Clan Moulder had come for the staggering diversity of life, or more specifically, for those unique genetic sequences that defied reason. Upon breaching the Sanctus Reach of the Imperium, the Skaven of Moulder discovered a most peculiar windfall while looting Imperial spoils.
They appeared to be nothing more than mundane tins of preserved meat. After overrunning the supply depots, the Skaven fell upon the crates, brawling over the rations. While the prestigious wargear was the exclusive domain of Stormvermin and Warlords, for Slave Rats and even Clanrats, these tins were the only way to sate their gnawing hunger. Furthermore, such small trinkets were useful; they didn't draw the ire of higher-ranking Skaven and could be used as leverage, or a distraction, to backstab a peer and climb the social burrow.
Yet, even this scavenged feast carried a lethal price.
Those Skaven who pilfered the Astra Militarum rations and tore them open with desperate haste found themselves in a struggle of a different kind. As they gorged, their bodies began to contort in agonizing throes. From their ruptured ribcages burst forth xenos horrors, monstrous organisms that began a frenzied culling of the surviving rats.
It took considerable effort for the Skaven clans to subdue these strange beasts. Only after consulting captured Imperial manuals and putting prisoners to the rack did they learn the truth: these creatures, as large as Rat Ogres and clad in natural carapaces capable of shredding ceramite with their talons, were known as Ambulls.
In the wake of this "surprise," the Master Mutators of Moulder gleefully began analyzing the Ambull biological samples. Due to the sheer quantity of the "canned Ambull" and the species' ferocious vital energy, the Ambull had quickly become a trump card for various small-to-mid-sized Moulder-affiliated clans.
Most crucially, Moulder had begun clandestinely splicing Ambull genes into various behemoths. The most stable results occurred within Rat Ogres. This genetic infusion rendered the Rat Ogres exceptionally resilient, granting them the Ambull's ability to sustain themselves on radiation and thermal energy alone.
This drastically reduced the maintenance costs for Packmasters and their clans. For once, in a rare display of Skaven restraint, this secret remained confined to Clan Moulder and a few inner-circle allies, with remarkably few leaks to the wider Under-Empire.
Thus, these "cheap," mass-produced, and incredibly hardy xenos-mutants provided a vital edge for lesser clans, after all, not every clan had the status to command the Brood Mothers required for large-scale monster production.
…
Following the trail of destruction blazed by Ammentar, Clan Moulder eventually arrived in the Vespator system, located in the eastern reaches of the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar. It seemed they had finally found a prosperous world teeming with life.
However, the situation was far from ideal. The Skaven Nest-Fleet discovered a fleet of "metallic skeletons", the Necrons, already laying siege to Moulder's primary prize.
The Skaven masses clamored for an immediate assault to crush the metal skeletons, but Throt the Unclean flatly rejected such a display of "indirect loyalty" to the Imperium.
As the second-in-command of Clan Moulder and a premier Master Mutator, Throt had not ascended to his position through talent alone; in terms of the "fine qualities" of Skaven-kind—treachery, cowardice, and cunning—he was a rat among rats.
"Skaven should-should stay... underground," Throt hissed his commands. "Seize that moon-satellite first. Our Brood Mothers need a birthing chamber, the Mutators also-also need their laboratory-base!"
Orbiting Vespator was a moon-like satellite known as Ironward III. It was an artificial celestial body, towed into place by the Imperium and converted into an armory and Way-Fortress for the Ultramarines.
Yet, due to Ammentar's ongoing offensive, the moon was defended by only a few dozen companies of Planetary Defense Forces (PDF) and two armored regiments of the Ultramar Auxilia.
They were now firmly in the sights of the Skaven. Guided by the philosophy of "preying on the weak while shunning the strong," and seeing that the enemies they were tracking were perhaps a bit too formidable, Throt decisively shifted targets. He would wait for the two powers to bleed each other white before striking.
…
On the surface of Ironward III, the PDF manned their orbital defense platforms with mounting dread. As local militia, their capabilities fell far short of the regular Astra Militarum, yet they were facing an unprecedented nightmare.
In one trench line, a group of PDF soldiers sat huddled around their solid-slug autoguns, whispering about the latest rumors.
"Hear that? Vespator is a madhouse. They say these metal skeletons are different from the ones in the logs."
"Different how? It's all just iron bones and murder-lasers, isn't it?"
An old veteran chuckled darkly, relishing his superior scrap of intel. "That's where you're wrong, lad. I heard from a mate who was transferred out—this time, it's bad. These Necrons? They're all Destroyers. Every last one of 'em. Even the Astartes are struggling. Those oversized gauss cannons can turn you to ash from kilometers away."
"What? That's... how are we supposed to fight that?" the younger soldiers asked, eyes wide with terror.
The veteran cuffed the speaker across the head. "What else? You cowards looking to desert? We fight for that bastard Guilliman until the end, that's what!"
Their grim debate was cut short by the wail of anti-air sirens screaming across the entire moon.
"Report! What's happening?" the Commander of Ironward III barked, rushing out with his command squad. "I thought the xenos fleet was being monitored!"
"No, my lord! It's a different xenos! They look like Greenskins, but we don't see any of those ridiculous Ork faces on the hulls!"
"It doesn't matter! Whatever they are, the God-Emperor's will is clear: annihilate the enemies of Mankind! Hold your positions, Captain Titus of the Second Company is en route!"
The orbital defense batteries roared to life, unleashing volleys of fire that turned the rapidly expanding "Scrap-Fleet" in the sky into a series of massive fireballs.
But true to the nature of the Skaven, there were simply too many. Despite the concentrated flak, the ramshackle vessels plummeted through the atmosphere, slamming into the ground with reckless abandon.
The PDF watched with bated breath as drop-pods and ships equipped with green, vibrating drills bored into the earth. From the hatches poured a tide of filth—swarms of xenos covered in mangy fur.
The creatures threw themselves at the PDF lines in a mindless wave. Autoguns barked incessantly, mashing through ranks of Slave Rats, yet the tide seemed bottomless.
Only then did the Master Mutators nod in approval, signaling for their "precious works" to be unleashed.
From the specialized Moulder beast-transports emerged shrieking packs of Rat Ogres, Wolf Rats, and the towering, stitched-together nightmares known as Hell Pit Abominations.
The Moulder strategy was simple: use a sea of Slave Rats to fix the enemy's attention, then drown them in a deluge of monsters.
The PDF soldiers, who moments ago thought these xenos were nothing more than a disorganized rabble, now looked out at a horizon blotted out by horrors.
Flying monstrosities with gargoyle wings and rat-heads darkened the sky. On the ground, four-meter-tall Rat Ogres, some armored with welded iron plates, others with chitinous carapaces, advanced with gorilla-like gaits. Behind them, mountain-sized mounds of quivering flesh, sprouting countless mismatched limbs, lurched toward the Imperial lines.
——————
If you want to read ahead of everyone, go to my pat-reon: pat-re-on.c-om/magnor (remove the hyphen to access normally)