The Children of the Warp, Skaven Civil War.

A Time For Peace – Pawed by Vang Three Claws:


Smoke rose from a clearing on the northeastern fringes of the Drakwald. The stench of burning flesh drew them on. The murder of crows fell from the sky like stones. The ungainly birds descended on the scene for the promise of a meal. Even the unnatural odor of beastmen would not keep them at bay. The table was set, the feast at hand.

Down on the ground, two burly gors manhandled another limp ungor towards the pyre. The poor creature was covered in boils, pustules, and angry red weals. It’s purplish tongue protrouded from between its teeth and hung by a thread of flesh. The unfortunate thing had nearly bitten it in two with its death throes. Its eyes were milky white – dead eyes, eyes soon to be consigned to the purifying flames. With a heave, the gors swung the sack of flesh and tossed it up and into the roaring fire. The sizzle of fat and the smell of roasting meat filled the air.

“This last one, Beastlord,” brayed Morax, strongest of the Marrow-Chewers.

Vaprak the Destroyer, Beastlord of the war-herd, shook his shaggy mane and surveyed the scene. The haggard remains of the greenskin camp dotted the clearing. The herd had barely managed to overwhelm the unsuspecting occupants. In the end, it had been the Minotaurs that had won the day. The war-herd was sickly and weak, reflected Vaprak. The pestilence that had set upon them nearly a week ago lingered and killed more with each passing day. It had begun in the warhounds and spread. Now the ungors were dying. Soon it would take the gors, too.

“Shaman,” bellowed Vaprak, “how many more lay sick?”

“Too many, my destroyer, too many” replied Yarchiel, Vaprak’s pet bray-shaman.

“Haastur is punishing us,” cut in Pazuzu, favored bray-shaman of Slaanesh. “We must return north. We are bound to bring Haastur’s return. He calls us north and we listen with deaf ears,” continued the bray. “You know this Yarchiel. Tell Him!”

“Well, Yarchiel, do you know this, too?” inquired Vaprak, acid dripping from his voice.

The sudden CAW, CAW, CAW, CAW, CAW, CAW of a nearby crow drew their attention. The trio turned their heads towards the racket. The stricken bird bleated like a man choking on a bone. As the last CAW escaped the bird's beak, it fell over - stone dead. Where thirteen birds had hopped and scampered picking at cooked flesh, only six remained. The rest lay scattered about, silent and still. Vaprak roared his discontent at the scavengers' audacity. Faced with the threat of violence, six night black crows burst into the air and flew north.

“The signs are all around us, it would seem,” offered the Beastlord before Yarchiel could reply.

“You saw it. Haastur himself has answered you. Thirteen birds, seven die, six go north. We dare ignore Haastur no longer. You must make your peace with the Ratlord,” spit Pazuzu.

“We shall see, Shaman, we shall see,” grumbled Vaprak, “you best not be wrong.”
“Morax!” he ordered, “round up the herd, we travel north.”

The gor simply nodded and strode off to do his lord’s bidding.

“Shall I send word to the rat of our return?” asked Yarchiel meekly.

“No. There is no need. He will know we are coming long before we reach Clawhome.” answered Vaprak.

“I will take my leave to prepare for our journey,” offered Pazuzu smugly as he turned on his hoof and strode confidently away.

“Do you have any further need…” began Yarchiel, when Vaprak dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Yarchiel’s shoulders slumped in relief as he scurried off.

Only Vaprak remained by the pyre. He stood alone gazing at the flames, grim and determined. The Beastlord took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. Things would be different this time, he thought thumbing the blade of his axe. Things would be different.