True to his nature, Be'lakor proved to be the most "flexible" entity in the galaxy. He became the picture of subservience, for a pact between Warp-entities was no mere verbal agreement, it was a brand upon the soul.
As Lucius began squeezing the First-Damned for intelligence, Be'lakor tried to reciprocate, probing for information on this new Chaos God. How could a race he didn't even recognize produce such a powerhouse? Slaanesh had required the fall of the Aeldari empire to manifest; what were these creatures?
He soon found his answer. While these bipedal rats lacked the psychic refinement of the Aeldari, their emotional output was staggering. There was no restraint, no peace, only a flood of base, frantic desires. If other gods received faith like a steady stream, the Skaven provided a flash flood of filth and ambition.
From Be'lakor, Lucius gained what he truly coveted: maps of the Webway and dossiers on the other Four. In the Age of Sigmar, Skaven could travel without Realmgates by gnawing "Gnawholes" through reality. The only drawback was their unpredictability; occasionally a Gnawhole opened under an ocean, drowning billions of rats.
But the Webway? That was a pre-built tunnel system. And as every Skaven knew: all tunnels belong to the rats. Yes-yes!
While Lucius observed the Skaven plague spreading through the stars, Be'lakor remained restless. A schemer who lived to fail and failed to live, the First-Damned couldn't help but stir the pot. Lucius didn't care; as long as he drained the daemon's knowledge, Be'lakor was harmless.
He turned his gaze back to the Materium. The Skaven "Great Crusade" was in full swing. Lacking a centralized navigation, the clans were scattershot across the galaxy. Being semi-daemonic, they didn't even require the protection of Geller Fields. Mutations and daemonic infestations were simply a Tuesday for a Skaven crew.
Take the fleet of Clan Mors, for instance.
Mors didn't boast the biological horrors of Moulder or the tech of Skryre. They held their seat on the Council through sheer martial discipline and the most elite infantry in the Under-Empire. In a miraculous break from Skaven tradition, Clan Mors even practiced a twisted form of loyalty. Gnawdwell was actively grooming Queek Headtaker as his heir, and Queek, in turn, was genuinely devoted to his "Warlord-Father."
Aboard the Mors Hive-Ship, the Warp was bleeding through. Mutated flesh and minor daemons began to manifest in the corridors. The Skaven captains, unbothered, simply sent waves of slaves to die until the problem went away.
"How repulsive... are you the source of this new Warp-taint?"
A Slaaneshi Herald, leading thousands of daemons and, crucially, a hundred Emperor's Children Space Marines, breached the hull of the Skaven ship.
"Naked-pink things! You don't scare me! No-no!" A Skaven Warlord in modified power armor hissed. He brandished a chainsword and a Storm-Shield, a Warp-pistol and gas grenades strapped to his belt. Thanks to Lucius's protection, the soul-sapping allure of Slaanesh held no sway over these rats.
The daemons, finding no beauty to corrupt in these vermin, didn't bother with seduction.
"I shall make you... artistic!" the Herald shrieked, her jaw unhinging to reveal rows of needle-teeth.
The daemons blurred forward with unnatural grace, while the Emperor's Children opened fire with their bolters. Each bolt turned a rat into a red mist, yet the Skaven continued to pour from the walls.
The maddened Traitor Marines didn't care. They revved chainswords and waded into the sea of fur, carving a path toward the ship's bridge. But as they ascended further into the "Flying Hive," they realized why the Skaven didn't fear the Warp.
Millions of rats surged from every vent and shadow, their eyes glowing red. They weren't just fighting; they were eating. Every mutated eye, mouth, or limb that grew from the ship's walls was being devoured by the starving swarm as fast as it could manifest.
"Verminous trash," a Chaos Marine spat, crushing dozens of rats under his boots.
Then, a brassy horn echoed through the halls.
"Mors-kin! KILL! Kill-slay them!"
Standing atop a pile of crates was a Skaven nearly double the size of his kin, clad in crimson-lacquered power armor and wielding a chainsword and a power-maul.
The true army of Clan Mors arrived.
"ONE-TWO! ONE-TWO!"
Clanrats in full carapace and flak armor marched in lockstep, driving a screen of beefy Slave-rats ahead of them. Behind them, Stormvermin in red plate held the line with professional calm.
The Emperor's Children sneered and opened fire again. The Slaves died in droves, acting as living sandbags. The Clanrats behind them returned fire with Warp-muskets, unleashing a hail of emerald-green tracer fire.
The Space Marines trusted their power armor to deflect the projectiles. They were wrong. The bullets weren't lead; they were solidified Chaos energy. The green rounds chewed through ceramite like acid.
A squad of Skaven in warp-exoskeletons scurried forward, clutching purple Poisoned Wind Globes. Sensing the danger, the Slaaneshi daemons lunged to intercept, but without armor, they were shredded by the Warp-fire of the Clanrats.
The Poisoned Wind globes shattered. A thick, toxic haze filled the corridor. The daemons, vulnerable to the concentrated Warp-toxins, were reduced to soup and banished back to the Palace of Pleasure instantly.
The Emperor's Children, losing over a dozen battle-brothers, finally slammed into the Skaven ranks. They expected a rout. Instead, they met bayonets forged from Warpstone.
"Ugh! What... what is this?" the Captain of the Emperor's Children gasped. His superhuman physiology, usually immune to any toxin, was failing. The Poisoned Wind was rotting him from the inside out.
The Stormvermin swarmed them, fighting in disciplined squads of three to bring down the giants. They died by the dozen, but they didn't break. Power swords pierced ceramite; chainswords bit into rat-flesh.
Within twenty minutes, only ten Marines remained. As they braced for the end, the largest rat stepped forward.
"Stay-wait! They... they are Queek's! MINE!"
Queek Headtaker leaped into the fray, his Red Guard, Stormvermin in identical crimson armor, leveling their halberds to keep the other rats back.
Queek stared at the wounded Chaos Captain, his teeth bared in a manic grin. He revved his chainsword. "Queek takes your head! For the trophy-rack! Yes-yes!"
The Captain lunged with his power sword. Queek, a blur of fur and red plate, rolled beneath the strike and smashed his power-maul into the Marine's thigh. The already-corroded armor shattered.
With the suit's power supply severed, the weight of the ceramite became a tomb for the drug-addled Marine.
"Die-die! Hahaha!" Queek shrieked, his chainsword decapitating the Captain in one fluid stroke.
The Red Guard surged forward, tearing the remaining Marines limb from limb.
"Take-bring the bodies back!" Queek chattered, holding the Captain's head aloft. "These human-things... they are not-not normal!"