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Third-person POV
Erntezeit-31-2492
Amid heaps of flayed, still-bleeding corpses, a hulking figure in gromril armor slid forward. Despite his enormous size and the crushing weight of that Dwarf-forged shell, he moved in utter silence, as if he did not exist—only the runes carved upon his chest seemed real. Their faint glow lit the greasy damp of the cavern, sparking off pools of clotted blood and splintered bone.
The human advanced through the tunnels with the certainty of a born predator. Blind in absolute darkness, his senses stretched outward through his mastery of magic, feeling every movement, every quickened breath, every spark of fear. He sensed the presences packed tight like vermin—hundreds, thousands of Skaven crawling, scampering, tearing at each other with shrill squeals, devouring the weakest in frenzied hunger. None understood that they were already marked, already hunted by the monster walking among them.
The air cracked with the snap of a whip. A dry report followed by a strangled squeal.
" Work-work, lazy filth, useless meat!" screeched a Skaven taskmaster from atop rotten scaffolding. His voice rasped like rusted iron scraping stone. His red eyes burned with fury as the starving slaves, ribs showing through matted fur, clawed at one another for scraps of flesh to avoid starving.
"Obey or die-die! The lash always hungry!" he hissed, raising his arm and bringing down the blood-soaked leather again, tearing strips of hide from a wretch's bent back.
The shrieks of pain rose into a grotesque chorus, forcing the slaves to sink brittle claws into the rock, prying minerals loose with their rusted picks. Some, however, kept their eyes fixed on the convulsing body of a companion still gasping ragged breaths. They licked cracked lips, drooling, waiting for the instant the overseer looked away so they could leap upon the warm flesh.
None noticed the change at first. The tools in their paws trembled, vibrating as if some unseen force twisted them. In a blink, the iron picks warped, sharpened, became jagged blades. And without warning, they began rending Skaven flesh.
"Chiiiii! Pain-pain,!" screeched one as the blade in his grip sank into his own gut, spilling black entrails across the stone. Another tried to flee, but his tool became a hook that ripped the throat from his neighbor. The air filled with the metallic, fetid stench of offal as guts slopped in thick pools across the floor.
Chaos multiplied. Corridors rang with shrill wails, Skaven crashing into each other, trampling, gnawing in blind panic. "Flee-flee! Don't look back!" they cried as they scattered in all directions, slick with the gore of their own kind. But there was no escape. Blades came from everywhere, slicing tendons, tearing limbs, plunging into bulging eyes.
Through the storm of iron, the colossal gromril figure advanced unstopping. His steps were slow, steady, as if walking a vacant road. His free hand drifted in the air, and around him every scrap of metal obeyed, dancing like a murderous swarm. With a mere gesture the blades answered, piercing bodies, flaying hides, leaving a trail of carnage that painted walls and ceiling with fresh blood.
"Man-thing!" screeched a taskmaster, scuttling on all fours toward a tunnel while dozens of spinning blades whistled behind him. The echo of his claws hammering stone mingled with his shrill scream—until several blades struck his back with wet cracks. The creature shrieked so hard his voice snapped, coughing black blood before collapsing, thrashing.
The gromril colossus moved on, unshaken. He looked to his ring, its runic glow burning brighter than the other engravings on his armor.
"Smooth… channels magic easily," he murmured. "Strange… a runesmith would not forge this for a wizard. Perhaps to magnify his own strength… or perhaps simply to leave a door open for one who could use it."
The human pressed forward. The tunnel lay carpeted with blood and mangled flesh. There, the overseer still clung to life, dragging himself with shattered claws, leaving a dark, slimy trail as his squeals dwindled to broken gasps.
"No-kill! I serve-serve!" he whined, his shattered snout dripping spit and blood.
A shadow fell over him. The human's boot came down, pressing his skull slowly into the wet rock. The Skaven kicked, clawed the air, thrashed as his shrieks climbed higher. With a dry crunch and a wet burst, his head exploded, splattering brain and bone across the stone.
The silence that followed was broken only by the metallic patter of blades, still slick with fresh blood, spinning obediently around the gromril figure.
In the deeper tunnels, Skaven fled in madness, shoving, clawing at one another as they sought escape from what they could not comprehend. The stink of fear and urine mixed with the smoke of dying torches.
"Man-thing, coming down!" screeched one, tripping and smashing his teeth on the stone.
"What doing here! Why no warn!" shrieked another, a warrior in corroded armor trembling as he clutched his rusted blade.
The tunnels swelled with Skaven crowding, jammed together like a wave of reeking bodies, waiting for the shadow to come. The air throbbed with nervous squeals, teeth chattering, claws raking stone.
"Kill-kill, eat his meat!" howled a clanrat warrior, foaming as he waved his nicked sword.
Then came the sound. A cold, metallic hiss, multiplied into a swarm. The blades erupted from the dark, spinning at inhuman speed. In heartbeats, the corridors became slaughterhouses: arms and legs hacked away, heads rolling with sprays of blood, walls painted red with hot splatter.
The clanrat did not falter. He loosed a war-squeal and charged down the tunnel, sword high. He managed no more than two steps before his own armor shrieked, crushing inward like an iron trap. The wet crunch of ribs snapping and lungs bursting echoed. His eyes bulged wide as blood gushed from his snout.
An invisible force lifted him into the air like a broken puppet and hurled him at full speed into the mass of Skaven behind. His shattered body became a projectile, crushing and ripping several apart, breaking bones and scattering entrails.
The tunnel erupted into chaos. Skaven squealed, "Flee-flee, deeper-deeper!" as they scrambled in terror toward the inner caverns, trampling the fallen, tearing off their own tails in frenzy to escape. But the blades pursued them, spinning like starving predators, reaping life after life with a whistle that left no room for hope.
"Uf… I've killed so many of these vermin… and I'm not even tired, no, not at all," murmured the human warrior, striding on without pause into the deepest hidden chambers.
The massacre lasted almost an hour. The tunnels filled with shrieks and blood as hundreds—perhaps thousands—of Skaven were torn from life, their bodies ground apart in caverns ever darker, deeper, beneath Marienburg. The human never stopped; anything that breathed, anything with blood, was exterminated with terrifying efficiency.
At last, he reached a vast cavern. Dozens of rails, corroded by warpstone, crossed the place, and thousands of Skaven slaves hacked at the rock, weakened and starving, under the watch of clan warriors. Taskmasters screeched frantic orders, and hundreds of warriors raised rusted weapons, forming a trembling barrier against the intruder.
The ground shook. A guttural roar heralded the charge of a rat ogre. The beast thundered through columns and rails, running on all fours, eyes blood-red with rage, drool hanging in thick ropes from its maw. Its massive body crashed forward with brute force.
The human, clad in gromril armor and glowing with rune-light, lifted his runic mace calmly. He smiled beneath the helm. He waited for the impact, and when the beast lunged, he struck with a devastating blow.
"BONK," the human said.
The sound boomed like thunder through the caverns. The rat ogre's skull fractured in dozens of places, caving under the rune-forged strike. The shockwave burst bones apart, its eyes exploding from their sockets in a bloody mist. The beast collapsed, convulsing, coughing green blood and foam as its claws scraped uselessly at the rock.
No respite came.
"RATATATATATATAAA!" shrieked a Skaven warrior, unloading a warpstone machine gun at the gromril figure. The glowing rounds tore through the dark, hammering the armor in a deadly storm. For a moment the human's body was shrouded in sparks and smoke, but the runes blazed with blinding light, deflecting every shot, shielding their bearer.
The Skaven screeched in triumph—until the weapon shook violently, brimming with energy. The barrels overheated, the warpstone vibrated as if tearing itself apart, and with a metallic roar the gun exploded into a storm of blazing fragments.
Shards of metal and crystal ripped through nearby Skaven, slicing tails, tearing snouts, punching through bellies. Those not killed outright burned in green fire, shrieking and writhing on the ground. The stench of scorched flesh filled the air as the human strode forward through the smoking wreckage, indifferent to the carnage.
A swarm of rats screeched and fired from side passages, harassing his descent. Rusted muskets, misaligned jezzails, and warpstone pistols coughed green smoke in the dark. But hope was nothing: every weapon crumbled in their claws, barrels bursting with sharp cracks, shards of iron slicing throats and tearing tails. Misfires killed more Skaven than the enemy did.
"Die-die, man-thing!" rasped a Clan Skryre engineer, leaping from a higher gantry. He raised his warpfire thrower, spewing a tide of green flame at the gromril colossus. The infernal torrent licked over the armor and set the human's cloak ablaze. For an instant he staggered back, his silhouette wrapped in fire while the stench of burning cloth choked the air.
With a growl, he tore the cloak free and flung it aside. He looked up, eyes burning with fury beneath the helm."Ah… son of a bitch. Let's see if you like this."
He raised his hand. Metal answered. Nails, spikes, splinters, shattered weapon shards shot upward, clinging to the Skaven's body—snout, arms, legs, even tail. The engineer shrieked, thrashing like a trapped insect as the iron bound him tight.
"No-no, stop! I serve, obey!" he squealed, voice cracking.
The human closed his fist. The metal began to glow, first red, then white-hot. The stink of burning flesh choked the cavern. The rat screamed and screamed, tearing its own throat raw, writhing as blisters burst open beneath the searing iron.
At last, only a charred husk remained, crashing from above to shatter wetly on the stone.
"Bastard… lucky I didn't burn… but that thing is devil's work," muttered the human, glancing at his arm.
There was no rest. A greenish flash lit the tunnel as a spell struck—but the energy unraveled in the air, sucked into the hungry glow of his ring.
The human lifted his gaze. Before him stood a Grey Seer, eyes bulging, snout twisted in shock. Both froze for a heartbeat: one in surprise, the other because his spell had vanished.
"No-no! Cannot be!" squealed the Grey Seer, stretching his claws and hurling another incantation. Nothing. Only the eager gleam of the ring devouring every scrap of magic.
Then came the screams. The Skaven looked to his fingers: the flesh had turned rigid, heavy, golden. His body was becoming solid gold. "No, no-nooo!" he rasped, as his arm locked, then his chest, then his legs, every muscle hardening into a cold, gleaming monument. Only his trembling snout remained, drooling in terror.
The gromril colossus stepped closer, extending a gauntleted hand of ancient metal. He seized the Grey Seer's skull. The sorcerer's shrieks echoed through the cavern.
"This city… is mine."
He crushed with fury. Bone cracked. Then came the final stroke: the runic mace fell with thunderous force, pulverizing the skull and leaving behind nothing but the Grey Seer's gilded body, a statue of solid gold.
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