted but terrible physique were of no contest. Hans grunted as he lifted himself from the beast, for he was not a trained swordsman. The dripping blade loomed heavy under his gentle arms, yet he could barely hold the weapon in place so long and he kept both hands gripped tightly.

"There's a start now." Smiled Bjorn under the redness of his long beard. But his little lecture would have to be postponed for now, as his ears perked under Falderan's mentioning of an Undercity.

"Aye?" The Dwarf replied back as the Elgi explained, turning his head toward the tall figure curiously. "We dare not leave this place if what you say may be right!" Exclaimed Bjorn, tensing himself in fury and conviction. "By my ancestor's exploits, I care little if we three are the only bastards alive down here, I shall not suffer a hive of these pests! We'll doom them all to fester under the rubble using their own demonic weaponry. I swear upon my very Rubypick, for I shall undertake the Slayer's oath should we fail to purge this island of the Skaven degenerates and yet still live!"

Bjorn abruptly took to the front, sparing not even another word as he imeptuously delved deeper in. "Come on, you two! I shall take point until we find anymore of these wretches, I care not the size!" Hatred for the Thaggoraki had clearly roused within Bjorn that universal stubborness which all the Dawi were known for.

Hans looked onward as Bjorn's figure became shrouded under the greenish haze of Morrslieb. He turned his head toward Falderan for a moment. "I don't doubt his martial prowess for a moment, but he's going to end up getting himself killed if this keeps up." Commented the Student as he began to tread into the tunnel's maw, accompanied by a lonesome sigh.

-Somewhere Deep under Sartosa's sewer network-

Hidden beneath the gaping crevises of earth and wet muck, makeshift scaffolding cluttered almost the entirety of Under-Sartosa. Thousands upon thousands of malnourished, beaten Skavenslaves tirelessly laboured and chiseled under whip crack and claw scratch from the penmasters, bringing to life this impregnable bulwark; it's dominating presence upon the isle would mark the beginning of the end for Sartosa's No-fur squabblers. Aside from naught more than a few petty raiding parties, the Skaven had made little attempt to colonize and devour the Island of Pirates with such determined force. Yet - within a mere day - this bursting settlement of Rats had sprawled from nothing: Clanrats, slaves, disciplined and dangerous Stormvermin, even much coveted breeders that pumped out newborn, suckling Ratlings to an industrial capacity. They were all here, a mere splinter force of the original armada that mercilessly pulverized the Tilean fleet; still a force to be reckoned with.

A large pavilion, bearing the obscure emblem of Clan Skurvy stood beneath a still ravine marred by droves of bloated, drowned corpses. Dead slaves, traitors, and unfit platters for the elite floated silently on their still backs. Under the moans of hard labour, a cry of ecstacy wisped through the tattered tents. It resonated even above the tunnels, and could be heard by the Bjorn, Hans and most certainly Falderan. But the slaves stopped for nothing, for they knew the moment they reared their snivelling heads toward the scream meant an instant clawk from their superiors.

Sunami Anglermaw's keen ears had caught this grizzly scream of pleasure, still wetted and matted by the southern seas as he crept from the shadows of the various tents. Hidden among the hidden, he had found his way into Under-Sartosa hours ago; he saw the legions of Skaven race toward the surface, marshalled toward battle. They had not returned as of yet, and in his spite, he wished them all a slow and agonizing death. All mutineers would face destruction in due time, but the former Captain's attention was turned toward the noise of pleasure.

"Y-your new body is done-finished, mighty master!" Anglermaw caught the servile squeal of a traitor. A huge silhouette suddenly loomed over the tallest, most decorated tent, embossed with the skulls of both Clanrat and Man-thing in uneven fashion from top to bottom. Another shadow was present, carrying upon itself a huge ring of various, painful surgery tools, none of which seemed to be actually practical. "Even Anglermaw himself would be no match for you now."

The mutinied fellow gritted his teeth, but continued to begrudgingly abide in the shadows. He listened to the titanic figure roar; it's echo seemed to virtually quake upon the soil above...

The aftermath was quiet until the faint sounds of pain and squeals of torture made their way up from the twisting tunnels. Fal watched as Bjorn made his way down the tunnel. Eager to find and exterminate the Skaven in as brutal a manner as possible. Hans approached him as they kept moving. His concern for the Dwarf's livelihood was understandable. Dwarves would fight to the end and go down in a fury of angry swings once they felt a grudge towards something.
"If I am right about such a city then I'm afraid we're all likely dead. All I've heard were rumors. Street talk and back alley deals. But apparently tens of thousands of Skaven can be living underground. Without anyone noticing. Honestly I considered it madness. But now." He sighs. "If my experience with these cutthroats have shown anything it's that secrets can hide a blade a blade even right on your neck. Come on. We should keep up." Fal put some force to his shoulder and a small click was heard. He winced and got moving.

"He is right about being no safer there. If not Skaven then the townsfolk would lay into you. No one notices a few more bodies with knife wounds to the throat after a raid." It was the cruel truth of Sartosa. Or the world in general. When the chance arose such as after a Skaven raid you could kill someone and dump their body with no concern. It would just be another casualty of the attack. When it rains it pours. A saying he heard from some soldiers back in the lands of the Empire. Terrible things never happened alone. Everything was followed by more and many other secrets with it.

The tunnels were wet and stank horribly. The blood splattering the walls and floors in several places only added an iron smell to the sickening stench. The smell of wet fur and unwashed bodies started to pickup as they journeyed further in. The sounds of anguish and whips was faintly audible. Given how sound echos it was likely quiet the distance away. But at the same time it could be below them through the stone. Vision was getting harder and harder before they came across some wall mounted torches. Probably put in by the Skaven. Fal took one and waved it around. He kept constant watch over all dark corners and made sure Hans and Bjorn were always in sight. Aside from the faint warmth of the torch the tunnels were cold. More so then normal a nerve ending chill was in the air with Morrslieb risen. Just another unpleasant side effect of such an event.

With them having moved out three Skaven Clanrats came upon the corpse of the Rat Ogre.
"They killed the Ogre?" One says with a twitchy nose. Another was rummaging through the corpse of a soldier and found some coin it quickly pocketed. "They no-no like this. No they be mad-mad." The third said with a nasally tone. The first one by this time was looking through another dead soldier. He found nothing of interest but a crust of some bread and a small flask half empty. He chowed don on the bread and unscrewed the lid.
"That mine!" The nasally one cries. He was given no mind and started drinking down the contents in a single chug. It was only two mouthfuls but the content caused the Skaven to quiver. The nasally one pouts and commences looting. Once all valuables they could hold onto themselves were taken the weapons were picked up and they re-entered the darkness. Going back with their gathered weapons in hopes of rewards. None of them wanting to need to inform their warlord of the fallen Rat Ogre.

Hans sighed as he trudged through the thick mire of sewage. "By Sigmar's grace, all I hope is that we three are not the only ones still alive down here; I can't even begin to imagine what other terrors lurk inside these tunnels." He said, following the determined Dwarf in front. Bjorn was oddly fast for one of such stunted stature, and he always seemed to be hidden in the distance no matter how fast Hans walked. Perhaps it was that sheer perserverence the Dawi were known for that gifted him his speed: Bjorn seemed nearly indestructible, perhaps Hans' life was indeed secure in hands of these two braver folk.

Hans hummed aloud for a moment in thought, almost silenced by the constant splashing of the still, filthy puddles within this passage to Hell itself. "So then, I suppose that is why the Empire dare not speak of these Ratfolk." Hans wondered, replying to Falderan's statement on the topic of a potential Undercity. "The very idea that legions of sapient Rats, living under the very soil of one's hovel..." He fell silent for a few seconds. "...Such a thought could send the entire realm into disarray." Hans remained mute after that, his attention was now drawn to the rows of torches that illuminated the way forward. It would of been fair to at least ask where these conviently placed beacons of light lead to, but that question had already been answered for them - The hoarse booming of orders, clanking of steel and iron, the screams of pain and cries of battle from a myriad of gutteral voices.

It had become very clear to the three stragglers that they were not the only unfurred folk down here that retained their freedom, as the roars of battle resonated from merely a few paces away.

Bjorn's eyes gleamed with fiendish excitement, and his stubby Dwarven legs accelerated in pace. "Get moving, you two!" The Dwarf roared toward his fellows from behind. "It is time to exterminate some pests!" Bjorn laughed maniacally, thrusting his stunted frame toward the point of crisis; Hans was compelled to follow, much to his own dismay. On the other hand, a newfound determination had crept over the formerly craven Student. Surviving the Rat Ogre had given him an intoxicating sense of untouchability. Hans raced on, waves of foul water lapped across the tunnel with each kick of his legs.

The commotion grew louder as the three fellows emerged from the tunnel, until the thickness of battle was clear for them to behold, as the three of them stood by a curved entrance into a bridged passageway. There was bedlum by the great sewer arch: Many of the harderned, exotic folk from above still breathed undaunted, holding firm against droves of clanrats and conscripted skavenslaves, while the feared stormvermin stood by the rear, waiting to thin out the mixed Sartosan host. Up front, Ogres thrust the meek Ratfolk with their mightly, swole limbs. Swathes of the vermin were thrusted into the air by the might of these huge behemoths, crashing into the walls and some even found themselves bonked upon the sewer ceiling. The Titans plucked the most cravenous of the Skaven by their tails, swinging them like toys as they whirled, before hurling the poor mice into the savage row of corrugated stormvermin pikes. The Nipponese, Arabyan and Ulthuan folk fought as though they were incapable of the very thought of fear; they danced around their prey and tore the ratfolk to small ribbons with their curved blades, even as the fabric of their strange robes were soaked under the blood of these pests, their silent bloodthirst would remain unquenched.

The remaining war party of Sartosans and mercenaries that still lived faced the Skaven in close quarter combat. The hacking of Rat and Man flesh, roars of bravado and gunpowder banging all rolled into one huge orgy of zeal. Bjorn himself did not even alert his fellows or the acting general of this warhost, overcome by the passion for violence. He flew into the cramped battlefield, and the impact of his presence there was instant, as almost a dozen of the Skaven were tossed across the sewer passage, and into the murky waters under the bridge.

Hans gulped for a moment as he observed the battlefield. However, he was immediately possessed by some grizzly form of bravery, stemming from that fact that he had survived unmolested up to this point - He joined the Sartosans in their next charge against the clanrats, the once heavy longsword that he grasped with both hands seemed to oddly lift in weight.

The sheer size of this area was mind boggling. The sewers for Sartosa were built like a labyrinth of catacombs. It was no wonder the Skaven were able to set up under here. Fal gazed down the side of the bridge as he put together the purpose of the cavern. It must have been part of an underground ravine. The island of Sartosa was filled with dozens of underground caverns around the coast. A natural phenomenon that had been used to hide ships, loot, men and any other number of valuables. This one connecting to the sewers likely led to an old Barrack. There were rumors that centuries ago Sartosa had massive underground vaults were pirate lords kept private munitions and weapons. Likely these were abandoned long ago. The creeper vines and rich smelling moss would confirm this. The Skaven likely used it as part of their base. A potential armies worth of weapons left to rot, or at the very least a decently fortifiable position.

The fury of the battle on the bridge was something to behold. Blades swung and brought trails of blood of both man and rat. Ogres swept their massive arms and sent Skaven flying back or over the edge into the rocky water below. Their fates were unknown but if there was silence likely many cracks and snaps would be heard from their impacts. At the back of the bridge and on elevated rocks were men wielding muskets. The boom of black powder saw Skaven being blown aside and all but the sturdiest armour shattering. Armoured clanrats were blasted and twitched before embracing death as the seemingly limitless Skaven hordes grinded against the fierce forces of Sartosa. A khapesh of Araby swung up as a Slaves head went with it. The battle was a frenzy. But many men had died. Since arriving Fal saw several men be dragged down and hacked to pieces by the vicious vermin.

Bjorn's enthusiasm to rush forward was met with Fals grunt of disgust.
"You blasted fool!" He cried and then saw Hans move in. He gritted his teeth and with blade in hand rushed forward. Looking to is side he saw the pirate lord who stood up the back with a musket in hand. He aimed behind the horde and shot a Stormvermin in the shoulder. Fal was glad to see that at least this pompous commander was helping. Even if from the back. Fal leapt onto the two foot thick stone railings along the bridge. The bridge itself was about six meters wide. Men were tightly packed and little order was given to proper formations. But the Skaven were much the same. Pushed in even tighter than the forces of Sartosa it was a grind of blood and flesh. Fal had no chance of pushing in. Everyone was eager for their share of blood. But while on the side he charged for the Stormvermin forming a wall of halberds up the back. With the ferocity of he battle in front of them the rodents didn't notice the fast moving Elf till it was too late. One of the armoured Stormvermin looked over to him and screeched out. His halberd twisting around. As it went to slash his legs Fal used it. The blade was side wise and with his natural agility sprung off it and landed behind them.

The Vermin tried to turn to take him on but Fal was already on him. His blade slashing into the Skaven's throat from the front as he turned. Coming out the gap in the back of the armour he pulled the blade to the left and removed the 'elites' head. In the gap in the back lines three clanrats came at him. Screeching and slashing blades. Fal moved back parying their frenzied blows. The blade screamed and came down to taste more blood. Like some of the best swordsman in the Empire but with the grace of the Asrai Fal slew the rodents and let out a cry. The Stormvermin took notice. Three more turned and charged him. Halberds giving them the advantage. Fal smirked. He was glad to finally have a decent challenge. With blade ready he prepared to take on the rats. Hopefully having made a weakness in the Skaven's back line for the other Sartosans to push through.

"Lord-Sire! The Rat Ogre is dead!" A cravenous Clanrat raced within the fetid interior of the great tent, as fast, heavy panting accompanied his quick pace. The cretinous Rat repeated his words again and again, alarming every Skaven within the confines of the great pavilion. The syncronized unsheathing of blades drowned out his mindless raving for a moment, as snarling, sputtering Skaven crept toward the Captain's tent; all eager for further elaboration. The Penmasters from below reared their heads toward the scene, the slaves were given but a single moment of respite. Some would savour this moment with a deep breath of relief, knowing full well that a whip crack lay in wait imminently. Others however would quickly put down their master, only to usurp his position and enact the same spiteful cruelty as their predecessor: Under-Sartosa had fallen silent.

"What?" A collective shout escaped the voracious mouthes of the Captain, the Surgeon, and even Anglermaw himself - still miraculously hidden away from the mercy of his mutinous crew - a shock of surprise jolted the three of them. The newly crowned Clawcaptain of this contingent was indeed a beast to behold: Fresh from the gruesome molting courtesy of his Surgeon minion, the abomination tore himself from the makeshift operating table, soaked under his own vitae. Rotflag's stature humbled even the Ogre itself: The decapitated carrion of a Chosen of Chaos from the Northern lands, with the plague-ridden, phlegm spitting head of an overgrown Rodent sewn onto the open neck, and an inert tail clamped on his backside. Adorned with various pestilent relics upon the newly crafted, rudimentary armour, both of his subjects quailed in fear of his majesty. Even the capricious followers outside the tent suddenly seemed to back away from their better - though Anglermaw himself would remain strangely undaunted.

"Squeekocrateez! You tell me that Bull-rat could kill all Man-things on Sartosa by itself! How did this happen?" Demanded the booming tyrant, turning his head toward the Surgeon. "Speak now-now, or I stomp on you like the bug you are!" It would seem that the Skaven held no concept of gratitude for their loyal servants, no matter how recent their exploits.

"L-lord Rotflag, please do not act so rash!" Recoiled Squeekocrateez, huddling himself beside his surgical shelf. "T-their is-is more than Man-things on-on Pirate Island! Bull-rat must've been slain by Ogre, or Elf-thing!" Anglermaw himself sighed at this revelation. Bull-rat was a personal commision of his; a lovable guard dog of sorts. One of the few Skaven the former Captain could place his trust upon, even if his said companion was nothing more than a blood-crazed, primal lunatic. Now it's use had been blundered by this usurper, one whose own life would be sent to the Horned Rat in due time. Anglermaw cocked his warplock pistol, as he brooded on the right moment to strike.

"Then what we plan about battle above?" Inquired a drooling Rotflag, still getting aquainted with his new host. "Bull-rat was trump card, yes-yes, but now Bull-rat is dead. Stormvermin and pitiful Clanrats will not last against Ogre-things, and I still lead from rear-back. Skurvy host will not survive without food, we go back to Spineport, we will be eaten by Warlord."

"His lordship must relax." Interjected Squeekocrateez with a sudden, fiendish smile. "We do not need big weapons to kill meaty Ogre-things. My home of Clan Moulder was not the only realm that the inferior Anglermaw had contracted before his death. You did not forget about Master-Assassin Guyel of Clan Eshin, did you? Once he hear-hears the sounds of battle above, even the best Man-thing will be easy prey, yes-yes." Cackled the Surgeon; his laughter echoed throughout pavilion, as all Skaven upon Under-Sartosa joined in the madness, whether they held any understanding of the topic at hand or not. Even a very distinctive voice was carried amist the haunting hysteria.

An abrupt bang suddenly brought the bellowing critters back to sanity - the bang of a gun; a very distinct gun at that. One that had made a very distinct bullet hole within the head of the messenger, his mangled head torn to ribbons by bloody, glowing warpstone. Both Skaven turned themselves toward the direction of the shot. Both of them, including the newly-made monstrosity - Rotflag himself - cringed in ghostly fear at the wetted, matted wraith; still bearing his former sigils of leadership.

It was Anglermaw.

"...I'm back from the dead, an' I'm back for my crew..."


The fierce combat raged on within the depths of the sewer, and the valiant actions that Bjorn and Falderan displayed did nothing to quell the newfound vigour of the formerly craven Hans. This courage had even extended onto the soldiers themselves, undisciplined Dogs of War who sought to match the exploits of their exotic peers. Many would die trying, thought one soldier worth his stones still equelled a few Ratfolk. Slowly but surely, the host of Skavendom dwindled in number, and the Stormvermin were forced to march toward the front. Bjorn held no spacial awareness as he flung his Rubypick into the dense fray like a Khornate worshipper. His swings become less and less discriminate overtime, as the dregs of Sartosa themselves would often get caught within his brutal flurries. Hans himself was intoxicated by bloodlust, today, he would be more than a mere Student who had foolishly sailed to the City of Pirates: He would be a hero, and thus felt no conscience for each of the Ratfolk he dispatched. Clanrats ran frantically, perhaps reluctantly toward the Student, but they were unceremoniously hacked as Hans madly swung his blade vertically.

"It's that lad from before!" He could hear one of the mercenaries chatter, the skilled combatants making short work of whatever Skaven dared charge them.

"By Mymidia, the boy actually has the stones!"
"I take back what I said about the lad"
"He's swinging that blade like a raving Norscan, good on him!"

In their own minds, Bjorn and Hans were both utterly invincible...

...That was, until Hans had immediately observed one of the hulking Ogres in front moaning in agony, clutching at his neck.

"Can't... breathe..." The boorish monster struggled. "Big stone... in neck..." A strikingly round wound appeared upon the Ogre's neck; it became absurdly infected within a matter of seconds, before the beast fell dead onto his brethren, crushing many of the Sartosan soldierly. A mass panic fell across the once impetuous party of warriors. The offensive once again favoured the Skaven.

"I'll personally gun down the first of you who dares run!" The acting commander shouted down to his host as he cocked his flintlock, pointing it toward the head of a fleeing irregular. "Get back on that bridge, and-!" A jagged throwing star, appearing from virtually nowhere caught the throat of the commander, and he clutched his neck in desparation. He tumbled off of his high podium before landing head first upon the stone sewer steps, breaking his neck on the impact.

Hans fell silent for a moment, observing the death of the once invincible Titan as he was brought back to sanity. The Sartosan host suddenly pulled back, shaken from this debacle, and the Stormvermin deviously pushed forward. The Clanrats now set upon the disheartened folk; even a few of the skilled exotics could not persevere any further. Exhausted, their deaths were silent and honourable as they found their bodies punctured by the corrugated pikes of the stormvermin.

"What is this nonsense!" Roared a frustrated Bjorn, observing the retreat as he stared down the smiling Ratfolk. "I thought the Umgi to be brave fighters! It appears I was wrong about you race of cowards! No matter, I shall end this grudge alone!" Bjorn raced toward the host of Rats and charged, pick in hand.

But he found himself parried...

With newfound surprise, the Dawi stumbled like a newborn animal. He was then hit with a crushing blow to the face. One that had sent him rolling back across the filthy bridge. Still conscious and the rubypick secure with his grazed arms, Bjorn collected himself as he grasped his long beard, now dyed with not merely the blood of Skaven, but his own.

A ruthless cackle emerged from behind the group of stormvermin, alongside a cloaked figure, draped in menacing black that masked his form like a living shadow.

"Time for the Stunted-thing to die-die, yes?" Hissed the figure, bearing in both of it's claws two daggers, the sharpness of which rivalled the claw of a dragon. "Dwarf-things taste good, I eat you after I tear out your entrails with my bare teeth, yes-yes." It snickered once again, much to the fury of Bjorn.

"Not while Grombrindal himself still breathes, you Thaggoraki bastard!" Screamed Bjorn as he charged a second time.

Hans' own cowardly nature manifested in full swing as his fellows took higher ground, his ears fell deaf under trauma as he observed the battleground. He tried to move, but his body would not budge; he tried to scream for help, but his mouth would not open for him. The stormvermin moved in orderly fashion, but still, Hans was stricken by fear, the terrible weight of his blade returned, falling from his hands as he could bear the pressure no more. Death seemed certain, until he was pulled back by another fellow, one who neither was Bjorn nor Falderan.

"That was some good swingin' there, boy!" Chuckled the hardy Estalian as he dragged a withdrawn Hans to safety. "I hope to see some more. Stick with us, and perhaps you'll show me and the lads some more surprises."

'Bjorn..' The Student muttered, his whispers muted under the commotion, 'Bjorn, Falderan, help me! Please.'

The shrieks and wails of pain ran rampant just like the smell of iron and unwashed fur. The stench of battle was amplified tenfold as bodies were opened with the foul sewer scents rising up and mixing. This was something about the Skaven that went unmentioned. Their smell. Fal had been in drunk filled whore houses in Estalian ports that smelt more pleasant. Luckily he was never able to slow down enough to fully indulge in the smells. His blade continued it's blood fueled frenzy as it shrieked through the air. It's scream harvesting more life with each kill. As the fighting continued and numerous more Ratmen were cut down Fal seemed to be more invigorated. Or his blade was atleast. It seemed to flare with a life of its own. Something that seemed normal to Fal as he continued cutting down the Skaven back line.

As Fal stabbed an incoming Clanrat in his wrist he twisted letting the rodent squeal in pain. Dragging him close Fal elbowed the arm. With a sharp crack the bone broke. Blade being pulled out he drove it into the Skaven's chest and pulled it out with a bloody trail. He smirked taking an almost savage enjoyment in the kill. Behind him were around a dozen Clanrats and up to four of the armored Stormvermin left in pools of their own gore. Looking to his right he saw the body of an Ogre fall. The resulting chaos saw the Skaven push up. Fal was impressed that the Skaven took down an Ogre. The Stormvermin began to push into the main fight. Fal saw the men of Sartosa begin to pull back as their morale started crumbling. Just as the Ogre fell Fal took note of something else. It was quick but a black blur slunk into the mess of Skaven bodies. The mix of gunfire and screams made it impossible to hear anything around as more Skaven started pushing out of the caverns interior. Fal saw he would likely be surrounded and made his way back across the bridge.

On the railing he sprinted across as he saw the Skaven tide pushing back. He was thankfully too quick and the Clanrats on the side were not paying enough attention to strike him down before he got out of reach. Slashing his blade as he ran by the Elf managed to wound two before he jumped into the front line to help the retreating troops. His blade clashing with the Skaven's own. His once clean look stained with blood, dirt and even less desirable mess. His blade clashed more and more with the incoming Skaven's. They would soon be overrun he knew. But looking ahead he saw something which proved unnerving. It was the Dwarf Bjron. He was being charged at by a Skaven in black robes. A strange look for the Skaven but something was off with him. Something Fal didn't trust. Trying to push to him the Skaven leaped at him. He narrowly avoided a bite to the neck and had no choice but to move back as the Skaven advanced with newfound vigor.
"Bjorn! Pull back!" He shouts as his blade went into a Skaven's wrist and with a twist removed his hand. The blade continuing to shriek.

Falderan's warning was but another wisp muted among the commotion as Bjorn's pick became locked with the deadly blades of the Skaven Assassin. Soldiers ran frantically to the high ground; some trampled under the weight of lumbering, confused Ogres that hauled themselves above the stairs of cascading wetness. Those that still stood their ground found themselves hopelessly overwhelmed under the verminous valour of the Ratmen. Inspite of their superior martial prowess against this vermintide, the Sartosans now lacked an able commander. Thus, every breathing fellow that still held a sword between his hands was a commanding officer unto himself. For every Skaven Falderan would dispatch to the Horned Rat, a Sartosan fellow lost upon the battlefield would find himself set upon by a score of the rodents, each one gurgling in abject horror as they were devoured alive under a mass of chittering teeth.

Chaos (the literal kind, mind you) dominated the ranks, and the Skaven rushed their advantage, under a cacophany of cackles and warped wheezing.

Yet, the stone bridge remained desolate for the Assassin and his newfound Dawi rival. A mass of ruby eyes stared down Bjorn, craving to feast upon his meaty girth, though in their cowardice, they would not interfere upon the duel out of fear of becoming fair game for both warriors. The clancking of steel - of the purest Gromril and the fetid, corrugated material that Skavendom had to offer - rung within the crammed interior. The duel raged fiercly as Bjorn strove to land a hit on the rogue, who was like no Skaven that the Dawi had faced. This one was not plagued by fear or second thoughts of retreat, but was of one mind and mission: to slay the Dwarf. In this, Guyel was able to use that latent Skaven agility to it's fullest advantage. To him, Bjorn was a clumsy, exhausted foe; there was no challenge in this test of skill. Parrying yet another of the Dwarf's hulking swings, Guyel pounced with extraordinary speed - a speed which unfortunately Bjorn could not anticipate. The claws upon the Assassin's feet dug deep into Bjorn's flesh, who fell breathless as both the poison-tipped daggers cut through his breastplate, lacerating his flesh and rendering him paralyzed.

A collective of Skaven heads protruded from the darkness like a furry hydra, salivating with an insatiable appetite. They gasped with glee and excitement as Bjorn fell flat onto the stonework, still under Guyel's mercy. The rubypick itself had dropped into the river below, rendering it unreachable. Unable to move, Bjorn coughed and sputtered with his own sanguine lifeforce as he helplessly stared wide-eyed into the jeweled eyes of his rival - his mind still thrashed with that natural Dawi sense of perserverence, even as he gazed into the face of death.

"...May the White Dwarf tear ye asunder for this act of murder, Skaven filth..." Bjorn grunted as he spat into the face of his vanquisher, who flinched for a moment as he wiped the bloody spit from his now red veil. Guyel turned his head back toward the ecstatic Clanrats for but a moment, as his mind suddenly burst with various examples of humiliating the Dwarf. A high-pitched cackle vibrated from under the veil, and he dug the claw of his foot into the belly of the Dwarf. Bjorn's face tensed in defiance of his torture as the Skaven's hunchbacked figure loomed over his beard.

"I am not your murderer, Stunted-thing, not today-yes..." Whispered the veiled Ratman. "...Rather, I am but the preparer... of a meal." Guyel rose above his prey, laughing manically as he scurried away from the bridge leaving the Dwarf as he twitched in desparation. "Vermin!" Guyel screeched, venturing back into the living jungle of pests. "Your platter is served!"

"No..."

The beady eyes of the Ratfolk suddenly widened to an insane degree, hissing and chittering as they ran toward their meal. They fought and clawed at eachother for the right to devour such a trophy, as many of the competing Clanrats fell and tumbled from the bridge toward a watery grave. Bjorn twisted his neck frantically, roaring in fury in the vain hope that Dawi courage alone would perform some great miracle and grant him movement once more, but it was to no avail. His flailings were a hopeless cause, as more than a dozen pairs of rodent teeth sank into his Dawi flesh.

"MAY GRIMNIR AVENGE ME OF THIS HUMILATION!" Bjorn bellowed as he furiously accepted his fate. "MAY THE THAGGORAKI BURN IN THE DEEPEST PITS OF HELL! WOE UPON YOU ALL, WOE UPON THE UMGI COWARDS!" His terrible curses soon devolved into screams of agony as his body was ripped apart under a horde of starving Ratmen until there was literally nothing left of Bjorn the Rubypick. The path now cleared for the Skaven, those that had previously surveyed the fateful encounter were now free to push forward as the Sartosan host found itself hopelessly flanked.

This seemed to be end, Hans thought, unable to comprehend what had just happened to his bodyguard and dear friend. Catatonic, he found himself dragged by the Estalian captain, who himself fought like a man possesed to keep the Student from becoming the next snack of the Skaven. He thrusted his estoc into the mind of any Skaven who dared approached the both of them. Slowly but surely, he trudged by Falderan and the remaining host.

"You seem like the sort who'll keep the lot of us still breathin.'" He commented on the Elf's handiwork. "Give me and the lads any orders, 'n' we'll see them through, I assure you."

"Well, so much for that operation..." the old man complained, staring down at his former associates. He had been tasked with infiltrating a particularly bothersome band of pirates that had a tendency to raid the Empire's coast; fortunately, they seemed very much incapable of continuing those acts of violence what with their limbs being scattered along the tunnel.

These vile ratmen (or Skaven as they were more properly known) had butchered the crew as they defended the town - ironic that their last deed had been good. The old man had made it out through the grace of his swordsmanship and obfuscation abilities, skills he had never been more grateful for possessing. Now he stood wiping the filthy creatures' blood from his longsword, not standing to have his prized possession tainted with their obscene innards. Truly, there were few viler than the Skaven.

After a few moments, he wiped his sword clean enough that the fires around him made the sword glow a fierce orange with their light. The old man clicked a few joints his age had withered and made his way back into the fray, sword held ready to cleave any and all rats in his way. The first went down shrieking an awful sound as the blade pierced its abdomen and ripped itself free from the side. The second put up more of a fight: it gnashed its teeth at the old man; clawed at his arms and attempted to tear through the steel currently embedded into its chest.

As the beast died in a bloody mess on the rough, stone floor, the old man beheld a dwarf making a ruckus of his death and screaming bloody murder at the Skaven condemning him to his fate. To the side of the rats, he could also see two men, an elf fighting like a veteran and a young man from the Empire being hauled off by an Estalian by the looks of him. Deciding a group was a better place to be among this menagerie of murder, the old man cleaved his way over to them.

By the time he reached them, his sailor disguise, which was previously white, was now a black-crimson shade from head to toe - the same could be said for his sword. He kept his dull eyes on the beasts as they neared, his sword aloft ready to strike them down swiftly and painfully.

Through flourishes of fur and metal Fal caught glimpses of Bjorn's battle. He saw the cloaked rat leave the still living Dwarf to retreat into the hordes of Skaven behind him. Over the shrieks of fury around him he heard gleeful chattering of Skaven as they proceeded to devour the Dwarf. Fal had only known Bjorn for mere hours by now so he hadn't the biggest connection with him. However he felt the Dwarf, for all his obscene antics and stubbornness deserved better than to be devoured by a horde of hungry rodents. A twirl of his blade sent a splash of blood into the air and Fal pulled back to the retreating men of Sartosa. With Bjorn dead the horde would quickly make it's way to him. He kept his blade ready as they began to pull back into the tunnels. Pushed back by the verminous tide. A foul defeat but one Fal felt should be repaid in blood. With thirteen Skaven corpses around him he made his way back.
"Keep moving!" He cried as he saw the hordes attention turn to him.

At the back of the tunnels behind the Skaven were Slaves already picking clean the dead rodents bodies. All armour, weapons and valuables were taken back by ruthless scavengers. The bodies weren't even cold, some where still twitching. But a quick claw to the throat stopped that. They looted anything that wasn't stuck down and the bodies were brought back likely with the intent of cannibalizing the dead. Shrieks of victory came from the horde of slaves cleaning up for their masters. The black cloaked figure seemed to blink past them in a blur. His destination unknown and none of the business of the slaves.

Fal proceeded to make his way into the crowed where he saw Hans being dragged away. A look of terror in his eyes and he quivered in the Estalians grasp. The host of men pulled back into the tunnels and the Skaven seemed content with waiting on the bridge and gathering the bodies of those left. They may have won the fight but they suffered. Like any beast of Old Worlds forests they will pull back and lick their wounds. Their numbers could still be in the tens of thousands deeper down where the numbers suffered for the Sartosans would be far harder to replace. The Skaven gathered up weapons, loot and foot with the dead Sartosans. Shrieks of victory sounded through the tunnels.

The Captain who saved Hans approached Fal as they all pulled back into the tunnels. Fal snorted and rolled his eyes.
"Clearly your tactics didn't get you far." He says as he sheaths his blade. The dark swords faint shrieks fading as it was sheathed. He took a deep breath and regretted it. The smell and taste of the air was vile. He spat a bloody clump onto the floor. "Well if I'm being appointed leader of a group of loyal mercs I might as well hear what I have to work with." He says holding back a laugh as he put the words 'loyal' and 'mercs' next to one another. "First pull everyone back. Get out of the tunnels and back into the city. We need to regroup and get our forces ready for the inevitable counter attack. The Skaven have seen us retreating. They'll pursue like hungry wolves on a wounded deer." Fal gave the man a stern nod and made his way to Hans. "We gotta keep moving."

As the sulphuric haze of grinded warpstone permeated within the tent, as did Rotflag's own bewilderment to this ghastly scene. A high-ranking lieutenant upon dreaded Ark, he had bore witness to the mutiny upon that terrible ship - Rotflag himself saw the score of rebellious Stormvermin toss an unconscious Anglermaw into the open sea; towards what should have been certain death. The subsequent indecision of leadership after the Captain's demise had led to an open rebellion as aspiring Clawcaptains and their retinue vied over control of the Ark. So bloody was the widespread revolt among the Skurvy ranks, that Rotflag himself had evacuated the Ark with those who still claimed loyalty to his dominion. He would plant his own seed of Vermin conquest here on the very edge of the Old World; Sartosa would belong to the Skurvy remnants...

...Of course, Rotflag would first have to deal with this pretender, the astoundingly fortunate, and astoundingly disgraced Anglermaw. His little sycophant, Squeekocrateez, was silent; clearly petrified after the immediate bang of warpstone, as well as the colourful mess that shot had made. But this newly crafted body the usurper now possesed had gifted him with a somewhat 'possessive' bravery and intelligence -- It would take more than some loud noise and a vision of the dead to frighten him now.

"So, the Horned One has shown ye some slither of mercy, yes-yes?" Mused the colossal Rat as he loomed over the former captain from his surgical throne. The usurper's words were strangely articulate, not the usual mish-mash of twitches and snarls as one would expect of the Ratfolk. "While luck has been with you thus far, you are a fool to come back here, Anglermaw; your return achieves nothing. There is nothing for you here except bitter-hate and death. This is my crew now-now, I will conquer this island in my name, for yours is now worth less than dirt here-here."

A domineering circle of silhouettes stood cloaked behind the tent's unwashed fabric; their numbers uncountable from inside. Anglermaw surveyed the ring of shadowed figures, the stitched material of the tent gave way as a group of Skaven heads emerged to the commotion, hissing and jeering at their former master.

"Anglermaw is disgraced!" One of the Rats taunted as his jagged helm tore through the tent wall. "Anglermaw fail-failed Clan Skurvy." Another one screamed, impetuously swinging his claw at the former Captain's feet. "The Ark is lost. We devour Anglermaw! Take his Rat-skull to Warlord!"

As the Rodents clamoured for a taste of their former Captain, Angermaw aptly shot another round of his exotic pistol, this time into the ravenous group. The terrible stopping power of warpstone had mutilated at least three of the underlings beyond recognition. Those that still lived had backed off in fear, but now many more sneering heads peered from the opening. The tent breach widened as the crowd of Rats gathered in size, like a host of parasites exposed from within an open, festering wound. Rotflag chuckled with amusement at the hateful sight, as did his reluctant underling, who was influenced by intimidation alone to keep on Rotflag's good side.

"What has become of the Ark, Rotflag?" Hissed Anglermaw. "Ye'd do well to answer me, or should I gnaw off the stitches upon yer neck?" The warpstone hookarm gleamed as it's matted host moved forward, undaunted by the terrible sight of the new Captain. "I may have lost my station in the eyes of these cur-rats, but I can still reclaim my prize."

"The Ark is beyond us, Anglermaw." Rotflag said. "The Ark is beyond the paws of any Rat. It sails unclaimed, as all pretenders have met a watery grave now-now."

"I care not-not who sails it, only where it sails."
"Ye should not waste your short life worrying about such trivia, 'Captain'."
"Why so? Is the Ark lost to Skavendom? Does it still sail in Old-world, pretender?"
"These questions bore me-me, they will matter little after your death!"

Rotflag boomed as he rose from his makeshift throne, his body towered above any of the patchwork Ogres of Clan Moulder, and his mind was of sound composure. He clenched his bloody fists and rose them above his Rodent head as a legion of voices cheered and screamed for death.

"Time to die, Slave-thing." Snickered Rotflag as he threw his fists like a huge mace of flesh.

"I think not-not, traitor!" Returned Anglermaw, stepping to the side of the colossus as he crashed into the earth, his chest sliced open by the warpstone hook, roaring as the prey made it's escape to the outside; dispatching any of the voracious Skurvy Rats that dared to give chase. Rotflag did not join in the pandemonium, as the deep wound upon his body healed alarmingly. Brushing aside the tent entrance while his Moulder servant followed suit, Rotflag witnessed Anglermaw make his escape, taking a large leap of faith into the ravine of bloated corpses. Showers of stone, dirt and excrement rained down upon the ravine as the Clanrats attempted to prevent Anglermaw's retreat.

But it was to no avail, Anglermaw was gone as soon as he had come; the decaying mass of corpses below had provided him with the cover he needed.

"W-what should we do about Anglermaw, almighty master?" Squeekocrateez asked, regaining his composure as he too emerged from the tent.

"Nothing." Rotflag replied. "He is disgraced, there is no consequence as to what he does now. He can't go back to Spineport or he will be torn apart by the Warlord himself. As for us-us, it is time to take the Pirate city; time to eat the no-furs within."

"But most masterful of masters, Guyel of Eshin has yet to return."
"Do not worry, Moulder-rat, Horned one has granted me visions of victory. I have forseen it. Bring me my new weapons, I shall lead from front now. Horned one also desires blood of Man-things."

Squeekocrateez nodded silently as he wondered what surgical complications had caused the Captain to behave so... un-Skavenlike.

The Estalian chuckled. "You crack me up, Elf. I think at this point, anyone with a still beating heart is yours to give orders to, don't you think?" He wiped the blood from his morion as he let Hans down, sheathing his estoc. "My title isn't exactly important right now, so you can simply call me Miguel of Bilbali." The Estalian panted in exhaustion as he surveyed the scene of defeat, as well as the droves of Sartosan dregs who raced back into the tunnels of darkness, hopefully toward sanctuary.

"By Myrmidia's good grace..." He commented, gazing at the sight of death and despair below. "I don't think two Ogres and a handful of scraggy irregulars are enough to save this sewerhole."

The old man sheathed his longsword and followed the group, keeping a watchful eye on where they came from to check for any ravenous pursuers. He had thought of how he would finally meet his end for many years: a battlefield surrounded by the enemies of the Empire; a failed undercover operation where the party, unfortunately, decides to kill him or even alone, sick in a bed, dying due to his failing body. Skaven were never a part of the equation and nor were they this night.

He walked towards the young man previously being carried by the Estalian. The boy looked mortified - more so than the others.

He slapped the boy across the back and gave a smile, "You look like an Ork's backside lad, what happened to you in there?" Humour was more likely to coax more words out of the boy than outright asking; one had to know such things in the old man's line of work. "Are you wounded, sick per-chance?" He, in truth, had a dutiful attitude to protecting the Empire and its citizens, he viewed the place as his beloved home and was repulsed by anything that dared to lay a finger on it - or claws in this case.

Looking at the boy, he seemed to be the intellectual type which tend to not fare all that well in a battlefield situation. The old man wasn't a brainless soldier himself, though, comparing him to his peers would show the difference in intellect. Perhaps the boy was from one of the colleges? That would explain why he charged in with the pirates and mercenaries into the belly of the beast. All of this information would have to be drawn out of him over time, however as the lad was certainly not looking like he was in the mood to divulge his entire life story to a random, bloodied old man.

Pushing up into the tunnels the group made it some distance from the bridge. Looking around there was barely a third of the original force that entered. Miguel words of support and trust were almost out of place. He was likely scared after such a failed attack. Fal thought he must have realized that even if they killed five Skaven for every man lost they still barely hit the Skaven's total forces. One thing about the ratmen is they're almost numberless. It was as if the darkness itself bred the foul vermin. Seeing Hans was being spoken to by a strange man Fal kept nearby and within earshot. Hans was almost like a lost puppy. Sad and vulnerable but Fal couldn't just leave him despite having no obligation to stay. He remained in earshot as Miguel spoke.
"Our forces are majorly hit. Any fortifications would be handy but the Skaven will soon reemerge from any and every drain. You know your way around here and with the people somewhat it seems. If you can rally what forces you can I'll know what I'm working with. Anyone who knows of any defensive positions should speak up. I imagine the Skaven will move within the hour if they haven't already." Fal says taking to his leadership role rather well. He had experience when he led hunting parties against Beastmen in years gone by.

Even the modest force of the elderly fellow's touch was enough to snap the delicate Hans out from his state of panic. He gasped heavily as he clutched onto the congealed sewer filth that was abundantly splattered across the tunnel ground; his frail body steadily rose, coughing and sputtering like a sickly infant.

"I-I am alright! I am f-fine." Hans replied to the old fellow, his words were rushed and barely cohrent as the Student attempted to make sense of his surroundings. He was still alive at least, that was the most important thing. He had risen from the sewer tunnel, and not from within one of the solemn houses of Morr, back within the Empire. "I just- I just..." Hans fell silent for moment, wide eyed and breathless, as he realised that there was one fellow still missing among the survivors.

"Well, spit it out, lad!" Miguel interrupted, placing his hand upon Hans' shoulder, the broadness of his palm almost covering it entirely. "You're not dying are you? You didn't swallow any of that Rat blood while you were down there?"

"Probably caught of mouthful of Rat shit, Sir." One of the Estalian mercenaries heckled. "Should've left the lad down there as fertilizer for 'em."

"Not the time, Alejandro." Miguel chided his underling. "As a matter of fact, I didn't recall seeing you down at the front. Are you frightened of Rats, by chance?"

"He had to go for privy break, Captain." Another soldier interjected, before Alejandro could justify himself. "Fear just has that effect on the bowels."

The Estalians laughed and bantered among themselves, but Miguel paid his men no attention for the moment. "Ignore them, boy." He whispered to Hans. "What I saw down there was no fluke."

"I'm just glad that I'm still alive." Hans replied, wiping away the sewer filth upon his fingers as he spoke. "I've never been in a situation like this before. My father is a very protective man, if he found that I was lost upon the island of Sartosa... and without Bjorn... Oh Sigmar! Bjorn!" A mournful tear slid down the Student's face as he fell back into silence and despair. Miguel could only pat the poor boy's shoulder once more as he nudged Hans to follow, joining Falderan.

He nodded in acknowledgement of Falderan's concern. "Of course. The bastards 'ere know their place on the pecking order." Miguel said as he followed the Elf, trudging through the tunnel, which became less moist as the group emerged closer to the surface. "We've really separated the wheat from the chaff, here. These lads are some of the best duelists in the Southern Realms!" Miguel boasted, then his voice suddenly fell faint with concern. "Then again, ten men cannot last against ten thousand; we can only pray that the Sea Dogs who sail this way have come to the aid of their Pirate haven. Perhaps there will be hosts of hardy folk up there, folk who did not join our little hunt."

As for fortifications, well, that was a topic that Miguel had no answer for. As a matter of fact, he had half a mind to get on the first boat back onto the mainland and leave this abject example of poverty known as the City of Pirates to it's pestilent fate. Miguel and his men had not delved within the tunnels out of vengeance, but rather out of personal gain; they had looked to make a profit out of the slaughter, yet it was clear from now on that the Estalian and his men had bitten off more they could chew. That said, leaving now would leave a black stain on his title. If these lot were indeed the best duelists among the Southern Realms - as Miguel had bragged - none of them would take a coward seriously, it was this thought that suddenly clouded the Captain's own mind, and he gritted his teeth at the motherless reprobates behind him.

The Estalian captain suddenly turned his head toward the shambling remnants of his crew. "Get marching, you dregs!" Miguel shouted to his thralls, well, the surviving eight of them, at the very least. The two Ogres seemed to have already made their way back toward the surface. There was the stench of death that hung heavy up there. Perhaps the beasts were busy feasting upon the remnants of that skirmish hours ago.

However, as they walked onward, there was something that had piqued Miguel's interest as he marched beside the troubled student. Moreso than the fact that a young boy had chosen to make his visit to the anarchic City of Pirates, of all places. There was another fellow here, an Enigma. The Old man, who the Captain did not recall joining the now routed host when they first delved into the tunnels. This fellow seemed even less capable the boy, and yet, not only held his own, but seemed dauntless against the Vermintide. Miguel had few things that were stranger.

Miguel turned his head toward the mysterious Stranger. "You're not some mere coffin dodger, are you. What brings a fellow like yourself to this godforsaken hovel, old man?" He asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

The old man laughed at the man's comment, "Coffin dodger? I've lived for many years but I've never heard that one before." He walked closer to the curious man, managing to keep pace with the younger man despite his advanced age. "I came for the booze and the women - what other reasons are there?"

Obviously, the old man was telling a half-truth; sure, the beer and the women were heavenly, but there were other reasons behind his visit to Sartosa - ones he couldn't let slip out.

"But enough about this old man, what about yourself? I'm sure you've got many a tale to tell while these rats lick their wounds." Not the most subtle change in topic, but enough, he reckoned to distract a Sartosan fresh from combat. He brushed off his sword as they walked; the blade had once again been sullied by rat blood and he had a feeling it would need cleaning again in a matter of hours. The blade was not something overly ornate, just a simple longsword that would be provided to any Empire infantrymen - though it had more character. Each mark said a thousand words; every stain warned those near of his prowess, it was a beautiful veteran of war.