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This old man that caught Miguel's attention seemed odd. Something about him. He caused the hair on Fal's arms to stand up, or maybe that was the cold. This feeling was something he felt before on Ulthwan and occasionally within the Empire. He couldn't quiet put his finger on it. He shook it off and makes his way over to Hans who seems to be in shock.
"They're stubborn Dwarves. May not be ideal but he wouldn't have wanted to flee. They'd prefer a million deaths over breaking their honor." Fal tried to comfort him in hopes that it would help him come to terms with his loss. Last thing they needed was Hans lolling behind to be preyed upon. Fal kept an eye on the retreating numbers. Making sure everyone was moving and no one infighting or trying to claim possessions from the dead and causing issues.

Hans gave a defeated sigh. "I suppose you're right." He replied as he followed beside Miguel and Falderan. "I just wish, when all is said and done, that he could have perhaps left us in a different manner. He was my friend, if only a stubborn one." A different manner, Hans dwelt on that phrase. 'A more heroic manner,' was what Hans had mean't, for he had during his time within these sewers had expected Bjorn's death, but it had come pridelessly. As absurdly ridiculous Dwarves tend to be when their personal honour comes into question, what happened to the Rubypick was hardly the precipice of an honourable death. Bjorn had worse than a mere dishonourable end...

...He died for nothing...

...But Hans dare not say that; he could not bear it. It was too early to brood on such matters right now. Everybody's focus was on getting out of this literally Rat-infested sewerhole, less so than speculating on the consequences of this defeat. The jade haze of Morrslieb had come back into plain view, as the very tunnel itself seemed to glow green with pure chaos.

Miguel pinced his lip as they prepared to emerge back onto the surface, the grating to safety was in clear view. "Bad omen." He nervously chuckled. Despite this, the Captain could catch the murmurs of his exhausted brethren caught within the tunnel mist. They spoke of sanctuary, rest, and sweet love-making within the brothels of this city. Miguel chuckled again, of course the eight of them were merely grasping at buried fantasies: This eventful night was soon about to get that more uglier.

"Who, me?" Miguel responded to the Old man as he climbed out of the grating. "Nah, there's nothing to say about me aside from being the one who keeps the leash on these here gang of mutts." He chuckled, looking back toward his men, still musing among themselves of romantic conquest. "Been all over, but done little, save a bit of plunder here and a raid there. Carnal pleasure and the touch of women simply doesn't interest me, no matter how exotic."

"He enjoys the touch of big Southland men, though!" Alejandro once again heckled from behind. "Mmm, yes! Long Southland banana. Myrmidia knows the Captain loves the taste. Watch out, Old man, he might be coming onto you!" The Estalians once more laughed together. Of course, Miguel had no response. He knew their crude humour was in good fun, and his Estoc would speak volumes should any of them fall out of line. "Miguel has always had an eye for antique wares!" Another of the Estalian party joined in the fun.

"You see what I have to put up with?" Said Miguel to his more refined companions.

The Student, Miguel and the other stragglers gave a deep breath of relief as they relished the clear, untainted air, the soothing sound of the Southern waves lapping across the Sartosan beaches, the creaking of those old, wooden wharfs by the City warehouses... and the nuzzle of a flintlock rifle pointed directly at their chests.

Rows of them, in fact. Held by scruffy, stripped Sea Dogs who looked as though they had not washed since the moment they were pulled from their mother's womb. These malnourished, scurvy ridden cretins wore merely a vest and a pair of torn shorts, with mere wrappings across their feet to call footwear. Missing teeth were abound as they grinned fiendishly, grunting like apes as the rifles in their hands shook alarmingly.

"Hold yer fire, ye set a' knaves." The bandana clad heads turned as a croocked voice called out to them. "These aren't the Rats." The wall of rifles suddenly parted way for the owner of that shout. His shadow loomed over his foul men like some terrible Demon, mostly thanks to the unnerving Morrslieb sky. The pirate admiral held those usual sigils of authority, such as a rugged pirate crown, as well as a finely tailored coat of claret that wrapped across his torso, complete with a literal silver lining that glinted under the light of the chaos moon. He had retained his limbs, but a shadowed hole within his left socket alluded to the fact that this scarred individual had seen his fair share of combat, though most of those markings were hidden under the natural cowl of his scraggy, black beard.

The Captain marched his way to the four up front, staring contemptously at the final wave of survivors. "Arr, the last of that raidin' party are finally 'ere." He said, surveying the group. "Un' what a right colourful set o' scallywags you lot are."

The old man shrugged, "One has to expect those kinds of jokes when on the sea; I've always loved a sailor's humour." He turned and gave a thumbs up to the sailors behind them, playing along with the joke. "In all seriousness," he continued "travelling all that way and not a single escapade?" The old man had an illustrious career travelling the Empire and beyond seeing horrors the Skaven would hack up their innards over so it was difficult to believe anyone could travel so much and yet do so little.

When the admiral reared his head, Reinhold remained silent, doing his job and analysing him and working out what made him tick. He looked accomplished what with his silver-lined apparel and pirate crown; definitely not to be reckoned with on the seas. It looked like he'd seen his fair share of duels too given the very noticeable disfigurement that was his missing eye; the lack of depth perception could hinder his performance in duels to come - he noted. As the admiral spoke, the old man still kept his mouth shut, leaving the pirates to deal with their own kind.

Fal wandered on ahead once he saw the exit insight. Hans was left several meters behind around Miguel so Fal thought he would be fine for the moment. Once he made it out and was greeted to crazed light of Morrslieb coating dozens of rifles aimed squarely at the tunnel entrance he snarled. He wasn't in the mood to deal with some disgruntled drunks and their weapons. Luckily for everyone involved the group revealed they were waiting our for the Skaven. The apparent leader of them, a scarred man likely with many stories to tell came to the front.
"A dozen or so more coming up the rear. Damned vermin took out the majority of us." He started to make his way through the group. As he began moving passed he looked back to the scarred man. "When they do come, and they will. You'll need many more guns if you want to even dent them. Your current tactic is surely to get you all killed." He gave his words of advise and began making his way to the tavern he started at. He needed a drink before the next wave.

The extravegant Admiral gave Falderan a dumbfounded frown as the abrasive Elf barged his way through the row of rifles. A few of his men would turn their guns toward Falderan's back, but the Captain thrust his hand down on the weapon in fury. As reprehensible as these cut-throats were, even this pirate knew wholeheartedly that they were here to dispatch Skaven, not Sartosan citizenry. Besides, it was likely that the Captain knew full well that the Skaven would be carrying the leftover spoils from those unfortunate enough to be set upon by a swarm of the Rats.

"Aye, what be the Elf's heartache?" Croaked the pirate Captain, still among the deadly wall of jittering rifles.

Hans looked back as the remaining host climbed onto the surface, coughing and wallowing in the misery of defeat. Hidden upon their wretched anguish were worries of the tide that awaited right under their feet. 'They're going to rise from the pits of Hell.' Miguel and the Student heard one say. 'We must get out of this Stromfels-damned city.' Another spoke. 'We're all doomed if we stay, we'll steal a boat and get onto the mainland. It's our only hope.'

The Student then turned stone-faced toward the Pirate Captain; his face solemn and full of despair. "He's correct." Said Hans, more stoic than he had ever been since arriving in this pit of 'manfilth' as Bjorn would refer to it as. "There's swarms of the Skaven underground, and they have brought with them terrible monsters that could stand tall against even the Ogres themselves!"

The Captain nodded. "Aye, I be hearin' that from the landlubbers that fled." He said, stroking the frizzy ends of his long beard. "Un' so 'ave many of the other mercenary bands patrolling this here city for a bit of Rat blood, I've just happened to claim the biggest hole." He chuckled.

Miguel came forward for a moment, and he could see that what the burly fellow had said was true. There was a mixture of parties and representatives of varying banners dotted all across the plaza, all looking for a taste of Rat-flesh. 'Gloryhounds.' Scoffed the Estalian - they had all seen nothing, yet. "This all sounds very disorganised." Commented Miguel. "Who do you lot answer to?"

"Me! That's who!" The Captain laughed heartily, and his men joined him, though their's were forced and fake, some did not even carry the brainpower to understand the conversation at hand. "Are ye surprised, Southerner?" The Captain continued. "A Sartosan host is never organised, lad. But these set a' bastards 'ere, they're mine. They answer to me. I tell 'em where t' shoot and what to kill. I could've had them blow yer brains out and take whatever's on yer person for meself, but I'm kind like that y'see. We're just 'ere for what's on the Rats, not on some skinny Northerner's hide."

Miguel shook his head for a moment, turning back toward his duelists; toward the mysterious stranger. "If that is the case, then these are my men, and they answer to me."

The Captain laughed once more, even more hysteric than the last bellow. "What? Nine?! Ten men?! Ye've got a right set there too. A child, a worn old skeleton, and are those kinsmen of yours covered in shit?" He mocked, and once again, his party of reprobates joined him. "Alright then, I'll bite. Which area d'ya claim? All the sewer holes are taken. You'll have to bend the knee to some other host, maybe me own."

"I already know what area to claim."
"I just told ye that everything is already taken, ye stupid land-"
"The tavern!"

The Estalians cheered, and the pirate Captain fell silent, as did his men.

"Come on, you motherless urchins." Shouted an affectionate Miguel. "A drink calls before the slaughter. We'll be back down here in an hour's notice, drunk with beer and thirsty for Skaven blood." His men once more cheered in agreement, barging past the befuddled Captain and his ape-like host before joining Falderan on his walk up the glowing hill of jade.

Miguel turned his head toward the Elderly fellow as they walked on. "Escapades, you were saying?" He said, resuming their conversation. "It's just not in me. Most of the lads 'ere are content with plowing any piece of flesh that comes their way, but I've always fantasized, y'know about marriage perhaps." Miguel stuttered for a moment. "I think one woman, one, beautiful maiden - to lay the foundation of a house with - would be enough to satisfy me."

"A family man?" The old man raised an eyebrow at the Estalian's words, "Thinking of hanging up the pirate hat in favour of a missus?" He said those words without any negative connotations; if this pirate was off of a ship, it would be one less for the Empire to worry about raiding its shores.

Truth be told, the old man was itching for a pint of some ale; he hadn't had any since he first docked on the island thanks to his assignment. However, his assignment could wait for now, at least until the god-forsaken ratmen had been put to the slaughter. In the worst case scenario, he could always steal what brew the Skaven had plundered; had to be better than whatever horse-p@#$ they brewed themselves - if they even did brew.

He looked over his shoulder to the admiral, hoping to have some karmic retribution for the off-handed comment about his "skeletal" physique. True, the old man was thin, but what flesh he had remaining was muscular; unfortunately, his baggy sailor attire did little in the way of showcasing that.

By the time the others pushed through Fal had already made his way a good five hundred meters down the street. The foul smell of sewage still on him and nothing short of burning his current clothing would fix it quickly. The constant shine of Morrslieb covered the region in its ominous haze as Fal felt the usual deep whispers of this night in the back of his mind. Though they seemed somewhat louder. As he wandered over wet cobblestone roads he started to feel a burning sensation in his pocket. Something like a spicy heat from Arabian spices in the back of his throat and a warm tingle run up his thigh. Pulling off to the side by an alley he pulls out the odd stone. It seemed to glow stronger now than before. The same unforgettable glow as the vile Morrslieb above. Looking up he saw the Chaos moon was a bit past halfway. There were many hours left in the night. Closing his eyes and breathing he feels the sensation fade as he puts the stone back and continues on the way. As he stopped it allowed the others to catch up.

"Aye, it's something to fantasize over." Replied Miguel as the party delved deep toward the murky road; the plaza becoming more distant in view as they continuously tread on. In their little trek back toward the inn, the group had passed through more of the rival mercenary bands that stood guard over the open manholes, staring into the wet abyss like a group of agitated guard dogs. The banners of these various dogs of war lapped voluminously in the green shade of the night; from the wretched, tribal bearings of the far north to the more refined and stellar coat of arms' one would expect to find within the neighbouring Southern Realms and the Empire provinces. Some flags bore sigils that were so strange and alien - along with the men that stood guard under their fluttering shadows - that none, not even Hans himself, bothered to analyze their origin.

That said, Miguel could care less about the melting pot of dregs looking to make a name for themselves; when all was said and done, these tools had not faced the brunt of the verminous menace below. He scoffed at their arrogance, for they would come to brutally learn in time.

"You know, I'm quite sure we've gone a far few metres past the old inn." A concerned Hans broke the silence, as a throng of diverse individuals gave a sneering glance as Miguel's party walked by.

"The Inn can wait for a few minutes, we've still got time." Miguel replied, his attention drawn to an eerie wisp of light, somewhat concealed under the dense haze of a nearby alley. He thrust his bloodied face close to the Student and their elderly newcomer.

"More Skaven, mayhaps..?" He whispered; his voice was dauntlessly solid, in spite of his sudden concern.

The old man squinted at the lights, trying to discern what they truly were. "Could be," he said in response to Miguel, "the Skaven breed like rabbits so there could be thousands in Sartosa already..."

He clutched the blade sheathed at his hip, ready to draw it and shed blood if necessary. Of course, there was the matter of his magic too, but that was the last resort as using magic of his variety would instantly give him away and prove the story he gave to these sailors false. So, for now, he just stared at the mysterious lights in the distance, unsure if they were friend or foe. Morsslieb hadn't been known to bring good omens so the old man was feeling quite pessimistic about their odds at the moment; as a man who'd fought against beastmen, greenskins and the forces of chaos he'd come to accept that pessimism was required to stay alive in a warzone - keeps your guard up.

He waited for the pirates to make an action before he himself did; he didn't want to instigate a fight that may not be necessary and incur the scorn of his companions. No, he'd just stay there and wait for the reckless ones to charge in first and be the vanguard - see if they die or not.

The small, eerie wisp went away as the slender figure of Falderan stood out and looked at the others of the group that stared at him with a battle ready look. He cocked an eyebrow and scanned over the group.
"Trying to backstab me already? I thought the betrayal would wait till the morning." He said sarcastically as he wandered up to them. "What's the problem?" He asks about ten feet from the group.

Miguel tilted his head as the figure emerged from the jade shadows, keeping his palm firmly grasped around the pommel of his estoc. As Falderan had come into visibility, the Estalian and his men could did not know whether to feel relaxed or alarmed; they had begun to understand that there was more to this Elf than what they would be comfortable with. The crew merely stared in suspicion, but Hans still seemed quite amicable to the situation. He was educated, and not so prone to such superstition concerning a glowing piece of rock. Or perhaps he was merely a coward, and had no backbone to influence the standoff at hand.

"...You should not scare us like that." The Captain replied, attempting to snuff out any potential quarrel. Such things could wait until after the battle. The Skaven would take kindly to any divide within the forces of their enemy. It was why the majority of fools here were doomed to die from the start. "That shade of Morrslieb is almost always accompanied by Ratfolk. Thank Myrmidia it was just you, or we'd all be doomed."

The old man released his sheathed sword from his grip as the lights were revealed to be Falderan's work.

His expression was puzzled, however, as any sane man's would be considering the implications of the revelation. He didn't care for that shade of green light; the warp spelt trouble no matter how it was involved. "Elf, what was that... odd light from around this area?" The old man finally asked, wanting to be sure of the elf's allegiance and possible threat level. Being a man from the Empire, he generally had few things that he trusted outside of his homeland; an elf emerging from a light resembling the horrid Morsslieb was most definitely something to feel distrustful about.

Fal could pick up on the distrust in the old mans words. His expression was still but the faintest of signs in his eyes gave away concern.
"Not a clue. There seemed to be movement and so I investigated. Finding nothing but the foul illusions of that." He points to Morrslieb. "Where it sits now is the peak. Careful of what you see in the shadows. Not everything is as it seems." He says looking to Reinhold as he walks towards the tavern as he was initially.

Miguel sighed, pincing the meek Hans by his arm; there was barely any meat to the bones of the poor boy, nor was there the slightest hint of muscle to at least compliment Hans' thin physique. 'This fellow hacked several of the Ratmen to pieces.' The Captain felt it necessary to remind himself. The Reiklander that he had mocked before the battle had somehow survived up to this moment, while his Dwarven companion lay not only in pieces, but within the swollen bellies of various ever-hungry Skaven. Miguel shook his head in disbelief, while following the dubious Elf toward the tavern.

"Come on, you sods." Hissed the Captain to his ilk, trudging along the sneering companies of mercenaries that gazed toward the group, all hungry for some quick, premature bloodshed. "I hope to your Sigmar that this bar has Lustrian Tequila on sale." Miguel mused as he pulled Hans toward the ruined, but still open, establishment. "I'll be needing some of that if I'm gonna be fighting alongside any of these lot."

Hans himself felt it unnecessary to reply, nor to complain, even as he was roughly dragged back to the tavern from which he and Bjorn had first started at. Any protest would likely either anger Miguel, or make a laughing stock of the Student in front of the Estalian host. It was this submissive behiviour that made his survival at the front almost unbelievable in the eyes of the duelists.

Probably just Morslieb's dismal grace, they thought to themselves, gazing toward the jade clouds as they entered the now doorless interior of the tavern.

Unlike before, where the tavern was desolate save only the most enigmatic of strangers, the late night and the sudden influx of foreign warriors had provided the Barkeep with a rich fortune on this fluctuating day of business. Men drank and chatted about their lots in life upon the wooden stools where the trio once sat. Couples danced, shanties were sang, lutes were strung, and there was laughter and the sound of swigs and chugs abound. Not to mention, that if one were to perhaps listen closely by the walls and ceiling, they could hear the faintest rhythm of carnal passion that pounded within the private rooms, as bewildered whores seemed to gasp for breath. The duelists chuckled amongst themselves with envy as they listened.

However, despite the rapturous gathering, Miguel seemed strangely disturbed...

"It's the end of Sartosa, boy!" A drunken fellow caught Hans within a friendly headlock, the stench of his breath almost incapacitating the poor Student. "Drink! Fight! Make love! Do all three, before the Rats eat us all alive!" He let the Reiklander loose before singing along with the pirate shanties; his voice was painfully flat.

"Stupid bastard." Miguel whispered to Hans, a sudden anger frothing under his voice, as though his own child had been wrangled by the stranger. "Any of these fellows want trouble, they'll get more than they bargained for."

"By Myrmidia's good grace, the Elf and the boy made it back!" The Barkeep laughed in jubilation. "Where's the angry Dwarf? You know what, doesn't matter. You've both brought friends back! What can I get for you all? What poison do you pick before the battle?!" He asked. Miguel remained stone-faced, even as he was alarmed by that one truth, in that these folk were drinking and tumbling themselves to the point of death, in the knowledge that there were all going to die anyway.

Reinhold sat at the bar, calling the bartender over with a wave. "Do you have anything from Reikland? If I'm to die tonight, I'd at least want some familiar ale in my stomach beforehand."

He sighed and looked around the room at the drunken sailors and mercenaries droning on about booze, women and song; the men were either the bravest band of brigands he had ever met or the most ignorant - probably a mix of both. He theorized who would and wouldn't make it out alive: the other Reiklander boy, whilst of a lesser build could show some aptitude in magic like himself; the Estalian looked physically capable, though his kind attitude towards strangers could get him in more trouble than he could handle and the elf... the elf was an enigma. He could hold himself well in combat as he saw in the tunnels, though he had more up his sleeve - that much was apparent.

Entering the tavern the sounds of revelry and the smell of ale whisked around the damaged building. Windows were broken and the door was broken to pieces and barely on its hinged from the initial Skaven assault. It would seem most damage had been cleaned. Tables stood up, though many where damaged, chairs stood by to give some resemblance to a solid foundation and most glass had been cleaned or at least swept to the side. The fire roared and illuminated the hearth. Somehow despite the mass death which occurred mere hours ago the room didn't smell of death, well no more than normal. But instead kept the pungent smell of ale and closely confined, sweaty bodies.

"We both know where he is." Fal says sitting up on a bar stool that had a dent in the side. Likely from some form of impact. His response was to the question of the Dwarf. Fal wasn't in a mood to discuss that at the moment. "Surprised you're still open. Seems you didn't lose too many kegs in the attack. You clean up quick." Fal brushes the hair from his eyes and looks about. People were openly talking about the coming battle. Either word had spread or these goons for hire were smarter than they let on. Fal didn't pay much attention to Reinhold. The old man had just become part of the crowd he entered with. A mismatched horde of misfits like everyone on this gods forsaken island.

The barkeep raised a brow at Falderan's subtle words. "Dear Myrmidia, he was felled, no?" The fellow clambered over by his two trusted patrons (as well as the newcomers that leaned beside the bar). "Some 'o' the drunken louts 'ere 'ave gotten pissed pretty damn quickly, tryin' to cloud the blunder down there with whatever swill they can find." He explained, placing his elbow upon the splintered wooden counter; his scanned the rest of his tattered inn, as well as his diverse crowd of inebriated muscle. "They be sayin' that the host was on the verge of victory-"

"We were indeed!" Miguel suddenly interrupted, barging to the front of the bar, ignorant toward the disgruntled patrons that sneered in silence, but did not dare to do anything more. "The battle itself was not a contest. In fact, we would have exterminated the Ratfolk then and there; not even the Stormvermin would've put up a challenge." Miguel then sighed. "But the rodent bastards had a trump card, as they always do. It would've made no difference, if that lumbering Ogre didn't fall. His death sent the lesser men into hysteria; those that fought on were surrounded. I think you know the rest."

"And the Dwarf?" Asked the curious Barkeep, his peering eyes lit with a macabre excitement at the thought. One that Hans and Miguel, and quite obviously their company could see. Hans was visibly disgusted, rearing his head away from the conversation, but the Estalian held no companionship for a warrior he never knew.

"Eaten alive, like many others." Miguel replied.

The Barkeep stepped back a little, for he had heard enough of this dreadful war story; it bore with it a terrible premonition of what would happen to the rest of the Sartosan citizenry once the Skaven made their attack. "Aye, seems you've all seen yer fair share of bloody combat down in those sewers." He commented with a nod. "Best wash away those unseemly thoughts with some grog, ey? I'm afraid I got none of that Reiklander stuff. I only get what the pirates are willing to trade, which is what they raid from whatever coastline they find."

Miguel scoffed. "Does that include Lustrian Tequila?"
"Distilled from the very spawning pools themselves, the brigands told me."
"I'll buy a round for the entire party."
"That'll be one-hundred and twenty bloody crowns for the lot of ye!"
"We're all going to die anyway, I care not the price."

The Barkeep had nearly found himself jumping with excitement at Miguel's order, who in turn placed a worn, leather purse upon the counter. Crowns only counted for a small number of the content in truth, but it was filled with glittering jewels, sparkling diamonds, and bite-sized idols from the New World; the glowing resonance within these clay statues proved their authenticity.

"Whatever equates to the price of that tequila is yours to take."
"This stuff is going to knock you all dead before the Ratmen are busy gnawing upon your intoxicated corpses."
"As I think we'd all prefer."

Anglermaw was mortified. He cursed the names of his kin as he emerged back onto the surface of this island, forsaken by the Horned One. Rotflag was merely a deputy, but by sewing himself onto the body of that Chosen, he had found himself elevated far beyond Anglermaw in the eyes of the Skurvy Rats. The Ark itself was lost; it's caretakers dead and now fair game for the rival clans of the Under-empire. No doubt that it would likely fall into the hands of Clan Skryre, or some other unworthy host. The mutineed one stared toward the Chaos moon in pitiful silence, as the virulent wind blew onto his wetted coat. The Skaven's claws swiped at the wispy sand in furious despair.

"Cretins! The lot of them!" He screamed to none but himself as he floundered hopelessly by the sea. "I'll eat them all! I'll kill them all-all! I am true master of the Ark! None come close! None!" The piteous howls continued for moments more; though the shrieks echoed across the endless water, they seemed silent to all but Anglermaw himself. Realising this, the Captain's exhausted body slumped onto the tan coast. Breathless and defeated, he closed his fading eyes as the cramps of the Black Hunger itself enveloped his nerves. Even as he heard a loud gong vibrate below the ground, Anglermaw did not rise.

Not even for the second time, which was moments after the last bang.

Not even for the third, fourth, fifth, or the sixth.

It was the tenth, a half hour of being laid upon the beach, that forced the Captain to rise from defeat. And as he rose, the eleventh gong deafened the swaying of the sea itself, and Anglermaw knew for certain what was about to commence. Raising his chittering head toward the nearby settlement, Anglermaw's keen nose had caught the musk of verminous bravery. He would redeem himself this time, but not in the eyes of the Horned Rat.

Racing toward the city once more - the Black Hunger dissipating as it was replaced by a newfound adrenaline - Anglermaw swore in his mind to slay the betrayer Rotflag, even if it had meant becoming a betrayer to his entire race. For the sake of his life, Anglermaw would fight by the side of his racial enemy -- The No-furs.



"Oh, I do clear this place quick, dear Elf." Chuckled the Barkeep as he poured the fabled tequila into dazzling, glass cups. Each one was collected by an Estalian from Miguel's host. It was obvious which the last four were meant for. "Y'know, scum come here to die all the time, this occasion will be no different. In Sartosa, a barfight doesn't end simply with a bruised lip." He smiled at the Elf, passing him the glass of Lustrian alcohol. An unnerving vibration resonated within the tavern as the glass hit the wooden counter.

"By Sigmar's grace." Hans thought aloud, gazing at the jade sky. "What was that noise?" He asked, caring not who responded.

"Don't worry yourself, lad." Miguel chided, handing the Student his liquour. "Swig this, and all your fears for this night will be quelled."

The boy sighed as he stared at the murky liquid within his cup; it was tinted slightly by the shade of the Chaos moon. He hung his blonde head down for but a moment's silence, uttering a silent prayer as his lips sputtered silently. "Sigmar preserve us." He then whispered, tilting his glass down his lips and swallowing the liquid whole, with ensuing regret as his stomach wretched from the spirit.

"Sigmar preserve us!" Miguel laughed, breathing in after he swallowed his glass. The second vibration almost causing him to drop his drink. The pattern was not lost on the Estalian. "Where is the nobility of this island, Barkeep, assuming that Sartosa even has rulers?" Miguel questioned.

"Those lot left this island the very moment that the topic of Skaven came about here." Replied the Barkeep. "By now, they'll be safe and sound in their opulent villas on the mainland, ready to repopulate this city again once the Ratmen have taken their tribute. For those pompous fools, this massacre will simply be an annual culling." His response was accompanied by the third vibration, and yet still, the revelers cared not.

"That assumes that the Skaven aren't interested in occupation." Hans interjected, placing his emptied glass on the counter, slightly braver in his tipsiness. "What if on one occasion, the Skaven didn't take simply the resourses of Sartosa for themselves, but the whole island?" Hans asked, the fourth vibration enveloping the inn as he spoke. The hearty sounds of lutes and flutes had come to a halt, as the sober musicians made their escape down toward the docks.

Then came the fifth vibration, and the revelry now receded, as the party-goers had come to reflect on the danger that they now found themselves in.

The sixth vibration sent the lesser men and women into hysteria, howling in drunken fury, joining the musicians in their crazed race toward a free ship.

The seventh was not merely a vibration, but a quake. Those within the inn took cover, but the rattling force had caused the dock bridge to become brittle. Those who were not plundged into the jade waters were slain by other mad fellows that hungered for escape.

The eighth was once again benign, though a visible beam of light illuminated the west sea. A mystified Hans gazed toward this beam, rising from the cover he had taken. His eyes widened, petrified at the sight within: It was the face of a Demonic rodent, bearing upon it's head a pair of hellish horns.

The ninth, tenth, and twelth were uneventful, though the mercenary hosts quickly mobilized toward their claimed areas. The more hardened party-goers made their way down, carrying their share of grog alongside them. The streets were deafened by shouting soldierly, barking orders and insults toward their inferiors as though a thousand men raced up and down the city plaza.

Then came the thirteenth, a gong that could be heard for miles. The slurring eerie moan of a Skaven bell enveloped the entire city, not to mention an unholy fog that had been spurred from nothingness.

Then came the Skaven, the droves threw themselves at the No-furs with verminous valour that was provoked by their victory below. The air hung with the screams of the voracious Ratfolk, as well as the screams of their prey. Gunshots, booming orders and the clanging of blades were once again abound, louder and far more numerous than ever before.

"I think that's our bloody cue, lads!" Miguel shouted, unsheathing his estoc and racing outside. "Follow me! We have the power to change the course of this battle!"