The meddling of Tzeentch is never merely a means to an end; the meddling itself is the end. Those who serve the Changer of the Ways are the ultimate architects of complexity, weaving plans for the sake of planning and inciting change for the sake of change.
"Quick-quick! Do not dawdle, do not linger-waste time! "
Pattriksh was in a frantic fever, finalizing the preparations for his ascension to daemonhood. He looked up, spotting a Grey Seer draped in robes of shifting blue and violet, and immediately began to shriek: "You! Why do you stand-stare? Go! Watch the worthless-scum bring my gene-seed! The man-things are coming, I know it... I feel it, YES-YES! Treacherous, filthy man-things!"
News of the Imperial incursion had spread like a contagion ever since Titus and his squad began dismantling the sub-nests. However, the stealth and sheer velocity of the Ultramarines' strike had left the Skaven reeling, unable to coordinate a meaningful defense.
The only ones capable of tracking Titus were the gutter-runners and assassins of Clan Eshin.
But these "Blades of the Horned Rat" remained motionless. Within Clan Eshin, obedience to the hierarchy was absolute, and the order to hold their hand had come directly from the Nightlord Sneek.
Even an Astartes of Titus's caliber would struggle to detect these ratmen when they chose to remain unseen. Shrouded in cloaks of psychic concealment and aided by warp-smoke bombs, custom-engineered by Grey Seers and Clan Skryre to momentarily shift their physical forms into the Empyrean, they were ghosts in the machine of reality.
Within the Realm of Ruin, Lucius had granted these Eshin agents a "green light." When they slipped into the Warp, they were often greeted and briefly tutored by the spirits of long-dead Eshin Vermin Herders, their legendary predecessors. This divine favor filled the assassins with a dark, fanatical pride.
To the Eshin, a trip to the Warp was now a holy pilgrimage.
Lucius had little choice in the matter; Clan Eshin was the most reliable, loyal, and capable tool in his arsenal. Naturally, he showered them with a favoritism unheard of among the other fractious clans. Nightlord Sneek understood that this was a game of divine theatre; until the script called for Eshin to take the stage, they would remain in the shadows.
The Grey Seer in the blue-violet robes bowed with exaggerated humility to Pattriksh and scurried away. Beneath the heavy folds of his sleeves, where gnarled rat-paws should have been, rested a pair of scaled, avian talons.
He approached a gaggle of Clanrats and Slaves, barking orders with sudden, shrill authority: "Bring the gene-seed forward-quick! I shall inspect the cargo personally-myself!"
This "Grey Seer" was, in truth, Sarthorael the Ever-Watcher, a Greater Daemon of Tzeentch. A plan, perfect in its convoluted brilliance, had taken root in his mind.
At the apex of the ritual, he intended to subvert the Horned Rat's altar, transmuting it into a conduit for Tzeentch. In a single stroke, he would seize the sacrifices, devour the faith of the masses, and transform this moon into a kaleidoscopic fiefdom of the Architect of Fate.
"Yes-yes, my treacherous lord! The slaves are ready, they are eager-waiting!" The Clanrat captain replied, his face a mask of oily sycophancy.
The social standing of a Grey Seer was peerless; no mere Clanrat or even a Stormvermin would dare question one.
"Good. Faster. I must check each-every one," Sarthorael preened inwardly. He bypassed a twitching, hyperactive Brood Horror acting as a beast of burden and walked toward the grime-encrusted iron crates.
A heavy escort of Clanrats, armed with warp-lock jezails and rusted blades, prodded the slaves forward.
"Mmm... exquisite..." Sarthorael murmured, prying open a crate to reveal the Gene-seed canisters suspended in glowing warp-solution. He trailed his fingers over the precious biological tithe as if in wonder.
In reality, he was tattooing each canister with the invisible sorcery of Tzeentch. The Skaven, dull-witted and desperate, failed to notice the shifting, kaleidoscopic sigils now swirling deep within the vats of warp-fluid.
"Heh heh... done. Deceiving these vermin is child's play," Sarthorael chuckled.
Suddenly, a cacophony of alarms blared from the upper tunnels. A frantic squad of Clanrats tumbled into the chamber, shrieking the news: "Man-things! Man-things are breaking in!"
Indeed, following the departure of the Emperor's essence, Titus and the remaining Ultramarines had finally carved a path into the heart of Clan Moulder's domain. The headquarters of Moulder was a vertical nightmare, an echo of Hell Pit consisting of thirteen levels, each a distinct stratum of biological horror.
"Kill-slay the man-cubs! Quick-quick!"
The alarm rippled through the level. Fear-musk flooded the air, the acrid scent of panicking rodents driving the entire nest into a collective, frenzied hysteria.
Wolf-rats snarled in rusted, stinking cages; the bellows of Rat Ogres and even more unspeakable bio-titans echoed through the pits, eager for the chance to slaughter.
Sarthorael remained indifferent to the chaos. He flashed a predatory grin at the Clanrats, encouraging them to "fight bravely," before leading the Gene-seed transport deeper into the Moulder pits to begin the rite.
…
"Titus! The xenos are too numerous! We must find a choke point!"
Titus, Metaurus, Gadriel, and three other Ultramarines ignited their jump packs, plunging into the Moulder territories in a controlled orbital descent.
The moment they landed, the environment shifted. Packs of rat-headed wolves lunged from the shadows in starving heaps. Giant, bat-winged rodents hung from the ceilings, their eyes glowing with unnatural hunger. They were surrounded.
"Follow me!" Guided by a veteran's intuition, and perhaps a lingering spark of the Emperor's grace, Titus located an abandoned mining shaft. It was barely wide enough for a Space Marine in full plate to traverse.
"Hraaaah!" Gadriel's power fist slammed into the cavern mouth as the last battle-brother entered. The ceiling buckled and collapsed, sealing the tunnel and locking the baying horrors outside.
…
Back at the altar, Pattriksh was reaching a breaking point. He stamped his feet, screaming at the vaulted ceiling: "The Bell of the Horned Rat must toll on time! Where is my sacrifice? Where is it?!"
Faced with his fury, the Moulder Warlords and lesser Grey Seers offered nothing but subservient bows and empty promises. None moved to assist.
In Skaven society, why would anyone help a superior ascend to daemonhood? Within the clan, ninety-nine percent of the ratmen were actively looking for a way to sabotage the ritual. Only the sheer terror of the Chief Grey Seer's wrath kept them from open rebellion, but "accidents" in the dark were another matter entirely.
Sarthorael found his path beset by these very "accidents."
The Packmaster controlling the Brood Horror was suddenly "conscripted" to fight the humans. The ratman dropped his whip and bolted, taking half the Clanrat guard with him.
Left without a master, the Brood Horror, a literal intestine of muscle and limbs, snapped. It spun around, crushed a slave between its rows of oversized incisors, and began a mindless rampage against its remaining handlers.
Sarthorael realized his carefully orchestrated plan was being derailed by the sheer, entropic stupidity of the Skaven. With a snarl, he unleashed a bolt of blue-violet fire, vaporizing the Brood Horror's head.
The remaining slaves were forced to shoulder the crates manually. At this pace, they would never reach the altar in time. Meanwhile, guided by the Emperor's light, Titus was closing in, drawn toward the heart of the darkness even without a map.
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