Forums » Fantasy Roleplay » (FIN) Stromfels' Plague (Warhammer Fantasy)

Pandemonium swept the ranks of both the Sartosans and the lesser Clanrats under the now orange-tinted sky, bathed in the churning smog as the swirling inferno tore through the various hovels and abandoned establishments that stood upon the frontline, crumbling into ashen shambles and dragging down the lax militia foolish enough to gaze at the Abomination; they were too late to react. Those who were not burned alive instead plummetted to their deaths, greeted with the hard welcome of a crushing thud upon the stone ground, or punctured by a sharp mass of splintered stakes. It was this fate that befell the bearded Captain and his company of riflemen, of whom would regret his claim to the biggest hole in Morr's afterlife, as he and the bodies of his dimwitted folk were buried under ash after being driven insane by the ruinous laughter that churned from the fire.

As before, those that still stood upon the stonework retreated for the sake of higher ground. Those who were brave enough at least. The bowels of many folk - regardless of their former exploits - had been turned to water after what they had witnessed. At least a third of the mangy host still stood to combat this Vermintide; the others were either slain or routed, racing back into the confines of the inner city, fair game for the ravenous Clanrats, and for the various Sartosan degenerates who remained apathetic to the siege at hand.

Rotflag hauled his terrible form through the manic winds, trampling the bodies of both Man and Rat as he continued to blather the alien tongue escaping his rodent maw. His words of nonsense were dulled by gutteral orders by the Stormvermin, demanding their unworthy thralls move forward. Under the unstoppable power of the Dark Gods, victory was perhaps certain, thought Rotflag. But there were still walking sacrifices of the Manfolk that presented themselves; the souls of these stragglers would not go to the Horned Rat, however, but to a more deserving pantheon.

Rotflag joined his host as they marched upon the last defence, leaving much of his more unworthy thralls to burn within the cackling Hell he had created. Protruding above his retinue of fur like a corrugated golem - and consumed with an unnatural bloodthirst - Rotflag spotted a lithe, feminine figure. Her presence was enigmatic and domineering, especially as she fought beside the unworthy militia of men who cowered for their lives. This must have been the Elf that Guyel had described!

But before the un-Skaven could rush toward his coveted prey, he felt a sharp caress upon his skin; his body was being specterally lacerated by unearthly blades. The hungry masses of vermin that raced forward were caught in the dark flurry, sliced into bloody ribbons by this Dhar magic. But as cravenous as the Skaven were, the intoxication of certain victory dulled their sense of fear, even as their fellows were gorily dispatched beside them, even while the ghastly swinging of these black swords did not withhold. Iron and steel clashed for one last time.

The cascading ichor of blood coursing through the layers of Rotflag's armour ceased after the immortal flesh healed miraculously, and he was daubed in the hue of his own blood. This aroused little more than a masochistic desire within the Abomination's deranged mind, and he raced forward to find this exotic adversary, hidden within the tide of dauntless mercenaries.

"Creature from the west!" He barked, ignorant to the chaos as he was caught in the decisive clash. "I come bearing the open hand of Slaanesh! Heed the call of the Dark Prince, and you shall be treated most... graciously." A chilling bellow of laughter hazed from the Warlord as he indiscriminately crushed the inferiors of both armies into piles of ruptured meat, searching for his elusive treasure.

--

"You have a good eye for one so old, Man-thing." Chuckled Guyel, his body unwillingly swaying to the dance of the Black Hunger while he leapt onto the cold ground. "Perhaps I should take-eat them after I tear into your thin flesh with my teeth." The Assassin unsheathed his daggers; an acidic tear dripped from the tip of one blade, melting the ground below.

"These are going to enter your body, Man-thing!" Mused Guyel once more as he crept forward to pounce. "Then, I shall eat your friend alive!"

Freya’s ears ticked forward, pale blue eyes drawn to the ruinous calling upending the thrall of her entertaining production. Her lip curled at the foul abomination’s interference, then further to bare her teeth at his claim. She was not fool enough to blindly accept all proclaimed followers as worthy of honors Slaanesh might have laid upon their flesh. If the vermin mutation had thought to curry her alliance his efforts were utterly wasted. Quite the opposite.

Her mouth drew open in a soundless laugh, flashing the underside of her branded tongue at him as she squared herself to meet the elating challenge with a fevered delight. An arrow, drawn from her quiver, twirled swiftly in the air and was driven into the side of her thigh; its sharp pointed fang tapping a potent vein of venomous draught. “Khaine will not suffer to share mine flesh with excrement disgorged from the earth,” she howled, her voice lilting with masochistic laughter. Her ears knifed sharply back as she extracted the barb; setting loose a slow stain of sickly fluid to wick outward along the fibers of her pantaloons in a kaleidoscope of brackish crimson laced corruption.

“Come then mein liebster,” she sneered the term of endearment with disgust, pointedly spitting on the ground. She notched the arrow and immediately drew back the string in a creaking tension wrought snap of protest from her bow. “Throw thineself upon the alter of mine apotheosis!,” she yelled, her voice rapidly coursing into a banshee like screech as she opened the prison gate of her fingertips to release the bolt.

Despite her pretentiousness, a flicker of doubt palled her desire to boldly slather Slaanesh with the triumph of her victory over the charging usurper. Opting to engage wit as well, she darted for cover on the heels of her shot; breaking hard to the leeward edge of the chaos rather than offering her back to the tan twined caster. Her eyes hurriedly scanned the buildings for footholds, overhangs, windows, and doors she might put to use before darting back onto her target. And the glint of metal... Her palms itched for something more worthwhile than the short-sighted dagger on her back, even as she started mauling the disrupted pitch winds for a defense against whatever the self-healing behemoth might decide to hurl at her.

The abominations course of destruction and foul words were unlike anything Fal had encountered before. As far as the forces of Chaos were concerned he mainly fought marauders and Beastmen. The heavily armoured Chaos Warriors were usually far further north in the lands of Kislev or sometimes Nordland. Though the latter were rare. Personally Fal never fought this type of Chaotic influence and mixed with the rage was a glimmer of fear. He saw it take hits and appear wounded but apparently heal up. This wasn't something an enemy tended to do. Much less a Skaven who would never be like this. He readied his blade to strike.

The rat headed monstrosity spoke with Freya and ushered words of the Dark Prince, Slaanesh. One of the ruinous powers. The idea that the Elf may have some connection with another vile power sickened Fal to the core. But with another retort like a viper from her the two engaged. Clashing with magic Freya unleashed a mighty blow. One that seemed to not have much effect as she moved. The ranks of Stormvermin and Clanrats behind him rushed into the every falling city to tear at those still in it. Fal knew that across the city more and more citizens would grab weapons to fight. If he was right Sartosa should have a second wind with a few thousand more fighting hands any minute now. But the city was vast and who knows how spread people are should they still live. But that was not the problem now. Fal knew that killing their warlord could break them. If he removed the head of this foul rat he would send the Skaven scurrying home in fear. He waited for the large form to launch an attack on Freya and when he did Fal would strike. Leaping down with his blade to slash for the head from above.

Rotflag swung his sewn head as the Vermintide raced forward, perhaps to ease a phantom itch brought on by this rudimentary surgery. As decisive as victory seemed, it had become apparent that a certain few roaches had to be put down; the bolt of this insufferable Siren of an Elf flew toward his looming frame. Without a second thought, he plucked one of his rodent thralls from the battlefield, displaying the writhing Rat toward the line of fire. The projectile tore through the still jittering chest of the thrall, and Rotflag's eyes widened as the dripping arrowhead barely met with his jeweled eyes, while a dazzling hue of Skaven blood exploded upon his flesh and armour. Grunting with sudden abrasion, he quickly hurled the lifeless rug of fur into the moonlit sky; oncoming Clanrats rushed toward the fresh meal with a cannibalistic urge for sustinance, unknown as to what Elfin poisons now lurked within their kinsman's system. To Rotflag, it mattered little, for the lives of these creatures were worth less than the virulent air that they breathed.

A loud cringe of disgust escaped the Beast's maw. "Dearest maiden, do you scorn my master's hand?" Wailed the Warlord, his tone laden moreso with hopelessness rather than any semblence of hatred. A thin ploy by all means, but it had bore some humour for the Warlord, as he closed in onto the thick of battle, slapping away at the pitiful lot that dared to oppose. Rotflag's march was eerily slow, slow but terribly certain, much like the End Times themselves. "You cannot deny the embrace of my Lord's bosom, fair lady..." He mused.

"...At least not as you are crushed under my own!" The depraved cackle that emerged from Rotflag's rodent mouth was accompanied by a sudden quickening of pace up the hill - intoxicated by that single fact - that he was invicible.

Almost invincible.

The Warlord had barely missed the lanky figure from above, like some swooping hawk under the jade sky. Under instinct alone, his attention toward the enigmatic Maiden was cut short as he raised his gauntlet to block the attack, roaring with defiance as the shadowy blow came down onto him. Although Rotflag was beset by a multitude of spiteful insects, there could've been little that hoped to delay the inevitable downfall-

Meanwhile

"Anglermaw still lives!" Hissed a nondescript lackey, his plague-ridden claws pointing toward the apparition that clinged from the Sartosan rooftops. Though the figure was shadowed under the gaze of Morsleib, the pirate crown that sat upon the Skaven's head made his identity certain. Much of the Skaven host stood in haunted silence, spooked by the ghastly shape of their drowned captain. The wraith leapt down onto the pavement, no longer hidden under the darkness. Matted, wet fur, the tarnished linen coat of a long dead Tilean Admiral, and a glowing firearm that emanated the same morose hue as the Geheimnisnacht sky. Beside the Hill - sandwiched by two opposing foes - Anglermaw lived indeed, and the Sartosan brigands pulled no punches in their reprisal. These Skaven would pay dearly for their moment of laxity.

"Nonsense! Fool-fools!" A Stormvermin cried as the dissonant Clanrats were brutally slaughtered under vengeful cutlasses. "Anglermaw is disgraced! Anglermaw dies now-now!" The armoured rodent tore away from his rank, charging toward the mutinied Captain in a show of impetuous hatred, barely making a few paces before his body was turned to giblets by the Warpstone flak.

"Clan Skurvy is dead t' me!" Croaked Anglermaw, relishing the clash of blades. "Any under Rotflag be dead t' me! None 'a ye worth to be called my crew!"

Not even mildly surprised by the sacrifice of a fellow clansrat, Freya’s eyebrows fell into a predatory angle at the false woeity of the foul abomination’s plea. The suggestion he offered was oddly appealing. She did favor to open the monstrosity up and wear his mending skin like the hull of a ship through the tide of skaven louts stenching up the area. Of course, not having a worthwhile blade for such a ploy made the idea little more than wishful thinking. Still the arcane retaliation expected did not come to bare. It seemed her kinsman had similar ideals for the abomination’s stitched pelt. He dropped down upon the behemoth from above, leaving her to deal with the attrition of ruinous powers twixt momentarily useless upon the tip of her tongue. For a long moment she considered unleashing a violent blast upon the fool interferer. Certainly such bravery, regardless of its foolishness, was earn’ed of some measure of respect and potential worth in her final destiny. Her weighing of her kinsman was distracted by the brief lull in the ruckus.

For a second time the theater of war took intermission as another filthy rat was disgorged into the fray. This one wore a despoiled crown upon his head and the tattered remnants of some prior kine victim. She’d thought to have a target for her curse, but the rabble turned upon the furred ‘king’ - the first earning itself the explosive reward of a brackish barrel launched skaven token. Her ears laid immediately flat to the foulest purities appearance on the field. Her skills with the arcane were far to laymen to successfully face such a weapon without Ya’Gainth’s protections, much less to do so in her bed linens. Far better to let the rats sacrifice themselves to this apparent clan war and wait for an opening to destroy the victors.

Not all the skaven had turned upon the new figure, a pair in front of her harried a somewhat isolated Sartosan toward her. She gave a feral grin, untying her tongue upon the kine’s backside and sending him into a spasm of crying song, and a twisted wracking dance of agony. Briefly she considered allowing the beautiful arcs of pain the man contorted into to continue for the benefit of both her eyes and those of the momentarily puzzled skaven louts. However, one skaven glanced to the other then laid its beady eyes upon her and lofted its dagger. Her arm extended to curl the Sartosan’s waist like a lover, drawing him into her chest as an unwieldy living shield to absorb the vermin’s rapid series of slashing strikes. She wore a serene smile as she pushed upward to mold her ‘partners’ back to the curve of her bow avoiding a couple pointed penetrations in an eerie waltz of defense. To onlookers unblessed by Slannesh’s eye for the artistic ballet of war it appeared a far less graceful dance as she wrestled the shuddering man’s arm out in a seemingly hesitant backward slash at the rats muzzle with his cutlass.

The glancing blow was unappealing and lacked proper commitment to its guidance, but it was enough to set the louse back a few steps in its near successful dodge. It sufficed to buy her time to abscond with the far longer blade and shove the dying man’s quivering body hard toward the vermin. The further rat snapped out of its indecision to easily avoid the toppling figure, but the nearest, already falling back upon its haunches, found its forehead loudly impaled by a far better aimed and violent thrust of the blade. “Khaine favors the worthy,” she said in lilting insane singsong, “The rest fall before him without honor or glory.” The arm of her bow was used as resistance to extract the blade from the vermin’s skull and she turned upon the second skaven with blatant glee. Launching a swirling series of ambidextrous and verbally punctuated strikes with bow and blade she rather quickly found confused weakness in the second rat’s limited skillset, opening a lethal hole in its defense and spilling the contents of its last meal onto the ground with a triumphant yell.

“Prostrate thineself before Khaine and bleed uselessly! How pathetic-sad your death-demise,” she mocked, trailing off into somewhat manic laughter as her attack continued; filleting the dispatched rat’s furred pelt to ribbons in a barely controlled frenzy of bloodletting.

The old man's dark eyes were filled with hatred; their gaze analysed every twitch the rat made, looking for any particularly vulnerable places in his stance. Like a hawk, he found his mark quickly, then swooped in for it.

Reinhold charged towards Guyel, swinging for the vermin's head before changing direction and landing a gash into his shoulder. "You want my eyes? You have to take them first, filth." His stance reworked into something with more manoeuvrability as he taunted his opponent; the acid on his blade was not something he could deal with easily so he would have to dodge more than block.

Taking his opportunity Fal pounced onto Rotflag like a bird of prey. With barely a sound he swooped with blade swinging to the neck. Through either luck of primal instinct a gauntlet rose up to barely parry the blow and send Fal skittering backwards facing the warlord. Sparks spat out as what would have been a fatal blow was deflected. Fal pranced back to give three meters between the two. Fal whirled his blade as he adjusted his stance and glared to the abomination with pure spite.
"Looks like you're more aware than I thought." He snarled and readied himself to combat this mighty foe. Some experience fighting Minotaurs gave him an idea for what to expect from a lumbering monstrosity.

Behind he saw the Dark Elf change her attention to a group of still Skaven. This was odd as something seemed to draw their attention. However Fal didn't let himself be distracted. He kept his attention firmly on Rotflag with some awareness to his surroundings. Last thing he needed was that bastard assassin coming for him or any of the rats to strike him while his back was turned.
"Are you capable of being w worthy fight though I wonder? Or are you little more than frenzied vermin?" Fal says with a taunting tone. He hoped to urge the Skaven to attack aggressively. Something which Fal would be all too ready to capitalize on.

'So many lovely patrons lost this day.' The Barkeep chuckled to himself, observing the bloodshed down below with his luxurious rifle grasped tightly in both palms. His mind held a ticklish urge as the battle progressed, to simply gun down a few of the swarming Ratfolk. Moreso for the sense of personal amusement than any loyalty to this backwater city. He yearned feverishly to watch some of these foul vermin bleed; their curdling screams of agony would grant him some relief in retribution for what they had done to his prized establishment. Perhaps a well fired pellet would do quite modestly between the eyes of that wretched mutant below. He was the leader of these pests, after all, and had he not brought this tide of filth to the surface, this inn would've mostly likely retained a second floor for a while.

But the Barkeep did not raise his rifle, prefering to bask in the icy darkness of his derelict inn. The dormant pellet within this prized matchlock was not meant for any invader, but for it's own master. He did not expect to survive this onslaught, and the Estalian Captain's own record of the skirmish with the sewers - moreover how he described the Dwarf's fall from grace - made the thin curls of the Barkeep's mustache perk as he shivered from the premonition of death. One well placed shot was enough to turn at least three oncoming Skaven into a goulash furry giblets, but not twenty. With a few helping sips of that Lustrian Tequila he'd given his last patrons, he was open, even fond maybe, to a quick demise on his own terms. He raised the muzzle of his rifle toward his pale chin, the silver glint and mahogany barrel seemed to glow with that obscenely ever-present jade shade of the moonlight. With one last homage to the fallen, the Barkeep lifted the last of his exotic liqour above, the distilled drippings of the fabled spawning pools staining his leather apron. Then he cocked his rifle, the sound of pattering footsteps upon the wooden floorboard had turned his mind to stone.

But, a sense of curiosity burned within the Barkeep's will, and he relented for a moment, eager to glance at the unlucky sod who would bear witness to his suicide. To his surprise, the figure was no Skaven, not even a cowardly soldier that escaped from the kill zone, but a hooded, emaciated figure whose shadow loomed ominously over the counter. The voluminous cowl breezed gently within the remnants of the cold interior, as did the various macabre talismans of marine skeletons that hung from toothed hooks which pierced the figure's scaled flesh. But when the Barkeep had noticed the toothed crown - a pristine pair of jaws that belonged to some Stromfels damned beast - he knew somehow, just who this man was - a Cultist of the Deep One himself.

"...Here for a drink..?" Muttered the wry Barkeep, after a brief moment of silence.

The cultist remained silent; the commotion down below resonated for moment as the deafening bang of warpstone shook the plaza. "The divination has proceeded. Stromfels himself has given the sign, which we impart onto you, for all others lay dead or dying." Rasped the decrepit holy man.

"Divination?" Asked the Barkeep, this time raising himself from the open window. "The whole bloody island is about to be munched and yer worrying more about appeasing the God of Fish?"

"Look to the open sea, over the plaza." Continued the Enigma, ignoring the blasphemous question. "Within the thirteenth minute of this hour, as to mock the Skaven, the waters below shall rumble, and the maw of the Great Shark shall jut like a wave upon the city. Thereafter, the host of Vanghiest himself shall emerge from the watery pillars, to reap vengeance upon the Ratfolk for their pillaging of Sartosa, and cast the Children of the pestilent Ark back into the sea."

That was all the strange Cultist uttered, creeping back toward the open doorway, blissfully ignorant of the carnage below. If anything, the hooded fellow was outright unfazed, the pitter-patter of bare feet and percussion of smacking fish skulls were not accompanied by the sudden shriek of pain or the gnawing of a gurgling throat. The Barkeep was bewildered; thoughts of suicide no longer polluted his drunken mind. He had to be just seeing things, he thought to himself. A mere figment of an intoxicated imagination. Regardless, if this strange liquor had sent the Barkeep on a ghastly journey of the mind, this was one vibrant hallucination he most certainly did not want to miss.

--

Guyel had already lunged toward the elderly Man-thing beforehand, leaving the Assassin open for a counterattack. The flaming jolt of pain upon Guyel's shoulder caused him to relent in his attack, and he rolled far behind Reinhold, jittering furiously beside a staring Hans. No longer did any sadistic laughter vibrate from the closed hood, but a humiliating roar of pain and vengeful wroth. The Eshin robes were quickly becoming daubed with the bloody dye of rat blood, white hot from Guyel's own seething rage. His daggers cast on the stone floor beside his enemy, Guyel instead laid his claws across the cheeks of the Student before him. Both figures seemed to shake and tremble between one another, manifested from ecstatic jitterings of the Black Hunger.

"L-Look, what your k-kinsman has done t-to me, little Man-thing!" Hissed the Assassin, tightening his grip as his body pulsated with cravings for Human flesh. "I-If I c-c-cannot take his eyes... then I s-shall eat yours!"

"N-no! Never!" Cried Hans, wrestling the Skaven's grip away in a desperate attempt for escape, wrangling the needle claws of his enemy away. But even weakened, Guyel remained firm, the veil upon his mouth becoming moist with saliva.

"I n-need to eat!" Moaned the Eshin. "I c-c-crave your flesh! So h-hungry!"

--

The Warlord pouted, wiping away at the rodent spew as this strange Elf glared deep into his jeweled eyes. Neither Asur, nor Asrai, not even Druchii from the looks of things, though he still taunted with that same elfin arrogance. "Do not test me, you worthless vagabond." Said the Abomination, his tone now utterly hoarse and stoic, all traces of Skavendom had evaporated; even the Clanrats looked back toward this deadpan pretender in silence, cleaved to ribbons by retaliating militia. "You may come to find me a more enduring and quick-minded opponent than any worthless rodent upon this godforsaken island, assuming that you still live."

He then turned his jagged helm toward the blatherer of that disgraceful title known as 'Rotflag,' Anglermaw himself. "You will no longer continue to refer to me by that uninspired name, vile Sea-Rat." He shouted toward the matted rival, returning his eyes toward this newfound enemy. "The one who goes by that title has since passed."

Anglermaw was intrigued. Within a split second, the murderous Captain no longer viewed his usuper with total revilement, but a sense of budding intrigue. As a matter of fact, Anglermaw was compelled to believe the monster. He scampered down the stone path, undaunted by the swathes of ravenous kinsman on the road below him, claimed by some unearthly force to remain stalwart.

"If ye claim that Rotflag is dead, then who are you-you..?" Asked a wary Anglermaw, the beaming ray of warpstone illuminating the behemoth's back while the Captain kept his pistol raised up high.

‘Unworthy.’

Freya’s eyes darted over the three recently slain at the whisper, somewhat uselessly adding a few intentional extra stabs here and there in an attempt to rectify the situation. She laid her ears back and curled her lip in displeasure. Her prey were cold and barren, yet she was dissatisfied and restless. Even the drain of their blood seemed to have forgotten how to amuse her in the ease of dispatching them. Except, perhaps, that last one, it had at least attempted to fight. Her bow fell distractedly from her hand as she drew the curved dagger to slice off a gruesome strip of trophy pelt. “It might be worth remembering mine liebster,” she muttered under her breath, half tucking the scrap into the loose hold of her scabbard. She stalked two tight amorphous circles around the corpses, appraising the natural intersecting flow of ichor critically. It lacked the form and function, the dignity and honor, of her usual handiwork, rushed as it was.

Her crazed eyes drifted outside the invisible bubble of her failed presentation seeking an addition that might properly speak of her deference. Some laymen kine moved on the battlefield attracting her attention, but none were truly worthy of the grand design she intended to offer. The worthless rats all but stood silent as cowards were wont to do, save for two who seemed by her reckoning to be already claimed. She had some disagreement as the stitched abomination had offered its life to her willingly, of course, but she’d take issue with her kinsman for that stolen sacrifice later. Such private matters of status and ownership would not be witnessed by the chattel fools. The realization that she was apparently surrounded by a glut of meaningless unworthy blood put her in a rather foul mood.

’Khaine needs more.’

“Bring me more then,” she replied with irritation to the whisper. She paced back and forth within the invisible circle in a state of distraught malcontent. Clearly she would have to do it herself. She straightened her spine with a faint pop, cracked her neck and puffed out her chest - looking every bit as noble as a blood soaked bed linen clothed woman possibly could. “Khaine requests that the worthy present themselves to mine blade,” she announced loudly, “Come, allow me to weigh thy prowess for inclusion among his sacrifices.” Then she stood there, resting the point of her sword on the ground in the center of her newly claimed mini territory, waiting to see whom considered themselves deserved of the honor to be dispatched by her hand. Surely there was at least one who thought themselves her better. If not, then she’d simply have to summon a worthy rival to entertain the peasants.

The way this abomination spoke with a stable, non jittery tongue as the Skaven were known for was just another branch on the tree of unease the stitched together mass gave off. Obviously no longer Skaven and pulsating with dark magic and the vile taint of Chaos it's mere presence made Fal uneasy. A sickening feeling in his gut like he had eaten some infected food boiled up and a faint throbbing was felt in his head. As the apparent nameless figure turned to another Skaven and spoke Fal's eyes glanced at the sky and the dreaded Chaos moon. It's green glow pulsing down like a vibrant aura of death. Something about it was relevant to this. Something was manipulating the winds of magic here and contorting it into something vile. Fal wondered if the other Elf felt it too or if she was too far in a blood lust for her god to care. Fal's attention was thrown back to the Skaven as he saw the glint of green from the challengers pistol. These two Skaven obviously didn't get along but the one who Fal gathered was called Anglermaw raised a good question. What name did this abomination go by. Fal waited. Taking in the fact that the other Skaven didn't jump him. It seemed they feared the wrath of their leader more than they hungered for flesh.

Down by the docks the crack of muskets and handguns filled the air as smoke rose from dozens of barrels. From atop watch towers and the sides of ships men wearing various garbs shot apart the scampering ratmen. Cutlesses were drawn in the city streets as Skaven were cut down like a farmer would a harvest in Mitterfhul. Further away from where the main tide of Skaven emerged the ruinous rats were being pushed back and successfully killed. With these weaker sects cut down by pirates and privateers alike with no love in their hearts for the vile ratmen things were looking up in various sections of the city.

"From what I've heard the rats have hit in far greater numbers up the Western docks. Sounds like we only caught those that spread too thin." An older man with a graying handlebar mustache and yellow uniform says as he reloads a handgun on his lap.
"'Ey, 've heard the same things." Says a woman with dark olive skin and green eyes. Her ears had large fishhooks hanging from them and a pistol was waved fickly in her hand. "Apparently they burnt half the city down up there. Shame too. Was a nice tavern I went to before we did that raid in the Boarder Princes." The man spits off the side of the ship.
"Whole city may soon go to hell. Ya saw that image of the rat? That's a bad omen if I ever seen one." He says raising his handgun and looking through the scope to a sewer drain. Two beady eyes could just be seen as a black nose poked out and sniffed. With a click of the trigger their was an echoing howl as gore stained the water red for a moment and what looked like brains leaked out into the sea.
"Nice shot." The woman says patting the mans shoulder. Across the dock and city there were more sounds of gunfire and swords clashing as the fighting continued but started to push back once more resistance formed.

Silence had crept over the plaza on both sides of this wretched battleground. Chill winds eerily accompanied the thin, ghoulish wisps of jade fog that cascaded down the hills, which now been crudely painted a fresh sanguine coat, courtesy of the uncountable dead. None could afford to answer Freya's call for sacrifice, not anymore. Exhausted, broken, and utterly terrified. Khaine would remain parched this day, for dissonance latched itself onto the collective host of Skavendom like some dreadful wraith of despair, grasping at their simple, savage minds. With the debut of their former master upon this battlefield; seemingly delivered unto them from the jaws of death itself, and these unstoppable heroes that these Sartosans had at their convenient disposal was simply too much for these rodents to bear.

Chittering wildly in panic, the surviving vermin had seen enough of this hopeless carnage to come to that cravenous conclusion: Sartosa was NOT WORTH IT!

"Back to the sewers! Back to safety, yes-yes!" A Captain of the once-feared Stormvermin squealed. "Drop your weapons, run-scamper for your lives!" And with that, the Skaven were finally routed; a cacophany of metallic clangs rung in the ears of the Sartosans as most of the Skaven threw down their jagged, plague-ridden excuses for letter openers down onto the pavement. Most, but not all. For as the Sartosans finally gave chase to the fleeing Ratfolk, there were those who could no longer contain their ferocious cravings for flesh. Scores of the able-bodied vermin tore into their injured brethren, driven to the brink of madness by the accursed Black Hunger.

Rotflag, or more aptly, whatever Rotflag had indeed become, remained silent while he observed the chaos. Anglermaw's question was ignored; the Warlord had been enthralled by the sea of brown fur rushing toward the open manholes. Squashing, crushing, devouring eachother in a sick rush toward sanctuary. The majority however would be merely resigned as target practice for the gunnery dregs who still retained a rifle between their arms.

"D'ye see, monster!" Grunted Anglermaw, thrusting his pulsating warplock toward the corrugated figure. "Clan Skurvy is defeated! The man-things have won, tell us who ye are un a'll make yer death quick! That I can promise" The Pirate-rat grinned, and his wet, wrinked tail curled back as seething hatred for this usurper stilled his nerves.

"I needn't answer that question, Anglermaw." Replied the Abomination. "You know who I am, what I am, when you and the rest of your degenerate ilk tore me from my sarcophagus, your slaves hauled my body onto that Ark, you mutilated my body for your own worthless, squabbling gains. I had hoped to take my side next to the Everchosen; to bear witness to the end of this world and it's soft denizens. But..."

The Abomination did not finish his sentence, his mind dulled by anger toward the Skaven to continue, but it was the unearthly rumbling of the ground that snuffed the short conversation in it's entirity. The seas that surrounded the docks became tumultuous without warning, as though the very ocean itself had come to life. Aquatic pillars rose toward the sky, swirling and crashing together before finally coalescing into an ethereal dreadnaught in it's own right. The marine liquid became solid; water became wood, steel, gunpowder and canvassed sails. Thus, Vanghiest's Shadewraith materialised from the storm, or at least an unmanned aspect of that infamous ship.

The Skaven were too embroiled in hysteria to notice, but the Sartosan survivors cheered in elation. Anglermaw and Rotflag were dumbfounded, and could only watch while the haunted cannons battered the earth outside the city. The city grounds shook once more for the sound of collapsing rock and soil. The Skaven were being crushed to death.

The cacophony of metal and screeches of despair marked the end of this invasion by the Skaven. Slaves and Clanrats alike dropped weapons and ran to the safety of their sewer drains letting out a constant musk that smelt like spoilt milk broth and sour bread that was left in the sun.
"Fear musk everywhere. Flee-flee!" An Skaven unknown Skaven cries out in panic as the hundreds of screeching voices erupt. Each one desperate to escape with their lives. To counter to smells and squeals of fear were the victorious cries of the Sartosans and more importantly their gunfire. The bang of muskets rang out as much as ever as Skaven were gunned down trying to flee. This marked the end of the Skaven attack and now it was time to make one final play and slay this vile creation of the Dark Gods. That was until it spoke. Referring to itself as having a tomb and being defiled made Fal realize with certainty that this was not a Skaven. But in fact some follower of Chaos brought back with the head of a Skaven attached. How Fal had no idea but this only made it more repulsive.

Raising his blade to move in and strike down the abomination he was stopped by the rumbling in the ground. The ground shook and water across the city seemed to bounce and hover. Fal thought it to be another trick by the Skaven or Dark Gods but over the tops of buildings and down streets he saw the massive geysers of water shoot up. Wide eyed he watched as the water contorted to form a ship that solidified and with a rumbling boom the likes of which he had never heard it's cannons went off. Multiple explosions happening side by side echoed out and cheers of the local men let Fal know this wasn't some act of the Dark Gods. But surely was an act of some deity. Though which one he had no idea. He gazed at the strange assault from the ghostly ship completely transfixed. But after a moment he snapped out of it and turned his attention to the Chaos champion once more.
"Seems it's over, Chaos or Skaven you die tonight and go to whatever vile god you dealt with." He threatens with blade extended.

The Abomination reared his head toward the naked blade, audibly wretching from under the emerald helm, as though his pierced snout had caught scent of some foul odour. Of course, that was far from the truth; he'd already become accustomed to the stench of rot and death. It was something far more clandestine that lathered across this already unholy battlefield: A macabre aura that seemed to emanate from the Elf's very blade. He looked back for but a moment at the mass rout of screaming Ratfolk, chased and hunted down by merciless ruffians blinded with a passion for vengeance, venting their sadistic fury as they cleaved the petrified vermin limb by limb; rodent screeches of agony were drowned out by the ecstatic laughter of the Human mercenaries...

...Thus, Rotflag smiled; there was some elation to be found in this failure -- Khorne had been appeased this day.

The beast chuckled arrogantly, hauling toward his enemies like some looming, corrugated wraith. "I'll admit, Clan Skurvy is defeated, but this is not where, or how, I am slain. The Gods have promised me more than a modest death upon the foundations of a small hovel, for the atrocities I have committed." In that split second, the Champion let out a deafening roar, a distraction for the cape of fire that emerged from the claret stone floor. Embers rose from the ground and quickly manifested into a wall of wreathing flame, one that had seperated both Falderan and Anglermaw from their despoiled prey, who had already begun making his way down toward the broken port. The Sea-rat pulled the trigger on his warplock, suddenly dictated by instinct as his whiskers were singed by the infernal barrier, but from the heaving of grated, rusted boots in the distance, the shot had clearly missed it's target.

"You have sullied my pride, Pirates!" Rotflag's disembodied voice echoed seemingly from within the dancing inferno. "Thus, I shall shatter yours in kind. I shall contest for this Ark of the Skaven! I shall bestow it's pestilent curses onto Nurgle, pray that you do not live to see me exhalted beside the host of the Everchosen!"

That was the last act of Rotflag upon the Sartosan island, ignorant of the ethereal cannonballs that hurled indiscriminately toward the mass of cowering rodents. The intoxicated Sartosans would attempt to block the path of this verminous Warlord, but in their ecstasy, they had forgotten the dangers of challenging a Chosen of Chaos itself; the wall of flesh was parted when the Warlord colourfully gored a group of the soldiers back into deathly sobriety. No more gave chase, and any pellets fired from the assortment of irregular riflemen barely dented the corrugated hide. By the time Rotflag made his way down to port, the Shadewraith had begun to dissipate into the jade night. How he had escaped - by boat or by sorcery was uncertain - only the tossed carcasses of sailors marked the Abomination's path.

"Vile coward! Usurper!" Anglermaw hissed, the magical wall of fire crumbling into nothing more than a charred line of ash. "Take the Ark, will you-you?" He then sighed, as if suddenly behooved by humility as he gazed toward Falderan, and in that moment, Anglermaw knew that he was still in the presence of enemies.

Hans had been fortunate beyond the will of the Gods, this day. As the Student wrestled with Guyel, a synapse slithered within his mind that alluded to the clean dagger that lay sheathed by his thigh. Without a moment's thought, Hans tore the blade from it's holster, gouging it deep into the throat of this murderer. The Assassin choked from within the veil, now dyed a sanguine red that seeped onto Hans' own leather fabric. Guyel was dead; Bjorn and Miguel had been avenged. But such thoughts were far from the Reiklander's primal mind, quickly hauling the lifeless corpse away. He became bewildered by the unanimous cheers of victory as he rose from the stonework, ignorant toward his own exhaustion -- choking upon his own spit slumped upon a nearby wall. After all this bloodshed, all this suffering, had he actually survived?

The wall of flames erupted up before Fal could make a lunge for his opponent. Catching the tip of his blade and rapidly heating it with sorcerous flames he barley managed to pull it back before the heat became blistering. He winced and glared up as the voice of the fleeing creation fled. Bellowing out plans for an Ark infested with Nurgles' plagues. Fal had enough know how of the Ruinous Powers to know one of their names. Though what this Ark was he had no idea. In the back of his mind the thought of the fabled Black Arks of the Druchii came to the forefront of his mind. As the screaming and roaring of flames began to die down he could feel the cries of his blade. It seemed to have reacted to the abomination. Was it just the dark magic within it or somehow something necromantic? This was something that shook him. A similar reaction, though far weaker was had with the small stone he found that resided in his pocket.

As the flames died and Fal's wondering thoughts came back he saw the other Skaven in the moonlight and rose his blade. This one didn't scurry with the others. In fact he seemed to hate that abomination on a personal level. From what Fal heard it was something about a Usurper. Maybe this Skaven was back stabbed but not successfully killed off. That would explain some of the reactions. Fal didn't see a Skaven treachery as anything unique to go by but this ones behavior was. The two seemed to stare at each other for a moment.
"You didn't take your only chance to run. I suggest you talk vermin. What as that abomination going on about an Ark?" Fal demands to know as he raises his blade. "You seem no friend of his so telling his secrets shouldn't hurt you. But silence will." Fal glared with a look like a predatory bird. His blade growled in the back of his mind demanding more blood and souls. He shook it off but never broke his stern gaze. He kept notice of the Skaven's pistol. If nothing else an average, working gun that could take his head off if aimed right.

Anglermaw's clawed feet skittered upon the stonework as the Elf protruded his moribund sword -- the Skaven extended his own glowing hookarm forward incase of any clash, which seemed likely. In spite of this, the Captain slid the Warplock back into it's wetted holster; the eerie resonance from that weapon seemed to lessen within the leather pouch. Anglermaw hoped that this sign of truce would not be lost upon the fellow, he knew first and foremost what he was, and that he was utterly despised among the no-furs; the Sartosans would not think twice about giving Anglermaw the same bloody treatment as they had catered to the rest of these traitorous Skurvy ilk.

"Ah'd tell you the whole story if need be, Elf-thing, but I'm gon t' struggle with a blade by me throat." Mused the Sea-rat, his wry humour belied a freezing shiver that crept upward upon his rodent spine, but he could not make it out. Was it the Black Hunger? Was it being surrounded by the corpses of kin and Men? No, Anglermaw is incapable of sentiment, as were all Skaven. But this tinge of panic was not primal, more unnatural and macabre. "The Ark is the Dreadnaught of Clan Skurvy; their key to rivalling the great clans themselves, yes-yes. Rotflag sought to control the Ark, all under my host did..."

A snicker filled with spite escaped the razor-sharp maw of the Captain "...But the Ark bows to no mortal -- it is not powered by warpstone, but a living force-"

"FALDERAN!" Screamed a whimpering, familiar voice, panting as it's young owner came floundering down the hill. Hans was soaked in rodent mucus and claret, jubilant over his own survival but even so exhausted to the point of collapse. The night was finally over, but it had indeed taken it's toll. "B-by Sigmar, I can't believe it! W-we're all still alive!" Exclaimed the Student, oblivious to Anglermaw's shadow as he strode down, barely upright as his own lungs heaved in pain.

"M-Miguel? Where is M-Mig-..?" Unable to endure the exhaustion any longer, Hans collapsed upon the bloody stone; his hands were grazed from the fall, but that would be his last injury this day, content to slumber beside the road of red.

Anglermaw spat as the tense conversation was interrupted. "Lucky boy, ah'd sharpen me teeth on 'im were it any other occasion. But we must align, the Ark is dangerous. It is powered by the soul of a Grey Seer called Lord Urechin - the first and last Seer of Clan Skurvy." Said the Skaven. "Were Rotflag to take-steal the Ark for himself, all of this world would suffer."

These words were rather sanctimonous for the Sea-Rat; he knew full well what influenced his ocean-borne rage. Spite alone was what drove his verminous anger, not any sort of altruism to save the world from the clutches of Chaos. Moreso, it was the notion that Anglermaw was not the bringer of this doom which infuriated him. Exhaltation among Skavendom had been stolen from him entirely. The Sacking of Luccini and the invasion of mainland Tilea were now merely fantastical wisps that faded within the boiling rodent mind. His kin sought his murder; his disgrace. He would repay that notion in kind.

Of course, he would not admit this to the Elf; such a profession would probably shorten his life quite drastically.

Lowering his weapon and starting to reply in a shockingly civilized manner for a Skaven brought Fal to a moment of surprise. He kept his stance ready as he knew fully well the Skaven's claws and fangs were as dangerous as any weapon the vermin could wield. As he went on explaining what the Ark was Fal was more then sure it was some kind of sea vessel. Though what type he didn't know. This was concerning as he wasn't aware the Skaven had any real form of navy. Though if what he said was true it was only a single ship. One which was far from a fleet like that of the Asur and Empire.

He noticed the Skaven step back as his name was called out. Turning in surprise Fal saw Hans running to him. The young man seemed frantic and was covered in blood but given how he ran it didn't seem to be his own. He smelt dreadful. Like he had been resting with diseased dogs. He spoke rapidly as if running on pure adrenaline. He barely gave Fal a chance to respond and keeping his blade in the direction of Anglermaw he had Hans mention Miguel but before he could respond the student passed out. Eyes rolling back he fell over. It looked like exhaustion as he breathed. Fal leaned him against the wall and looked to Anglermaw once more who added more to his story.

As he mentioned about sharpening his teeth on Hans Fal jumped in.
"You'd be bloody shreds before you got within spitting distance." He glared back still not satisfied with the information. As Anglermaw continued and spoke of a Grey Seer Fal was rather confused. He had never heard of these before. From what he said though it sounded like a form of leader. That somehow had their soul put into a ship. This was most confusing as Fal had no idea the Skaven worked with Necromancy and much less had powerful sorcery like that. Though the notion of putting a soul into an item wasn't news to him. He knew his own blade was such an item. But that was forged by powerful Necromancy. Something he had never heard of the Skaven using. Though maybe these Grey Seers could use such abilities. "One last thing then. If what you say is true what do you plan on doing and why do you care if he makes the world suffer? Isn't that your own goal with such a vessel?" Fal knew no Skaven could have a caring view of the world. Either he found a rare exception to the typical Skaven mold or he wasn't being told everything. Though after everything else he had seen tonight he couldn't be too shocked of what the Skaven were capable of feeling or doing.

Anglermaw chuckled, kneading his glowing hookarm upon the soaked fabrics of his coat while his rodent head wrung back. "Falderan? Is that yer name, yes?" Inquired the Sea-rat. He crooked his head toward the unconscious man, draped under whatever bodily ichor that had been splattered about, while this Elf leaned his sleeping body. The vitrolic response pleased the Skaven; it was clear these two held some modicum of attachment between them both. Such an emotion was yet again alien to the psyche of the Ratmen. "Well then, Falderan. Ye'd need not worry 'bout me. I've too many enemies t' me name to waste myself on the boy." He bluntly reassured as Falderan raised himself.

Meanwhile, the smoke and ashphalt remnants had cleared from down below the plaza; the surviving Sartosans and other mercenaries cheered and roared in victory, raising their bloodied swordarms toward the jade sky, which now began to weaken in it's dismal hue as Geheimnisnacht had finally passed. Intoxicated with the ecstacy of battle and leftover adrenaline, the warriors danced, raved and knelt toward the red stonework -- praising their deities under the disbelief that they still lived. So drunk with victory were these cut-throats, that they took little notice of Anglermaw, who stood by the cascading hill of blood; far from the former kill zone.

"Back to the Inn, boys!" One the swashbucklers shouted, swaying his crimson cutlass in the air. "I never got to finish me pint at that place."
"D'ye think they'll still be op'n w'thout a roof -hic-"
"I came from Nordland to fight for this pirate-ridden shithole! If no one's gonna serve us a drink for our labours, perhaps a bit more blood will do just fine on these streets."

The survivors cheered as they marched back to the various brothels and lounges these undesirable congregated by, leaving the crumbling plaza deserted and silent save for a few sober sailors who prefered to contemplate over this battle. Then Falderan asked his question, inquisitive over the Ratman's purpose.

"Perhaps you're right, you must know my kin-rats well, at least enough to slake a thirst for their blood. Yet, you didn't sink that blade int'a me at first sight." Anglermaw noted. "But, I am not Skaven anymore, at least in my title. The Ark- no, t' fleet was my responsibility. I was Claw-Admiral, bestowed by the Warlord himself, but the Rats tossed me overboard. The Clan gambled all to be recognised; that gamble has failed. I am disgraced by traitors, to go back to Spineport is suicide." The Rodent gritted his teeth, seething with anger as his incisors grinded between eachother like chalk on a board. Anglermaw's body subtly jittered; it was not the Black Hunger influencing these movements, but bubbling, unfulfilled rage.

"Tell me Elf, 'ave ye ever been driven solely by vengeance? To right somethin' so wrong done onto ye alone, that it becomes yer only cause in life?" Asked Anglermaw. "We're bitter creatures, us Skaven. The greatest of us don't forget when we are wronged, and we don't forgive. The Ark is contested; it must be destroyed." The sanguine lifeforce that swam through Anglermaw's boiling veins become venomous, and the rodent mind was bombarded with thoughts of madness. He tried to clench his hookarm, but could not dull the fury, for there was nothing there but a glowing stump.

"'Cause if we don't, Elf, all'l suffer regardless."

A smirk couldn't help but move up his lips at the mention of vengeance. It almost seemed like a call out. Despising Druchii and the Ruinous Powers alike he knew a thing or two about wanting vengeance. Frankly it kept him going like the blood in his veins. Lucky for his new 'friend' Fal didn't despise the Skaven as much. He saw them as an issue and something to be purged. But he saw the powers of Chaos and his dark kin as more deserving of his time. He wasn't a zealot like the Warrior Priests but he surely had an axe to grind after decades of fighting the dark powers. However he didn't completely believe Anglermaw when he spoke about simply wanting vengeance but he did believe it was at the forefront of his mind. He was certainly no friend to the other Skaven and maybe some insider knowledge could be useful. That being said Fal knew it wasn't a matter of if he would be back stabbed but when.

"Say I believe you when you say all you want is vengeance. I don't doubt you do but I'd bet there's more to it that you want to get out of it. So what're you proposing?" Fal chuckled. "Almost seems like you want to team up." The very idea was laughable. Not being used by a Skaven but allying with them. He would surely be betrayed but when one is used to expecting betrayal they know how to avoid it and the tell tale signs. Fal waited for a response as the radiant glow of Morrslieb fades to a dimmer shade.

The Skaven sniffled at the thought, as though he was trying to contain some fit of gutteral laughter. Man-things and Ratmen joining forces, a joke beyond belief -- to both parties. Truly, this meeting must've been the work of some sadistic deity, if not the weavings of the Horned Rat himself. However, Anglermaw knew just how desperate his situation was; with no allies of his own kin to count upon, this dubious Elf - and his sleeping morsel of a companion - were clearly his only option of escape. He took another glimpse at the parade of corpses below, bearing his teeth. It was then that Anglermaw realised this was his only opportunity; after all they had lost, the Humans would make the Sea-Rat beg for death for what he had inevitably wrought.

Anglermaw swished his crooked face back in Falderan's direction, grunting in defeat. "...Perhaps I do..." The Skaven conceded. "Ah'm a bit short for friends, as ye can see, an' even I am surprised ye didn't try slit me throat on the spot, so there is that. My name is Anglermaw, Capt'n Sunami Anglermaw, at least before the Skurvy bastards tossed me overboard." One thing that could be noted from the Sea-rat - moreso than any other Skaven of his kind - was that he was not ruled by distrust or paranoia. This strange formality was another aspect alien to the Skaven as a race, perhaps that was what mortified the Captain when he had been ruefully betrayed.

"You look like the sort who enjoys 'emself a bit of adventure, as do I." Mused the Sea-rat. "Could be one for the books, what do you say..?"

Fal felt like he was making a horrible decision in choosing to go along with the rat. But he noticed something in the dim moonlight and flames around. They showed off the rats eyes and he didn't seem as crazed as the others. He almost seemed sincere. Swallowing to moisten his throat like he would a bitter medicine Fal nodded to his new 'companion'.
"These truly are dark times if I agree to this." He shakes his head. "So what do you propose for your vengeance? Don't know why I don't just sail away from this mess and let it happen. You're lucky I care not for raiders and those Chaos tainted." He holds his blade loosely. Fal had a hard time coming to terms with working with this Skaven but he seemed different enough to both grab his curiocity and be his only hope of stopping what sounds like a deadly raiding ship.