The Angrund Hold, home to the strongholds of the Angrund Kindred, was plunged into an unprecedented planetary uprising several months ago. An unknown race suddenly seized the subterranean logistics and materiel storage vaults of the primary hold!
Vast quantities of Angrund munitions and equipment were plundered. Only through the desperate rearguard actions of Einhyr Hearthguard and Beserks was the Kindred's "Ancestor Shrine Thinker"—the localized terminal of their Votann—successfully evacuated.
The ratmen, however, had little interest in the "big iron-head beard-thing." By occupying the Angrund armories and vast production lines, Clan Mors secured a massive influx of high-grade weaponry. Though this was their first time experiencing such opulence, both Queek and Gnawdwell felt a nagging sense of familiarity at the sight of it.
Thanks to the Angrund vaults, the ratmen of Clan Mors traded their rusted scraps for "big guns," significantly upgrading their wargear.
It had begun months prior, when Eshin sorcerer-assassins unleashed a wide-range psychic ritual within the Squat sub-levels, instantly teleporting the entire Mors fleet directly into the heart of the hold. Caught completely off-guard, the League of Votann Kin were swamped by an unending tide of vermin erupting from the depths.
Subterranean Kin were either slaughtered or driven out, leaving the Space Dwarfs of the Angrund Kindred in a state of ultimate grudge-fueled fury. They recalled their void-fleets and expeditionary forces, intent on exterminating the vermin and reclaiming their ancestral home.
Looking upon the once high-tech subterranean elevators and corridors, now defiled, unrecognizable, and bathed in the sickly green glow of warpstone, the advancing Kin saw only filth: rat tracks, molted fur, and the gnawed remains of their brothers.
The sight drove the Space Dwarfs into a white-hot rage.
"Let the Votann lead us!" bellowed an Einhyr Champion, brandishing a master-crafted power hammer while standing atop a Sagitaur ATV. The tunnels were so cramped the vehicle could barely scrape through.
Behind him, Hearthkyn Warriors and Ironkin formed the vanguard in ranks of five, indistinguishable from their biological comrades in their shared resolve. They raised their Autoch-pattern bolters and EtaCarn plasma beams, advancing into the gloom.
Soon, the skittering of claws and a cacophony of chittering shrieks echoed from the darkness.
"Kill-slay them! Go! Go!"
The piercing voice of a Warlord cracked like a whip over the vermin. Scabbed, scarred, and skeletal, a tide of Slave Rats surged forward, clutching rusted shivs in one hand and crude warp-pistols in the other, attempting to drown the Kin in a sea of fur.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
The Hearthkyn were shocked to see small green projectiles punching through their void-sealed carapaces. Though the low caliber meant few rounds inflicted lethal flesh wounds, they peppered the Kin's armor with jagged, glowing holes.
"Open fire!"
Beams of searing blue-white plasma erupted from the Hearthkyn rifles. The terrifying power of the shots incinerated dozen of Slave Rats in a single volley, punching through row after row of the weak creatures.
But the Skaven cared nothing for casualties. Those in the rear trampled those in front; the vermin ran with eyes full of terror and desperation, hoping their crude weapons might buy them a single second of survival. Simultaneously, seemingly solid walls would suddenly rupture, spilling Skaven ambushers into the Kin's rear ranks to disrupt their formation.
In the Mors Great Hall, Gnawdwell listened impassively to the combat reports from various thrall-clans and subordinate Warlords.
For months, the Kin had campaigned like madmen to retake the hold, but Mors simply fed them a steady diet of minor clans, Slave Rats, and Clanrats. Behind the lines, the Skaven employed their signature biological warfare: rats with warpstone shards stitched into their bellies were released into the Kin's supply depots, spreading horrific mutation and corrosive rot.
Consequently, much of the Kin's machinery and rations were contaminated, preventing them from launching a full-scale offensive.
Yet none of this was Gnawdwell's true focus. He ordered his clans to hold the line at all costs because his attention was fixed entirely on the surgical theater before him, and his greatest masterpiece: Queek.
"Success or failure, I want Queek alive!" Gnawdwell barked at the Master Mutator performing the procedure.
"Yes-yes, savage master! This is the strong-strongest ratman I have ever seen-glimpsed! It will work, hee-hee, no problem!" The Master Mutator was garbed in blood-stained surgical robes, his hands a blur of knives, saws, and clamps.
Before him lay Queek Headtaker, the Great Warlord of the Eight Peaks, lying as helpless as a pup on the operating table.
From a vat of warpstone nutrient solution, the Mutator withdrew organs harvested from a hideously mutated Chaos Space Marine of the Emperor's Children. One by one, he stitched these twisted organs into Queek. Finally, the gene-seed was implanted.
As if stewing a grotesque dumpling, the Mutator finished the "surgery" and unceremoniously dumped Queek back into the glowing green nutrient solution.
The Skaven understood technology, but their "science" was indistinguishable from madness and sorcery. Relying on the reality-warping properties of warpstone, they bypassed all rigorous methodology. These Master Mutators had dared to perform the Astartes ascension rites after hearing only a vague summary of the process.
Seeing Queek's body rapidly knit together and swell within the solution, the Mutator nodded with satisfaction and gestured for the next subject.
Ska Bloodtail, Queek's deputy and commander of the Red Guard, a rat even more massive and loyal than Queek himself, stepped forward with grim resolve.
Under the knives of dozens of Mutators, the entire Red Guard was "canned." As the surgeons grew familiar with the procedure, they began adding their own personal flourishes: third arms, bone-spur tails, and extra sensory organs. If the Adeptus Astartes pursued genetic stability, the Skaven pursued deliberate, violent mutation.
Watching his foster son submerged in the vat, Gnawdwell sighed. He refused the modification for himself; a member of the Council of Thirteen required no such "augmentation" to exert his will. He had already received word that Sneek and Kritislik had been elevated to daemonhood by the Great Horned Rat.
This news had acted like a depth charge within Skaven society, igniting a frenzy of covetous desire. Daemonhood was now the ultimate pursuit.
"How long until Queek awakes?" Gnawdwell asked, clutching his power sword.
"One year! Yes-yes, one year! A perfect emergence in one year!" the Mutator shrieked with excitement.
Gnawdwell wrinkled his snout. "Faster. Can it be faster?"
"Oh... then success-survival is not guaranteed-certain."
Gnawdwell grinned, baring his yellowed incisors. "For those other than Queek, I do not require a hundred percent success rate."
He glanced at the black-furred Stormvermin in power armor and the countless Clanrats waiting outside. The Mutator understood instantly, chuckling darkly. "Good, good! More test-things, more data!"
Thus, countless Skaven were dragged onto the slabs. They were forcefully implanted with twisted organs and gene-seed grown in warp-vats. Thousands died, but in the Skaven empire, casualties were a meaningless statistic.
A few months later, adorned in crimson-painted plate, the first "Rat-startes" awoke. Nearly two meters tall, clad in "Rat-pattern" power armor modified by Warlock Engineers of Clan Skryre and wielding warp-lightning halberds powered by back-mounted reactors, they stood ready.
The first batch of Rat-startes marched to war against the League of Votann.
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