The Regent of the Imperium Nihilus, Lion El'Jonson, Lord of the First, found himself ensnared in a rare moment of hesitation. Naturally, should an outsider, or even one of his own sons, dare to ask, he would never admit to it; yet, unease is unease nonetheless.
He had begun to suspect that a more immediate crisis was manifesting, one that remained veiled from his sight.
Were these rat-men a xenos civilization sworn to the service of Chaos, or were they some obscure scions of the Warp? Regardless of the truth, Abaddon's grand design, the Great Rift that had sundered the Imperium in two, and his ambition to rule the Dark Imperium through the Despoiler's ruinous might, remained the paramount threat.
"Be they Chaos or Xenos, I shall bring only ruin upon them. Vengeance rides upon my blade!"
The Lion shook his head, unable to fully unravel the mystery. Yet, there was no doubt: he would prioritize the pursuit of intelligence regarding these rat-men, and he would unearth the nest of this enigmatic new foe.
…
On the planet Ornsworld, the Warp storms surrounding the newly-converted Clan Ratling had begun to dissipate.
This meant that the Imperial Tithe-fleets could finally breach the Warp-shroud to collect their dues. More likely than not, these Tithe-prefects would arrive with Inquisitors in tow.
As a dutiful Chaos God who loved his "children" with a twisted paternal fervor, the Great Horned Rat, Lucius, could not allow these Inquisitors to incinerate his first completed masterpiece.
After much deliberation, his gaze fell upon the Forge of Souls, a realm he had seized but was still painstakingly slow to fully devour and digest.
Within the Forge, Lucius had maintained a delicate neutrality. He had magnanimously released the daemons bound by contracts to Vashtorr and ensured that the armaments promised to Khorne were delivered without delay.
This had pleased Khorne immensely. The Blood God found this new "little brother" far more reliable than the "Ark-fiddler" Vashtorr, who was perpetually scheming to undermine him.
Simultaneously, through the aspect of the Lord of Ruin worshipped by Clan Pestilens, Lucius maintained a cordial rapport with Nurgle. Though they had yet to meet in private, Nurgle acted as a sort of jovial elder brother within the "Great Game," keeping Lucius informed of the pantheon's affairs.
By cultivating favor with two of the Ruinous Powers, Lucius ensured he would not be isolated in the coming Daemonic Wars, provided he did not shatter the balance before fully consolidating his power.
With a flick of his wrist, he decided to let the Forge of Souls provide the necessary "assistance."
He manifested within the Forge of Souls. There, he sought out Chrot, a Verminlord charged with overseeing the Dark Mechanicum and the souls of those across the galaxy whose amoral pursuit of technology had led them to damnation.
Chrot was an anomaly of Clan Skryre. While he possessed a prodigious, almost transcendent talent for artifice, he was utterly devoid of the social climbing, sycophancy, and political maneuvering that defined his kin.
In life, his peers had stolen his inventions and mocked him as a "Silent Fool." Yet, this very perception had ensured his survival; his "clever" rivals protected him as a source of free labor and genius until the Great Horned Rat saw fit to grant him Daemonhood.
Now, as the Overseer of the Forge, Chrot retained his dour, taciturn temperament. He cared for nothing save his endless, bizarre experiments.
By the command of the Great Horned Rat, he descended upon the Materium, upon Ornsworld.
Amidst the tolling of the Great Bell of Doom, a Warp rift tore open. A Verminlord nearly ten meters tall stepped forth, his body almost entirely consumed by cybernetic augmentation. His lower half had been replaced by a skittering array of mechanical legs, and a massive Warp-generator backpack pumped glowing warpstone solution into his veins, providing a terrifying surge of power.
The Chieftain of Clan Ratling, Bilbo Swollentooth, trembled as he knelt. In a fawning, high-pitched squeak, he cried, "Oh, most venerable Messenger of the God! Avatar of the Great Horned Rat! We thank-bless your arrival, yes-yes!"
Chrot spared only a cursory glance at these new recruits. He had no interest in grandstanding or displays of dominance; his half-organic face twisted into an expression of deep impatience.
Since his ascension, Chrot had desired only to repay Lucius's grace with a weapon of unprecedented madness and to return to his lab. While this mission came from the God himself, he loathed wasting his infinite time on such trifles.
"I hope you... are worthy of my work," Chrot rasped.
With a wave of his claw, dozens of six-legged, mosquito-like mechanical constructs leapt into the ranks of the Ratlings.
The first "chosen" Ratling was soon found. The metallic device lunged, sinking its six legs deep into the creature's flesh.
A chorus of panicked shrieks erupted from the clan, but the chosen Ratling soon rose again. He had fused with the machine, his torso encased in iron. A black sniper rifle, nearly two meters in length, was clutched in his paws, connected to his power-pack via a mess of cables.
A flash of daemonic intuition flooded their minds. Through this Warp-Snipe System, the Ratlings could link their projectiles to the Forge of Souls via the Warp. Their bullets could traverse sub-dimensional corridors, striking enemies from impossible angles that defied the laws of physics.
"This system grants you power. Do not waste my efforts," Chrot said, his tone that of a scientist observing expendable lab rats.
"Yes-yes, My Lord!"
The Ratlings prostrated themselves, their heads hitting the dirt. With such weaponry, they felt a surge of confidence against the coming Imperial Tithe-collectors.
As abhumans renowned across the Imperium for their marksmanship, the Ratlings' innate talent for sniping was the highest among any Skaven clan. Even with standard Warp-muskets, their accuracy surpassed that of typical Warplock Jezzails.
This, of course, was why Lucius had gone to the trouble of corrupting them. Without their utility as marksmen, he wouldn't have bothered with such a puny race, regardless of their name.
Chieftain Bilbo Swollentooth immediately issued his orders. The world, once resembling a pastoral Shire, was to be terraformed into a nightmare.
Plains were gutted by tunnels and transformed into a maze of jagged ravines. Rocks were piled into chaotic, fortified mounds. Vast farmlands were drowned into miasmic swamps where blighted wheat rotted in the sun.
The Imperial Tithe-prefects and Inquisitors had no inkling of the lethal, twisted war that awaited them on this unrecognizable world.
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