Padre
Member
This campaign thread does not have the strong ending of the last one, and just peters out as sometimes they do (mainly because the official campaign ends before I can work out a way to bring my story to a satisfactory conclusion). But it still has some good posts, nice pictures and plenty of battles. Oh, and Skaven - lots of them. The very odd thing about it was that I was playing a Skaven Warlord but I was NOT in the Skaven faction. I did this in order to create a tension in the story straight away, a twist that needed explanation right from the off, and because some of my friends were in this faction and it was fun to be on their side.
I'll aim for one a day as before but this time it'll be harder 'cos the forum is locked so I can't just lift and spell check, I have to sort out all the picture links and formatting too. I also think there's more posts to find, as the thread have located does not seem to be all of it. And some of the posts in this thread are not in the right order (due to keeping things secret until it didn't matter any more). So, there's work to do to sort and position each post.
Here it begins ...
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Warlord Scabscar
How long would they keep him waiting this time? Warlord Scabscar’s previous visits had involved successively shorter waiting periods, and although any such delay rankled at his sense of pride, the diminishing length of the delays encouraged him to believe that he was slowly but surely gaining greater respect. Here at least was some species of progress.
He already had a good idea what the intermediaries would (eventually) order him to do. Their long list of questions concerning any links he had with Clan Skarr, as well as their demands to know in detail the full nature of the forces he commanded, had made their desires obvious: he would surely be ordered to take the field against Clan Skarr.
The chamber in which he had been told to wait was not one he had visited before, and although very minimally illuminated by three tallow fat candles his eyes could pierce the shadows to discern details a man-thing could never see. This thought brought a smile to his lips, revealing his razor-sharp, ragged teeth as he recalled the many times he had watched man-things stumbling around in the dark while he himself revelled in the delicious feeling of power and control as he held back his attack. Remembering the pleasure made his smile widen further - not all delays engendered frustration.
He was of course without his guards, having been ordered to leave them outside the antechamber in case any assassins lurked amongst them. Scabscar had chosen his bodyguards with great care, picking only those he knew would be wholly loyal to him. The very fact that his guards had no connection with any other leader was one of the reasons he chose them. They were personal weapons for him to wield, extensions of his will alone, more so perhaps than even the Bonebreaker mount he rode into battle. He recognised, however, that others could not know them that well. And even if the intermediaries he was about to speak to recognised the guards’ loyalty, then maybe then they were more worried about what he himself might order them to do?
The subterranean chamber was cluttered with a rusting tangle of apparatus and mysterious, arcane components. It had once been occupied by an engineer of renown who had fashioned devices of such destructive power that they could shatter entire enemy regiments. Like so many of his particular bent the engineer was destroyed by the malfunctioning of one such machine – it activated whilst being moved from this particular warren and sent such a bout of noxious flames surging through tunnels that everyone else within was killed along with the engineer, as well as all those with two dozen yards of the entrance. The tunnels had then been abandoned for decades, for the heat endured within them and scolded all who attempted to enter, gifting stubborn blisters that never stopped itching and which festered until the victim was utterly incapacitated by the symptoms (if they survived at all). Then again, as an incapacitated skaven is always quickly killed by his erstwhile comrades, it would be more truthful and succinct to say that all who contracted the blisters perished as a consequence. Two years ago, however, the tunnels were deemed finally safe and were once again occupied, and now they housed the grey furred representatives of the Council acting as intermediaries between the Skaven leaders and Scabscar.
The warlord now began passing the time by scutinising some of the strange paraphernalia piled into heaps around the edges of the chamber. Nearly every rusted lump had mouldy leather-bound tubes hanging from it, and what was not rusted iron or rotted skins, was mildewed wood or tarnished copper and brass. Here he found a lever, there a gear wheel, but nowhere anything he considered of any worth. He knew, however, that his engineers might think differently and decided that he would tell them of this particular chamber so that they could make whatever use they could of the junk within. His own unenthusiastic search was brought to a sudden halt by two simultaneous events – first the cut he received from some still-sharp shard hidden in the clutter and second the opening of the door by a servant sent to beckon him. Hiding his scowl and clutching at his finger to prevent the blood from pouring out, Scabscar strode from the room behind the scuttling servant.
Before he had crossed the threshold the intermediaries could smell his blood.
A little earlier that morning:
The Intermediaries
Three skaven were awaiting Scabscar’s arrival. Two were ostentatiously garbed representatives of the council and the third was their servant Grimelumpe, a subordinate aide whose duty was to record all that was said in meetings such as this (and bear witness too). The latter was twitching nervously, his tail performing little flicks, his eyes never quite settling on any one spot. Scabscar had noticed how the aide effected a similar manner during previous meetings, and had come to the conclusion that the onerous responsibility of vouching for powerful masters to even more powerful masters must be a burden the transcriber found overwhelming.
The grey seers sat in high backed chairs which had taken Scabscar’s menials an entire afternoon to find. Both wore colourful and contrasting garb: Pustulgar the Erudited had green, quilted shoulder-plates over his dry-blood-red cassock, while Adolbod the Gormful sported a garish design of yellow and red interlocking triangles on his similarly large shoulder adornments. Scabscar could only assume this was what currently passed for ‘fashion’ amongst the strange and other-worldly seer fraternity, and had once contemplated whether as time went by they would choose to make themselves look even more ridiculous. Both had laid their bronze-coiled staffs upon the table, unwieldy as they were, as well as resting their leather bound tomes directly before them. They had not, however, thought fit to remove their long, pointed hoods. Pustulgar’s had been brushing against a hanging lantern of ironwood and horn, disturbing it so that wax dribbled through the ill-fitting base and was slowly forming a lumpy, clotted path down the cloth towards the seer’s unsuspecting forehead.
Scabscar had a rather different and much more practical appearance, being every bit the warrior lord. His whole body was covered in plates of armour, with only his clawed fingers and toes protruding unprotected. Beneath this layer was even more metallic protection in the form of a long mail coat, and beneath that the scarred and toughened hide of a skaven who had lived (as anyone in his position had) in ‘interesting’ times. His back-plate bore an odd pair of hooped protrusions, for in battle he marked himself out by attaching a personal standard to his back, in the form of a spiked iron hoop containing the tri-barred sigil often incorporated into skaven heraldry. Two long pennants would hang from this hoop to flutter behind him. Not that the standard was strictly necessary, for he usually rode upon his Bonebreaker mount and so could be picked out easily enough by his warriors. Yet even without standard or mount he still looked imposing enough. Well, he would do to most skaven and nearly all creatures smaller than an ogre in stature. Not to the seers, however, for they had the confidence of those who had delved deep into and even manipulated the other-worldly stuff of magic, witnessing the supernatural horrors lurking there waiting to snatch away the careless or weak. Not that such insight had made them frightening to others, rather it had inured them against the fear of the mundane. Oh, and it had left them a little unhinged and somewhat eccentric in their ways.
It was Seer Pustulgar who opened proceedings, and as ever immediately embarked upon a speech more akin to a scholarly lecture than an interrogation, compulsively littered with asides and over-stretched explanations.
“Let us, yes, consider the matter of how a fighting warlord such as yourself – in point of fact exactly like yourself, so much so that you may as well assume I speak specifically of you even though I shall address the matter in general terms - how a warlord such as yourself might make his way in the world. How he might elevate himself, yes, to rise in both honourable degree and worldly power. I have no doubt that this is a topic close to your heart, Lord Scabscar, or if not housed in proximity to that particularly sanguine vital organ then lodged instead within your stomach there to catalyse broiling gurgulations, or perhaps it has thought fit to creep inside your cranial extremity where it is best placed to gnaw at your mind and sprinkle unanswerable and fevered questions to disturb your night? And if none of those, then I am wholly convinced it has settled itself so deep as to become rooted in some alternative analogically anatomical nook or cranny elsewhere within your frame.”
Scabscar frowned. He had learned several days ago that following Pustulgar’s speeches took every bit of wit he could muster, and that was not always enough. Thankfully Adolbod now offered a comment.
“Hmmm,” came rumbling from the second seer’s throat, loud enough to halt his colleague in his wayward tracks. “I agree. A topic very appropriate for this our penultimate meeting.”
It now dawned on Scabscar that so far the two seers had effectively done little more than announce they were going to speak of his future. This annoyed him. He had to stop himself giving vent to his frustration, he did not want them to see even the smallest raising of his hackles or curling of his lip. If the seers had been anyone of his own advisers and servants they would have been cut short several moments ago – in fact depending on his mood actual cutting may well have been involved. But here the tables were turned and it was he who was required to be subservient. Then a thought blossomed in his mind which momentarily calmed him, almost medicinal in the relief it briefly promised: he had given the seers every opportunity and if progress were not made soon he could and would drive them from his realm (or worse) and care not a single whisker for the political consequences. At least he would never have to listen to their long-winded and self-important pronouncements again.
Then, as if the thick air in the chamber had slowed the sound’s progress from the seer’s mouth to warlord’s ear, Scabscar suddenly realised exactly what Adolbod had just said.
“Penultimate?” he asked. “You mean there is to be but one more meeting?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Pustulgar. “Adolbod and I are in the fullest of agreements, yes, positively sated with acquiescence. We shall today make our offer and have your answer. Then, should you prove willing and your answer satisfactory …”
“Of which we have little doubt,” interjected Adolbod.
“… then we will meet but once more, yes, to discuss the finest and sharpest of details, to polish and hone our expectations until as acute as a scalpel’s edge.”
Scabscar suddenly recalled a thought from the last meeting - how the seers might well be deliberately riling him with their verbosity so as to gauge his response, to assess both his patience and willingness to obey. Their method and manner very likely formed part of whatever test they were putting him to.
“It seems clear to me,” continued Pustulgar, “that there are two tunnels which an ambitious clan warlord must choose between. To enter one is to begin clawing and tearing your way through, cutting down not only foes but rivals, not only vengeful enemies but also jealous servants and backstabbing allies. This tunnel is a deathly place, where mountainous heaps of the fallen are piled up by blade work and the fires of battle. There is no denying that this first tunnel has served some few well, yes, very well. But, and this is well known to every skaven with even a modicum of wit, most who choose this route do not reach the tunnel’s exit, rather they simply deposit their own corpse somewhere along the way. So many others enter the same tunnel that they are merely one amongst many, with foes before and behind, and none of any worth truly willing to come to their aid. Only through luck can they survive, and not the simple roll of a knuckle bone, but rather the sort of good fortune that would astound even the gods.”
The seer paused and the silence caught Scabscar by surprise. Compulsively, perhaps simply to prove he was paying attention (when the truth was that his thoughts had strayed once more), the warlord found himself commenting: “Not the best of tunnels then?”
The seer’s eyes flashed as a grin broadened his lips to reveal as many flint teeth as enamel. “Ah, yes, you understand the perils. You would not be here if you had chosen that tunnel, yes? You wish to go the other way?”
“The other way?”
Adolbod gave vent to a wheezy snigger, his hood wobbling as a consequence. “Do keep up, Lord Scabscar. Two tunnels, remember?”
Scabscar frowned, suddenly unable to hold back all his frustration. Meeting after meeting concerning what he would do if this, that or the other happened, question after question about his personal past and the strength of his clan, all the while waiting impatiently to hear whether they would approve of him to the council.
“I know you said two tunnels,” he growled. “I am no fool to be toyed with, nor a cowering slave too afraid to concentrate. I am a fighting warlord of repute and power. You would do well to remember this. My question came from the burning desire that you might get on with what you have to say. My lack of attention comes only from my impatience with your never ending torrent of words.”
“Ahh,” exclaimed Adolbod. “Now we see the spirit of a warrior, a glimpse of your professed mettle.”
Scabscar knew now that to the seers this was indeed all a game, and that every word they spoke was part of an elaborate test. He bit his tongue and glared at them, his eyes speaking for him: ‘Finish this now!’
Pustulgar did not even blink at this outburst, but went on in exactly his accustomed manner, as if no complaint at all had just been made. “The alternative is a more certain tunnel, through which diligence and loyalty provide a pair of bold legs upon which to stride. Of course luck is always needed, but with sufficient skill even that slippery commodity can be made to play only a minor part. Many can still trip and fall through a lapse of concentration or a careless failure to duck out of the way of harm. This tunnel is that through which the council directs those who wish to prove themselves worthy. It is not an easy path, for to obey the council’s will is to find oneself faced with the challenges and threats that such great Skaven counter on a daily basis, but those who emerge are rewarded, having proved themselves both mighty and loyal. The dangers remain great, but at least the warlord can expect some honest, actual assistance from allies of a like mind.”
Scabscar had no intention of waiting to hear if the seer would continue his verbal circulations and so immediately pronounced, “I choose the second tunnel."
The two seers cocked their heads to one side as if intrigued by Scabscar’s outburst, an action which finally flicked a gobbet of wax from Pustulgar’s hood to bespatter Adolbod’s robe. Neither seemed to notice.
“Why do you think,” Scabscar felt the need to explain, “I have listened so patiently so far? Why do you think I invited you here at all? Have your servant scribble my name in the list. I intend to grow in power wholly in the service of the mighty Council, and would have no-one call me traitor.”
Turning to the aide, Adolbod snapped, “Go on then, Grimelumpe, scribble his name on your list.”
Scabscar could not be certain but did wonder whether there was more than a hint of sarcasm in the seer’s tone. He too looked at the aide and although the creature was still writing it did not seem to Scabscar that the pen’s nib had altered position at all – rather it simply scraping along as before. Scabscar hadn’t the will to question the method, instead he wanted to know something else.
“Finally!” he said. “Now the Council knows I am theirs to command, for a suitable reward. Now, tell me, is it Clan Skarr they want me to face? And if so, which other clans will join with me?”
“Yes, and none,” said Adolbod succinctly.
The warlord frowned. “Yes, it is to be Clan Skarr. But what do you mean by ‘none’? You mean I am to face them alone?”
“Of course not, Lord Scabscar,” agreed Pustulgar. “We would never ask you to do that. Both of us, and the Council also, recognise that you could not face Skarr alone and expect even to survive, never mind thrive. The plain truth is that there are no other clans available to assist you. The Council, its mind ever fixed upon the greater scheme of things, the very world itself encompassed in its thoughts, every nation and people, every realm and empire, yes, has engaged them all upon other tasks. You must seek aid from other quarters.”
Now Scabscar truly did not understand. “What mean you by ‘other quarters’?”
“There is war brewing in the manthing lands of Estalia, a great conflict that shall embroil manthings and greenskins, elflings and dwarfthings to name but a few. Many of these, if not all, will be enemies of Clan Skarr. From those enemies of your enemy you must find battle allies. Have them assist you and vica versa, so that both you and they thrive. We care not how their fortunes wax, as long as Clan Skarr’s fortune wanes.”
A silence ensued. The three contributors to the conversation stared at each other and the scribes scratching pen came to a halt. Finally it was Adolbod who spoke.
“Thus we must conclude our meeting. You have much to think about. In our final meeting we shall speak of how exactly you might find suitable allies.”
Scabscar heard some of what had just been said, but the meaning was tangled up with the thoughts in his own mind. He had not long before been fondly recalling the delicious feeling of power just before he killed a manthing. Now he was to fight alongside them, speak with them, perhaps often. He knew the Council intended to test him, but he had thought it would be simply a matter of sending him into battle. No, the real test would be to see if he could work with his race’s enemies to defeat a traitorous clan.
I'll aim for one a day as before but this time it'll be harder 'cos the forum is locked so I can't just lift and spell check, I have to sort out all the picture links and formatting too. I also think there's more posts to find, as the thread have located does not seem to be all of it. And some of the posts in this thread are not in the right order (due to keeping things secret until it didn't matter any more). So, there's work to do to sort and position each post.
Here it begins ...
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Warlord Scabscar
How long would they keep him waiting this time? Warlord Scabscar’s previous visits had involved successively shorter waiting periods, and although any such delay rankled at his sense of pride, the diminishing length of the delays encouraged him to believe that he was slowly but surely gaining greater respect. Here at least was some species of progress.
He already had a good idea what the intermediaries would (eventually) order him to do. Their long list of questions concerning any links he had with Clan Skarr, as well as their demands to know in detail the full nature of the forces he commanded, had made their desires obvious: he would surely be ordered to take the field against Clan Skarr.
The chamber in which he had been told to wait was not one he had visited before, and although very minimally illuminated by three tallow fat candles his eyes could pierce the shadows to discern details a man-thing could never see. This thought brought a smile to his lips, revealing his razor-sharp, ragged teeth as he recalled the many times he had watched man-things stumbling around in the dark while he himself revelled in the delicious feeling of power and control as he held back his attack. Remembering the pleasure made his smile widen further - not all delays engendered frustration.
He was of course without his guards, having been ordered to leave them outside the antechamber in case any assassins lurked amongst them. Scabscar had chosen his bodyguards with great care, picking only those he knew would be wholly loyal to him. The very fact that his guards had no connection with any other leader was one of the reasons he chose them. They were personal weapons for him to wield, extensions of his will alone, more so perhaps than even the Bonebreaker mount he rode into battle. He recognised, however, that others could not know them that well. And even if the intermediaries he was about to speak to recognised the guards’ loyalty, then maybe then they were more worried about what he himself might order them to do?
The subterranean chamber was cluttered with a rusting tangle of apparatus and mysterious, arcane components. It had once been occupied by an engineer of renown who had fashioned devices of such destructive power that they could shatter entire enemy regiments. Like so many of his particular bent the engineer was destroyed by the malfunctioning of one such machine – it activated whilst being moved from this particular warren and sent such a bout of noxious flames surging through tunnels that everyone else within was killed along with the engineer, as well as all those with two dozen yards of the entrance. The tunnels had then been abandoned for decades, for the heat endured within them and scolded all who attempted to enter, gifting stubborn blisters that never stopped itching and which festered until the victim was utterly incapacitated by the symptoms (if they survived at all). Then again, as an incapacitated skaven is always quickly killed by his erstwhile comrades, it would be more truthful and succinct to say that all who contracted the blisters perished as a consequence. Two years ago, however, the tunnels were deemed finally safe and were once again occupied, and now they housed the grey furred representatives of the Council acting as intermediaries between the Skaven leaders and Scabscar.
The warlord now began passing the time by scutinising some of the strange paraphernalia piled into heaps around the edges of the chamber. Nearly every rusted lump had mouldy leather-bound tubes hanging from it, and what was not rusted iron or rotted skins, was mildewed wood or tarnished copper and brass. Here he found a lever, there a gear wheel, but nowhere anything he considered of any worth. He knew, however, that his engineers might think differently and decided that he would tell them of this particular chamber so that they could make whatever use they could of the junk within. His own unenthusiastic search was brought to a sudden halt by two simultaneous events – first the cut he received from some still-sharp shard hidden in the clutter and second the opening of the door by a servant sent to beckon him. Hiding his scowl and clutching at his finger to prevent the blood from pouring out, Scabscar strode from the room behind the scuttling servant.
Before he had crossed the threshold the intermediaries could smell his blood.
A little earlier that morning:
The Intermediaries
Three skaven were awaiting Scabscar’s arrival. Two were ostentatiously garbed representatives of the council and the third was their servant Grimelumpe, a subordinate aide whose duty was to record all that was said in meetings such as this (and bear witness too). The latter was twitching nervously, his tail performing little flicks, his eyes never quite settling on any one spot. Scabscar had noticed how the aide effected a similar manner during previous meetings, and had come to the conclusion that the onerous responsibility of vouching for powerful masters to even more powerful masters must be a burden the transcriber found overwhelming.
The grey seers sat in high backed chairs which had taken Scabscar’s menials an entire afternoon to find. Both wore colourful and contrasting garb: Pustulgar the Erudited had green, quilted shoulder-plates over his dry-blood-red cassock, while Adolbod the Gormful sported a garish design of yellow and red interlocking triangles on his similarly large shoulder adornments. Scabscar could only assume this was what currently passed for ‘fashion’ amongst the strange and other-worldly seer fraternity, and had once contemplated whether as time went by they would choose to make themselves look even more ridiculous. Both had laid their bronze-coiled staffs upon the table, unwieldy as they were, as well as resting their leather bound tomes directly before them. They had not, however, thought fit to remove their long, pointed hoods. Pustulgar’s had been brushing against a hanging lantern of ironwood and horn, disturbing it so that wax dribbled through the ill-fitting base and was slowly forming a lumpy, clotted path down the cloth towards the seer’s unsuspecting forehead.
Scabscar had a rather different and much more practical appearance, being every bit the warrior lord. His whole body was covered in plates of armour, with only his clawed fingers and toes protruding unprotected. Beneath this layer was even more metallic protection in the form of a long mail coat, and beneath that the scarred and toughened hide of a skaven who had lived (as anyone in his position had) in ‘interesting’ times. His back-plate bore an odd pair of hooped protrusions, for in battle he marked himself out by attaching a personal standard to his back, in the form of a spiked iron hoop containing the tri-barred sigil often incorporated into skaven heraldry. Two long pennants would hang from this hoop to flutter behind him. Not that the standard was strictly necessary, for he usually rode upon his Bonebreaker mount and so could be picked out easily enough by his warriors. Yet even without standard or mount he still looked imposing enough. Well, he would do to most skaven and nearly all creatures smaller than an ogre in stature. Not to the seers, however, for they had the confidence of those who had delved deep into and even manipulated the other-worldly stuff of magic, witnessing the supernatural horrors lurking there waiting to snatch away the careless or weak. Not that such insight had made them frightening to others, rather it had inured them against the fear of the mundane. Oh, and it had left them a little unhinged and somewhat eccentric in their ways.
It was Seer Pustulgar who opened proceedings, and as ever immediately embarked upon a speech more akin to a scholarly lecture than an interrogation, compulsively littered with asides and over-stretched explanations.
“Let us, yes, consider the matter of how a fighting warlord such as yourself – in point of fact exactly like yourself, so much so that you may as well assume I speak specifically of you even though I shall address the matter in general terms - how a warlord such as yourself might make his way in the world. How he might elevate himself, yes, to rise in both honourable degree and worldly power. I have no doubt that this is a topic close to your heart, Lord Scabscar, or if not housed in proximity to that particularly sanguine vital organ then lodged instead within your stomach there to catalyse broiling gurgulations, or perhaps it has thought fit to creep inside your cranial extremity where it is best placed to gnaw at your mind and sprinkle unanswerable and fevered questions to disturb your night? And if none of those, then I am wholly convinced it has settled itself so deep as to become rooted in some alternative analogically anatomical nook or cranny elsewhere within your frame.”
Scabscar frowned. He had learned several days ago that following Pustulgar’s speeches took every bit of wit he could muster, and that was not always enough. Thankfully Adolbod now offered a comment.
“Hmmm,” came rumbling from the second seer’s throat, loud enough to halt his colleague in his wayward tracks. “I agree. A topic very appropriate for this our penultimate meeting.”
It now dawned on Scabscar that so far the two seers had effectively done little more than announce they were going to speak of his future. This annoyed him. He had to stop himself giving vent to his frustration, he did not want them to see even the smallest raising of his hackles or curling of his lip. If the seers had been anyone of his own advisers and servants they would have been cut short several moments ago – in fact depending on his mood actual cutting may well have been involved. But here the tables were turned and it was he who was required to be subservient. Then a thought blossomed in his mind which momentarily calmed him, almost medicinal in the relief it briefly promised: he had given the seers every opportunity and if progress were not made soon he could and would drive them from his realm (or worse) and care not a single whisker for the political consequences. At least he would never have to listen to their long-winded and self-important pronouncements again.
Then, as if the thick air in the chamber had slowed the sound’s progress from the seer’s mouth to warlord’s ear, Scabscar suddenly realised exactly what Adolbod had just said.
“Penultimate?” he asked. “You mean there is to be but one more meeting?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Pustulgar. “Adolbod and I are in the fullest of agreements, yes, positively sated with acquiescence. We shall today make our offer and have your answer. Then, should you prove willing and your answer satisfactory …”
“Of which we have little doubt,” interjected Adolbod.
“… then we will meet but once more, yes, to discuss the finest and sharpest of details, to polish and hone our expectations until as acute as a scalpel’s edge.”
Scabscar suddenly recalled a thought from the last meeting - how the seers might well be deliberately riling him with their verbosity so as to gauge his response, to assess both his patience and willingness to obey. Their method and manner very likely formed part of whatever test they were putting him to.
“It seems clear to me,” continued Pustulgar, “that there are two tunnels which an ambitious clan warlord must choose between. To enter one is to begin clawing and tearing your way through, cutting down not only foes but rivals, not only vengeful enemies but also jealous servants and backstabbing allies. This tunnel is a deathly place, where mountainous heaps of the fallen are piled up by blade work and the fires of battle. There is no denying that this first tunnel has served some few well, yes, very well. But, and this is well known to every skaven with even a modicum of wit, most who choose this route do not reach the tunnel’s exit, rather they simply deposit their own corpse somewhere along the way. So many others enter the same tunnel that they are merely one amongst many, with foes before and behind, and none of any worth truly willing to come to their aid. Only through luck can they survive, and not the simple roll of a knuckle bone, but rather the sort of good fortune that would astound even the gods.”
The seer paused and the silence caught Scabscar by surprise. Compulsively, perhaps simply to prove he was paying attention (when the truth was that his thoughts had strayed once more), the warlord found himself commenting: “Not the best of tunnels then?”
The seer’s eyes flashed as a grin broadened his lips to reveal as many flint teeth as enamel. “Ah, yes, you understand the perils. You would not be here if you had chosen that tunnel, yes? You wish to go the other way?”
“The other way?”
Adolbod gave vent to a wheezy snigger, his hood wobbling as a consequence. “Do keep up, Lord Scabscar. Two tunnels, remember?”
Scabscar frowned, suddenly unable to hold back all his frustration. Meeting after meeting concerning what he would do if this, that or the other happened, question after question about his personal past and the strength of his clan, all the while waiting impatiently to hear whether they would approve of him to the council.
“I know you said two tunnels,” he growled. “I am no fool to be toyed with, nor a cowering slave too afraid to concentrate. I am a fighting warlord of repute and power. You would do well to remember this. My question came from the burning desire that you might get on with what you have to say. My lack of attention comes only from my impatience with your never ending torrent of words.”
“Ahh,” exclaimed Adolbod. “Now we see the spirit of a warrior, a glimpse of your professed mettle.”
Scabscar knew now that to the seers this was indeed all a game, and that every word they spoke was part of an elaborate test. He bit his tongue and glared at them, his eyes speaking for him: ‘Finish this now!’
Pustulgar did not even blink at this outburst, but went on in exactly his accustomed manner, as if no complaint at all had just been made. “The alternative is a more certain tunnel, through which diligence and loyalty provide a pair of bold legs upon which to stride. Of course luck is always needed, but with sufficient skill even that slippery commodity can be made to play only a minor part. Many can still trip and fall through a lapse of concentration or a careless failure to duck out of the way of harm. This tunnel is that through which the council directs those who wish to prove themselves worthy. It is not an easy path, for to obey the council’s will is to find oneself faced with the challenges and threats that such great Skaven counter on a daily basis, but those who emerge are rewarded, having proved themselves both mighty and loyal. The dangers remain great, but at least the warlord can expect some honest, actual assistance from allies of a like mind.”
Scabscar had no intention of waiting to hear if the seer would continue his verbal circulations and so immediately pronounced, “I choose the second tunnel."
The two seers cocked their heads to one side as if intrigued by Scabscar’s outburst, an action which finally flicked a gobbet of wax from Pustulgar’s hood to bespatter Adolbod’s robe. Neither seemed to notice.
“Why do you think,” Scabscar felt the need to explain, “I have listened so patiently so far? Why do you think I invited you here at all? Have your servant scribble my name in the list. I intend to grow in power wholly in the service of the mighty Council, and would have no-one call me traitor.”
Turning to the aide, Adolbod snapped, “Go on then, Grimelumpe, scribble his name on your list.”
Scabscar could not be certain but did wonder whether there was more than a hint of sarcasm in the seer’s tone. He too looked at the aide and although the creature was still writing it did not seem to Scabscar that the pen’s nib had altered position at all – rather it simply scraping along as before. Scabscar hadn’t the will to question the method, instead he wanted to know something else.
“Finally!” he said. “Now the Council knows I am theirs to command, for a suitable reward. Now, tell me, is it Clan Skarr they want me to face? And if so, which other clans will join with me?”
“Yes, and none,” said Adolbod succinctly.
The warlord frowned. “Yes, it is to be Clan Skarr. But what do you mean by ‘none’? You mean I am to face them alone?”
“Of course not, Lord Scabscar,” agreed Pustulgar. “We would never ask you to do that. Both of us, and the Council also, recognise that you could not face Skarr alone and expect even to survive, never mind thrive. The plain truth is that there are no other clans available to assist you. The Council, its mind ever fixed upon the greater scheme of things, the very world itself encompassed in its thoughts, every nation and people, every realm and empire, yes, has engaged them all upon other tasks. You must seek aid from other quarters.”
Now Scabscar truly did not understand. “What mean you by ‘other quarters’?”
“There is war brewing in the manthing lands of Estalia, a great conflict that shall embroil manthings and greenskins, elflings and dwarfthings to name but a few. Many of these, if not all, will be enemies of Clan Skarr. From those enemies of your enemy you must find battle allies. Have them assist you and vica versa, so that both you and they thrive. We care not how their fortunes wax, as long as Clan Skarr’s fortune wanes.”
A silence ensued. The three contributors to the conversation stared at each other and the scribes scratching pen came to a halt. Finally it was Adolbod who spoke.
“Thus we must conclude our meeting. You have much to think about. In our final meeting we shall speak of how exactly you might find suitable allies.”
Scabscar heard some of what had just been said, but the meaning was tangled up with the thoughts in his own mind. He had not long before been fondly recalling the delicious feeling of power just before he killed a manthing. Now he was to fight alongside them, speak with them, perhaps often. He knew the Council intended to test him, but he had thought it would be simply a matter of sending him into battle. No, the real test would be to see if he could work with his race’s enemies to defeat a traitorous clan.