The broken remains of the Emperor's Children were dragged into the dark heart of the Clan Mors encampment. High-ranking vermin gathered in the shadows, their chattering voices hushed and conspiratorial as they peered at the transhuman dead.
Though Clan Mors relied on its martial prowess, they maintained a vast entourage of specialists to service the high-tech demands of void warfare, much like the Adeptus Mechanicus accompanying an Imperial Crusade. Within the Mors fleet, numerous Warlock Engineers of Clan Skryre and Master Mutators of Clan Moulder scurried about their business.
Normally, these specialists demanded extortionate commissions. However, given the Great Horned Rat's personal, wrathful oversight of this "Great Crusade," no clan dared set a price that would bankrupt their patrons. Fear of divine execution kept the market "fair."
"Queek, are you certain-sure? What makes these man-cubs different?" Lord Gnawdwell, Warlord of Clan Mors, spoke with a gravity rare among his kind. As one of the first Skaven Lucius had manifested from his own memories, Gnawdwell possessed a cold, imposing stability.
He looked toward his foster son and most lethal lieutenant.
Queek reached up to pat his first trophy: the smooth, distorted head of the Emperor's Children Captain, now impaled upon the trophy-spikes of his power armor. "Yes-yes! This man-cub... oh, he said his name was Endali! He told Queek!" Queek's tone was almost conversational, as if the severed head were an old friend. "He said he has two hearts, three lungs... something called Gene-seed... GAH! Annoying! Queek cannot remember all the words! But this… THIS is how the man-cubs kill so many of my rat-boys!"
Queek's temper flared. On Zavka, he had fought the Ogryns, massive, brutal humans, but even they lacked the terrifying efficiency of these armored giants. Though Stormvermin were elite, even ten wounded Space Marines should not have been able to reap such a bloody toll against Mors' finest.
Everything Queek knew came from the head. Or rather, what Queek believed the head was telling him.
Queek's moniker, The Headtaker, was born of his obsession with collecting the skulls of worthy foes. Whether it was a symptom of schizophrenia or a blessing from the Horned Rat, Queek talked to these heads, and they "replied," offering advice and tactical insights. This strange habit made Queek an anomaly, a Skaven warlord who actually bothered to "chat" with his subordinates and "friends."
Gnawdwell nodded. He knew his foster son was mad, but in the Under-Empire, results excused any eccentricity. "Let the masters try-test them. If they can crack the secrets of these man-things, I will pay them whatever bribe they require."
"YES! Just so, Father! Mors... Mors shall remain the first-strongest army of the Skaven!"
While the lords plotted, the Master Mutators and Warlock Engineers fell upon the corpses with filthy, surgical precision. Their movements were frantic, yet their skill was undeniable; internal organs were harvested and sorted with practiced ease.
A Master Mutator lifted a massive, slug-like Progenoid Gland, the Gene-seed, with a pair of rusted iron tongs. He sniffed it, then let out a wide, jagged yawn. "Kha-haaa! The smell... YES... smells like Warpstone. Tastes of Chaos-stuff!"
The Warlock Engineer, clad in his own clunky Warp-power armor, ignored the meat. He was fixated on the Black Carapace and the fragmented Mark VII Power Armor. The Skaven currently used modified mining suits from Zavka or salvaged Astra Militarum gear. The sophisticated systems of the Astartes were a revelation. If he could monopolize this technology, his status within the clan would be unassailable.
The Master Mutator had similar thoughts. As a pinnacle of flesh-crafting, he immediately prepared vats of Warpstone nutrient solution to begin cloning the Astartes organs. He had no doubt they would grow; in the presence of raw Warpstone, all things mutated and multiplied.
The Skaven did not yet understand which organs were vital, but that mattered little. Thousands of experimental subjects would soon be fed into the vats to see what came out the other side.
"Cruel Master! We have... have found a target!"
In the navigation spire, a Skaven pilot had successfully peered through the churning tides of the Warp and spotted a destination.
"Hmm? What is it?" Gnawdwell marched over.
"Look-see... ahead of us... some stuntie-things! Yes-yes!"
The green phosphor screens flickered to life. A blocky, heavily armored vessel was offloading squat, powerful warriors into a drifting Space Hulk.
The Skaven viewed Space Hulks as "free real estate." They would throw waves of rats into the meat grinder; if they found loot, wonderful; if not, the lives were a cheap sacrifice to the Great Crusade.
As Gnawdwell stared at the images of these Leagues of Votann warriors, his expression shifted from cold dignity to predatory malice. He bared his yellowed incisors. "Them. Follow them... do not startle-scare them. I want to give these stunties a... a BIG surprise! Heh-heh-HEHEHE!!"
In his excitement, even the stoic Gnawdwell began to stammer and chitter. It was an ancestral impulse. For some reason, Clan Mors and the "Stunties" were destined for eternal enmity.
What Gnawdwell didn't realize was that this wasn't coincidence. Lucius, from his throne in the Warp, had subtly nudged the fleet's trajectory.
"Heh, don't blame me," Lucius chuckled, watching the impending collision. "Without the bloody wars for Karak Eight Peaks, how could Clan Mors ever maintain its edge? And as for the 'Astartes-Skaven' experiment... let's see what the rats cook up."
He glanced toward the distant, cold, black sun of the Imperial Palace in the Warp. "Come on, Corpse Emperor. Let's see if I can join your Great Game."
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