A baleful green light flickered in Kritislik's eyes as he watched the First Prince of Chaos. The Skaven's habitual compulsion for betrayal was already clawing at his mind.
"The honor-glory here belongs to the Skaven! To the Great Grey Seer!"
Without a doubt, the head of the Grey Seer conclave desired to monopolize this conquest to curry favor with the Great Horned Rat. Whether it was a lowly Slave-Rat bribing a superior or a high-ranking Verminlord, the treacherous nature of the rodent-kin remained unchanged.
Be'lakor, the Dark Master, merely bared his teeth at the white-furred Seer. He did not bother to strike; he knew there was only one entity whose will truly mattered here.
Outside the Forge of Souls, Lucius felt the shift. As the Skaven triumphed, a torrent of faith and raw emotion, originally destined for the Forge's internal reservoirs, began to flow directly into him.
"Heh..." Vashtorr had been shattered, cast back into the Warp to await a slow reconstruction. With the Forge of Souls fully occupied, the divine war was won.
Then, the Great Horned Rat, a manifestation so colossal it looked capable of swallowing a planet whole, stepped forth. With a stride that shook the foundations of the Immaterium, He set foot within the Forge of Souls.
The arrival of a Chaos God far more potent than Be'lakor or Vashtorr triggered an immediate, violent transformation within the sub-realm. Warp energy coalesced into jagged clusters of green warpstone, erupting like malignant tumors throughout the Forge's machinery.
Behind Him, the Vermin Herder daemons rushed forward, cackling as they began to scavenge the ruins for "treasures."
"Be'lakor, I acknowledge your contribution. Perhaps I shall offer you a fair price, but for now... make your disciples vanish." Lucius raised a hand. Suddenly, the Disciples of Be'lakor who were busy looting the Forge's systems were seized by agonizing convulsions. Their bodies erupted into swarms of chittering rats that scurried away from beneath collapsed suits of power armor.
"Of course, Venerable Horned One," Be'lakor replied smoothly. He was well aware that his own intellect, while vast, was not suited for managing the labyrinthine logistics of the Forge. He did not hesitate to sign a formal covenant between his Disciples and Clan Skryre.
"Yes-yes! The contract... the contract is accepted!" Ikit Claw snickered, though he forced another Warlock Engineer, one almost entirely replaced by cybernetics, to press his claw-print onto the document.
This engineer, wielding a custom-built warplock pistol and a warp-power maul, was a genius second only to Ikit and Morskittar. His name was Chrot. Unlike the flamboyant Ikit, Chrot was a rare breed of Skaven: a silent, diligent workhorse who poured his life into invention rather than political posturing.
Once the contract, forged in the fires of the Warp, was sealed, Be'lakor nodded in satisfaction. He knew he could never hold the Forge alone, but so long as the factory served his needs, it mattered little who sat upon its iron throne.
"I have triumphed." Lucius, in the titanic guise of the Great Horned Rat, peered out into the kaleidoscopic nightmare of the wider Warp.
"My dear, utilizing a jester is hardly an elegant way to win~" Slaanesh purred, feigning nonchalance despite the sound of silver mirrors shattering within the Palace of Pleasure, betraying the Dark Prince's irritation.
Khorne, from atop his Brass Throne, let out a laugh like a volcanic eruption. "You lost, you silk-clad freak!" The Blood God then turned his gaze toward Lucius. "Since you have won, the place is yours. But my contracts with the Forge must be honored, or the Blade of the Blood God shall find your throat!"
With that, the crimson clouds of Khorne's influence receded. Tzeentch and Nurgle remained silent. For Nurgle, cold iron held no interest compared to life and decay. For Tzeentch, the Forge was a mere tool; the Great Conspirator cared only for the flickers of hope and ingenuity that surfaced when sentient beings reached their breaking point.
'Tch... these Four are certainly capricious,' Lucius thought. 'They barely care about the Forge itself. If it weren't for the fact that the Forge provides the weapons that allow Khorne's servants to kill more efficiently, the Blood God probably wouldn't have even spoken to me.'
Now came the time to distribute the spoils.
Naturally, Lucius granted the Forge of Souls to Clan Skryre, establishing it as the new sovereign domain for the ascended Skryre Rat Ogres and engineers.
Ikit Claw was the first to scurry to the feet of the Great Horned Rat, his heart swelling with the expectation that he would be named the absolute master of this realm. With such power, he would surely eclipse even Tinker-in-Chief Morskittar!
However, Lucius bypassed Ikit entirely. He raised a finger and struck Chrot with a bolt of raw psychic power.
"AAAAAAGH—!"
The genius engineer, usually the "Silent Fool" of the warlock conclaves, let out a horrific shriek as his mechanical augmentations and flesh began to melt and fuse together.
The sight sent Ikit Claw's heart into his throat. Terrified that the Great Horned Rat was punishing Chrot for some unknown slight, Ikit immediately prostrated himself, pressing his snout into the dirt to avoid divine notice.
But as Chrot's body finished its agonizing restructuring, the psychic energy began to rebuild him. His small, black-furred frame grew elongated and massive, eventually reaching five meters in height. His form was replaced by the terrifying, bio-mechanical silhouette of a Verminlord, bristling with glowing green conduits and experimental tech.
"Ah... I... I live?!" When the pain receded, Chrot touched his new, powerful limbs in disbelief. He had survived the touch of his God.
He looked up, meeting the burning, emerald eyes of the Great Horned Rat.
"From this moment, you are the Overseer of the Forge. You are the Verminlord of the Iron Forge."
Chrot fell to his knees in a daze. "YES, G-GREAT HORNED RAT!"
Lucius then turned his gaze toward Ikit. Without a word, he snatched up Ikit and his entire fleet, hurling them bodily out of the Warp and back into realspace. The message was clear: Ikit had been given a task—The Great Skaven Crusade. Until it was finished, there would be no more rewards.
"It is your duty to ensure that the children of the Rat have a presence on every world. Provide them with the shelter and the steel they require. Do not fail me, little rat," Lucius whispered to Chrot.
"YES, GREAT HORNED RAT!" Chrot nodded fervently.
In the grim darkness of the 41st Millennium, most Skaven clans could achieve nothing without the technical aid of Clan Skryre. Unlike the Orks, Skaven cannot simply "think" technology into existence.
Now, Lucius had ensured that through sacrifice and ritual, any clan could call upon the help of the Forge's bio-mechanical engineers.
'This way,' Lucius mused, 'even without the power of "I fink, therefore I krump," my rats will have a technical edge that rivals the Orks.'
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