Experiment 626 carefully picked its way between the boulders and rocky outcrops at the base of the arcane tower. The long abandoned building sat crumbling and silent in the valley of Glimmer-Wake, and its ominous and imposing exterior festooned with stone skulls and occult symbology that starkly contrasted the realm of life in which it sat. 626 paid little heed to the building itself; it had already scouted the ruins and found them devoid of life. Even lesser vermin avoided this place.
Like a shadow 626 slunk through the fallen masonry, hugging the darkness, as it watched the battle unfold below. Its tail twitched in agitation.
Deeper into the valley the Warlock Engineer Ritchit Longfang commanded the enginecovens, pitted against the might of an Ogor tribe. 626 could see that the battle was going favourably for the Skaven, long arcs of emerald lightning and roiling jets of warpflame taking their toll upon the Gutbusters.
But 626′s destructive glee was smothered by his own frustrations. The battle went well, but his own mission was becoming increasingly challenging. It’s target, the Ogor Butcher, stood with his infernal cauldron and surrounded by brutish bodyguards. The Master, Vigritch Stonebiter - Arch Warlock of Castle Zatrapp and the Creator, had forseen through eldritch machineries a great wealth of power and warpstone beyond this valley. But the foolish Butcher-Thing would steal it away with primitive magicks. This could not be allowed.
By genetic warp-craft and soul-sorcery, Experiment 626 was compelled to execute The Masters orders immediately and to the letter. Bred specifically for this one purpose, 626 would bend all its considerable skill to the missions completion, or die in the attempt. It’s agitation came from the fact that that second outcome seemed increasingly likely.
626 briefly considered the implications of its number-name. The Master had created it and many other purpose bred slave-things; presumably it was the six-hundred and twenty-sixth version of itself. It was also safe to assume the previous experiments were dead. 626 twitched nervously. Whilst this was alarming, in the end this meant very little. 626 could no more rebel against The Master than he could stop being a Skaven. It’s verminous instincts told it to flee and hide, but it’s sorcerous bindings drove it ever onward.
The arcane runes and sigils carved into 626′s flesh flared painfully with sickly light and the wretched rat-man snarled dangerously. The time had come. Utilising stolen shadow magick the gene crafted assassin vanished from sight, seemingly ceasing to exist.
In the valley below Ogor guns roared as the Leadbelchers brought them to bear, their devastating payloads sprayed into the hordes of Skaven slaves before them. Flesh ruptured and gore spattered, the slaves recoiled from the onslaught, but surged forward again moments later fearing the slave-masters lash even more.
Farther in, the Tyrant of the tribe roared commands over the din of battle, sending another group of Bulls into the melee. They charged forward, jagged weapons raised overhead only to be cut down by the searing touch of a warplightning cannon as its hideously powerful beam crackled and spat. Bellowing his rage the Tyrant turned and searched the scrum for his Butcher, the power of the Hungering Maw would silence those those guns! The power of Gorka-Morka himself! But the Tyrants blood ran cold when he finally found the Ogor he sought. Up on the hill the Butchers bodyguard were waist deep in a brawl of their own, a tide of squirming, clawing ratmen almost overwhelming them through sheer numbers. Worse still, the Butcher himself seemed to be losing a duel with a darting shadow. The ghostly figure, moving with almost supernatural speed, stabbed and slashed at the dying Ogor again and again.
The Tyrant smashed aside a filth-ridden Skaven, it’s stunted form crunched satisfyingly beneath the blow, and made to move up toward the hill but a terrible screeching wail had him clutching his head. The sound was all around, or perhaps it came from within his head; it’s deafening shriek like tortured metal or as though reality itself was in pain. Suddenly the source became clear, as a rent in the fabric of the realm was torn. Through this gaping hole could be seen a vast tunnel that stretched off beyond sight and out of it stepped six of the biggest Skaven brutes the Tyrant had ever seen. Each snarling beast was easily the height of an Ogor, with the brawn to match. The front two monsters bore enormous drills capped with glowing crystal, and as they moved aside other more esoteric weaponry could be seen.
The Tyrant was stubborn but not stupid. Backing away he put more Bulls between himself and the deadly Gatling Cannons that even now were beginning to cycle up to speed. He knew this battle was lost and began to order the retreat. As he looked back at the filthy vermin that had cost him the valley and it’s treasures, he swore revenge. He would make the Skaven pay for this.
A little fluff piece introducing my custom Skaven Assassin. I couldn’t picture the Arch Warlock trusting clan Eshin enough to hire an Assassin, so instead he’s used unreliable and unstable gene-magic to craft his own. Whether 626 will be any good, we’ll have to wait and see.
snowghoul
titsay
yousharknotpass
