The Eight Peaks System, once the ancestral fortress-world of Clan Angrund, has been rechristened "Red Cloud" by the skaven of Clan Mors. On this world, the advanced technological marvels of the Leagues of Votann are managed by Clan Mors with a level of discipline unimaginable to other ratmen, leaving them almost perfectly preserved.
Within these halls, Warlock Engineers obsessively strip and study the Kin's advanced weaponry. Their primary focus is a massive machine shaped like a gargantuan duardin head: a "Votann Engine," a super-conclave of cogitators containing the entirety of the Kin's technological and cultural data. To crack its logic-vaults, Warp-Engineers perform frantic experiments and profane augmentations. The silent psychic shriek of the Votann Engine echoes through the circuitry, but the skaven remain deaf to its suffering.
Bolstered by this Votann technology, Clan Mors' forces, from the lowliest Clanrat to the elite Stormvermin, boast gear of unparalleled quality.
On Shadowhorn, a moon of Eight Peaks, a brutal three-way meatgrinder rages between the Skaven of Clan Mors, the Clan Angrund Alliance, and the Orks of Klan Goff.
This is a vital bastion-world for the Angrund Alliance, guarding the eastern warp-routes of the system. The mysterious minerals mined here are essential components for the forging of Auramite, making it the primary source of the Alliance's vast wealth.
"WAAAAAAGH!!"
Countless Goff Boyz, led by several massive Nobz, thunder toward the Clan Mors lines. They brandish "sluggas" with impossibly large bores, firing deafening, aimless volleys as they charge. Behind them follows a tide of "choppa" Boyz, waving jagged slabs of sharpened scrap-iron in a frenzied rush to hit the skaven line.
"Yes-yes! Fire! For Gnawdwell!"
Clanrats huddle in their trenches, leveling Warp-muskets over the parapets. There is no need for marksmanship, they simply pull the triggers, filling the air with the crack-snap of warp-shot. Emerald tracers crisscross the battlefield. Even an Ork, capable of enduring wounds that would kill a human ten times over, buckles under the toxic, mutagenic payload of a Warp-round.
Skaven Globadiers lob canisters of violet Poison Wind into the green tide. Upon impact, clouds of lethal gas bloom, choking the life out of the charging Orks.
However, a Goff Warboss clad in scavenged mega-armor roared an immediate counter-order: "Get da Big-Blowas out!"
Hundreds of Lootas hauled heavy, cannon-like contraptions from their backs. With dull, mischievous grins, they pulled the triggers. Instead of shells, the weapons unleashed localized hurricanes. The sheer force of the gale blew the toxic gas, and several unfortunate Grots, straight back toward the skaven lines.
The skaven are mad, but the "Kunnin'" ingenuity of the Greenskins is never to be underestimated. After losing too many Boyz to Poison Wind Mortars, the Mekboyz had "finked up" these oversized industrial fans to even the odds. As the gas blew back into the faces of the ratmen, the Orks cheered, eager to finally reach the "proppa" business of ultra-violence.
Rough horns blared across the skaven trenches. Slave-rats, noticeably more robust than those of other clans, shrieked as they rose. They wore crude flak-vests that actually protected their vitals, and their blades and pistols were free of rust.
"Kill-take one Green-thing head, join the Clan! Take five, become Stormvermin! Take ten, become an Ironclaw Warrior!"
A Mors Warlord in customized power armor shrieked the proclamation. In any other clan, such a promise would be a lie, but this was Clan Mors. Under the iron-fisted meritocracy of Gnawdwell, rewards and punishments were dealt with meticulous precision. Consequently, Mors skaven rarely shirked; they fought with a desperate, driven courage.
These slaves, usually meant only to soak up bullets, were now dealing genuine casualties.
"Charge-kill! For Mors!"
The slaves swarmed forward, pistols barking as they collided with the wall of Gretchin and Choppa Boyz. While a standard skaven is roughly human-sized and faster than a mortal man, most struggle against an Ork; however, these Mors slaves were slaughtering Grots by the score, though they still fell in droves to the Orks' heavy choppas.
As the melee intensified, Ork Shoota Boyz began firing wildly into the fray with the "help" of their targeting squigs. The Clanrats vaulted from their trenches to return fire, and the battlefield dissolved into a cacophony of barked orders and dying squeals.
Suddenly, the ground trembled. A "Pig-Rush," a heavy wedge of Goff Nobz mounted on massive war-boars and armored squigs, slammed into the line. These Nobz acted like living bulldozers, crushing both Orks and Skaven beneath their weight.
"Bayonets! Fix-fix bayonets!" the Clanrats screamed. They snapped Warpstone-edged blades onto their rifles, firing futile volleys before the green tide reached them. The Nobz ignored the fire, their thick hides absorbing the shots as their mounts ground the trenches and the rats within them into a bloody paste.
"WAAAAAAAAGH!!!"
The Orks behind them surged forward, their momentum pushing the Mors front line back dozens of kilometers. It seemed the Goff offensive was unstoppable.
At that moment, several massive metal spheres, bristling with spinning Warp-blades, tore through the chaos. They rolled into the heart of the Goff charge, shredding any Ork too slow to move. In front of the Nobz, the spheres hissed open, and dozens of three-meter-tall monsters leaped out.
Clad in crimson power armor, they brandished Warp-Lightning Halberds in their left hands and massive triangular Storm Shields in their right.
Seeing these armored giants, the Goff Nobz didn't flinch, they bared their tusks in wicked grins and let out a deafening challenge. "Finally! Da shiny Rat-Cans! Come and 'ave a go!"
"Fools! Think-believe Queek needs to hide?"
These were the Red Guard, the personal retinue of Queek Headtaker. Known as "Ironclaw Warriors," these "Rat-startes" were the finest soldiers Mors could produce. Queek had led them across the system, decapitating dozens of Warbosses, and their reputation among the Greenskins was one of grudging, violent respect.
"WAAAAAAAAGH!!" The Nobz charged.
Queek Headtaker moved with a speed that defied his massive, armored bulk. Armed with his Power Sword and the infamous Dwarf-Gouger, he met the lead Nob head-on. The Ork swung a massive "Uuge-Axe," but Queek ducked the blow, slid beneath the Nob's guard, and drove his sword into the brute's chest. Before the Ork could even grunt in pain, Queek's Power Pick swung in a brutal arc, shattering the Nob's head like a fallen boulder.
Beside him, his lieutenant, Ska Bloodtail, loomed even larger. He fought in grim silence, his twin-handed Warp-Lightning Halberd carving a path of destruction as he guarded Queek's flank. The rest of the Red Guard locked shields with the Nobz; whenever a halberd met an Ork choppa, a discharge of warp-lightning reduced the opponent to a charred husk.
Within fifteen minutes, the Goff Nobz were annihilated. Terrified by the sudden loss of their "Big 'Uns," the remaining Orks began a disorganized retreat. Only then did the skaven reform and begin reclaiming their lost ground.
The Ironclaw Warriors had functioned perfectly as a fire-brigade, but as the war-front expanded, Gnawdwell realized his dilemma. Even with the wealth of Mors, the attrition rate was too high, and they lacked the Stormvermin stock necessary for the grueling transformation process. The success rate for converting standard Clanrats or Slaves was abysmally low.
To solve the crisis of manpower, Gnawdwell's thoughts turned toward Clan Rictus. If he could strike a bargain to acquire Rictus brood-mothers, the predicament of Mors might finally be resolved.
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