The Forge of Souls, a place of singular prominence within the Warp. In the grim darkness of the 41st Millennium, it serves as the sovereign domain and primary manufactorum of Vashtorr the Arkifane, the Dark Omnissiah. Within its sweltering depths, countless daemons sell their essences to Vashtorr in exchange for power, finding themselves bound into the chassis of Soul Grinders—grotesque, semi-mechanical fusions of warp-flesh and cold iron.
In the Age of Sigmar and the World-That-Was, the Forge of Souls remains, yet it lacks the singular overlordship of the Arkifane. There, it functions more like a communal emporium of dark industry. In the chronicles of Slaanesh's chosen, the "Daemon-Smiths" are cited as the masters of these forges, with such infernal artisans serving all four of the Great Powers.
Perhaps it is for this reason that the Chaos Gods have historically refrained from seizing the Forge of Souls for themselves. Beyond its status as a shared utility, the Big Four are often too consumed by their own divine natures to bother; even Tzeentch, for all his complexity, favors the elegance of a grand conspiracy over the tedious, rigid schematics of dark science.
This was precisely why Lucius had chosen to strike at Vashtorr's flank. In this reality, the Forge of Souls was the Arkifane's private empire, and it was time to tear it down.
"I am prepared to serve you, God of the Long-Tail."
Be'lakor knelt on one knee, his pitch-black daemonic features twisted into a mask of feigned sincerity and malevolent ambition.
The First-Damned had long coveted the Forge of Souls, but he lacked the raw power to wrest it from Vashtorr, and his essence had little affinity for the dark technologies of the forge. However, acting as the vanguard for the Great Horned Rat to swallow the Forge of Souls whole? That was a gambit worth playing.
"Treacherous Be'lakor... your schemes are so transparent that a newborn rat-kin, still tumbling in the filth of the birthing-pit, could see through them." The Great Horned Rat sat upon the Throne of Ruin, green balefire flickering within the sockets of His colossal, pale rat-skull. His voice was a low thunder that vibrated through the air.
Below the throne, the verminous daemons of the Realm of Ruin scurried in a panicked, chattering frenzy.
"But I allow it... How amusing it shall be. Let me witness your exquisite failure once more, Be'lakor. Let me hear your comical howls of despair yet again."
With a sweep of His massive claw, the souls of Skaven drifting through the Realm of Ruin were violently drawn together. They coalesced according to their former clan loyalties and the dark crafts they had mastered in life, forming tall, lithe, and terrible silhouettes.
These were the diminished echoes of the Horned Rat Himself. They bore bifurcated, whip-like tails and multiple pairs of jagged horns that reached as high as their towering frames. Their armor reflected the heraldry of the Great Clans.
The most numerous among them were the Warbringer Tyrants—Verminlords of the Clan Mors and Clan Rictus lineages. Clad in crimson plate, they wielded massive warp-iron claws and wicked glaives, birthed from the concentrated martial fury and bloodlust of the Stormvermin.
Unlike lesser daemons, which can be manifested through the simple corruption of mortal souls, much like a Plaguebearer is born from a rotting mortal, a Rat Greater Daemon requires a direct expenditure of a god's essence. For Lucius, this was akin to a painless shedding of skin, but only a Chaos God of immense and rising power could afford to deploy Greater Daemons as if they were mere footmen.
To win this first War of the Gods, Lucius was prepared to pay the price in blood and essence.
"Hahahahaha...!"
Beyond the Throne of Ruin, a chorus of eerie, discordant laughter boomed like distant artillery. The entities of the Warp, including the Four Great Powers, were watching the spectacle with keen interest. Lucius could almost sense the shifting, formless visages of the Four peering through the veil.
"I despise these wretched rats even more than Vashtorr's tasteless, rusted skull... I place my wager on the Arkifane."
A languid, decadent voice echoed from the Palace of Slaanesh. The Dark Prince lay sprawled upon a throne of excess, while a sea of Keepers of Secrets and Daemonettes performed hauntingly perfect dances to amuse their deity.
The daily existence of the Chaos Gods is often one of divine ennui. Aside from the Great Game, where they command legions like pieces on a regicide board, hoping to humiliate a rival, these entities rely on the fleeting dramas of the Materium for entertainment. Now, the Great Horned Rat, a rising and potent newcomer, was launching a divine crusade against the ancient but relatively weaker Vashtorr. The gods would not miss it for the world.
"Though our methods differ, they are such lovely little pathogens~ I support the Horned Rat," Grandfather Nurgle wheezed, stirring his cauldron and absentmindedly popping a few pustules on his cheek.
Among the Four, Nurgle's relationship with the Horned Rat was the most complex. Because the Skaven of Clan Pestilens worshipped the aspect of the Great Corruptor, Skaven and Nurgle forces often collaborated in the Age of Sigmar to test new contagions. Of course, these alliances usually ended in betrayal when the Skaven kidnapped Nurgle's sorcerers to steal their recipes, leading to immediate war, but the mutual interest remained.
Tzeentch and Khorne, as was their nature, took the opposing sides of their respective rivals. Khorne, out of loathing for Slaanesh's aestheticism, backed the Horned Rat. Tzeentch, simply to spite Nurgle, cast his lot with Vashtorr.
The board was set. The gods pulled up their proverbial stools to watch the fire spread.
Lucius sensed their gaze and looked up with a sharp hiss. "In this universe, none truly comprehend the power of the Vermin-kin."
With a grand gesture, countless Warp-conduits tore open between the Realm of Ruin and the Forge of Souls. The Rat Ogres descended like a rain of filth upon the Arkifane's domain.
Be'lakor took to the air, soaring above the surging, squalid tide of the Skaven-swarm. He summoned his thralls—the Disciples of Be'lakor. Immediately, Black Legion warbands and Chaos warfleets under his sway, some of whom were currently raiding the galaxy with Arks of Omen, abandoned their sieges. Under the bewildered and furious gazes of Planetary Governors, Astra Militarum Generals, Aeldari Autarchs, and Ork Warbosses, they vanished into the Warp to join the war against Vashtorr.
"O-ho! Great Horned Rat, my devious, magnificent Master! How can your filthy children help-assist you?" cackled Kritislik, a fanatic Greater Daemon personally elevated by Lucius. He bowed low before the shadow of the god. "The rat-pups... they can all… all fight for you—YES-YES!"
From the Thirteenth Seat of the Council of Thirteen, a horned shadow loomed, and the voice of the Horned Rat boomed with a terrifying depth:
"The Great Skaven Crusade shall not cease. The vermin must spread to every planet in the mortal realm. Unleash your craven nature! Even if hundreds of billions of your kind must rot in the dirt, the swarm shall not stop!"
A War of the Gods is fought on two fronts. The souls of the fallen Skaven would swell the ranks of the daemonic vermin, and the intense emotions of their slaughter would feed the Great Horned Rat's ascension. The Crusade would not end until the galaxy was gnawed to the bone.