After-Game Special 2

The roar of the crowd. The booming voices of the commentators. The ceaseless clatter of noise as people walked through the halls.

One got used to these sounds over the years of attending Blood-Bowl games, and having grown up in a stadium, Erhard Kadelburg had grown to love them. Making his way through the crowds had become second nature to him and he waded through the sea of noise and color with the measured step one might expect of a nobleman strolling through the halls of his home.

He had long payed back his father for his attempts at bribery and had returned to a tense apprenticeship under the man. His father in a shocking display of trust, or perhaps a typical display of drunken incompetence, was out of town at the moment at an Stadium-Management convention leaving Erhard temporarily in charge of Averland Greens affairs. It was under this circumstance that Erhard was strolling to the banquet hall to greet the seasons two best teams before the match for the Averland Cup began. He paid little attention to matters of appearances or the delicate intricacies of bootlicking that his father reveled in. Erhard was a practical young man who would much rather spend an evening improving the efficiency of the stadiums workings then inflating the ego of some coach who had blundered his way through a match without a casualty.

Striding up to the large, ornate doors before the banquet hall, he took a moment to compose himself, adjusting his tie and glasses and securing his helpful clipboard. Swallowing his distaste and with all the enthusiasm of a man scheduled to hang, pushed through the doors with some effort coming to stand upon a balcony above the hall looking out to the three separate tables stacked high with food and drink, and the ocean of creatures milling around them.

He immediately noticed the familiar scent of Skaven, taking note of the team banner hanging on the right-side of the room. ‘Pillar-City Pillagers’ it read, dark red paint smeared on to sickly-green cloth. He did not recognize the name but knew his prepared clipboard would have all the information he needed. Opposite the rat-mans banner was a brilliantly-made, if worn, banner whose text was a mess of Hieroglyphics and sigils. The unmistakable heraldry of the Tomb-Kings.

Erhard placed his hand on the railing and began his descent to the banquet floor. His first course of action would be to meet the coaches and star players, work some mention of marketing deals and sponsorships into the conversation and perhaps most importantly, get some food into him. He had missed breakfast. Halfway down the stairs he glanced to the Skavens half of the food-tables and stopped dead in his tracks.

There, standing as if a statue, was a horrifically familiar face holding a plate of meats and cheeses and staring back at him with an unreadable expression. A tall, proud frame. Course, black fur decorated with scars. Chiseled muscles and a healthy gut. Erhards pulse pounded in his ears, cold sweat beaded on his forehead and his knuckles turned alabaster-white as he gripped the railing even as the Stormvermin meeting his gaze developed a wide, tooth-bearing grin.

Krissik Scargiver. The Skaven who had fucked Erhard into a stupor in the locker rooms nearly half a year ago. Erhard broke eye-contact and tore into his clipboard, thumbing through the papers in a frenzy before stopping cold.

Staring at Erhard both from the record-paper in his hands and across the hall he stood, unbearably smug from both angles. His record from this season was a morbid laundry-list of wounds he had inflicted. Countless broken bones, torn muscles, severed ligaments and a collection of fouls and murders decorated the page, the Stormvermin had been busy.

Suddenly, Erhard was torn from his speed-reading by a ragged coughing from the base of the stairs. Standing there wasn't the rat he was dreading, but a walking corpse robed in alternating black and white bandages and decorated with what appeared to be a museums worth of trinkets, the most impressive of which was a golden whistle, carved in the unnerving likeness of a scarab. Erhard stared, transfixed for a moment before realizing that this was undoubtedly the Coach for the Kemrian team. He let out a sigh of relief before quickly descending the stairs.

“I take it you are here to tell me that the Stadium manager won't be attending today?” the tomb-coach asked, voice sounding like dusty bellows gasping out their last.

“Actually I’m the acting manager today and will be performing all the necessary duties.” Erhard replied with no small note of pride.

The coaching corpse regarded Erhard with a lame roll of his wrist and a sigh, then took off towards his side of the banquet tables.

“Indeed.” he mumbled.

“Now wait a minute mister…?”

“Thestaf of the Nehekhari Nemeses .”

“Well Mr. Thestaf, have you been finding everything to your liking here at Averland greens?” Erhard probed.

“If you must know, yes. This arena has proven satisfactory to me and my men. The only real complaint is the climate, which has been a curse upon our wrappings and linens.” he spoke, stretching a seemingly pristine band of fabric away from his chest before letting it snap back into place.

“However, I have very little time for pleasantries. Simply a desire to see these despotic rat-men crushed under our heel and claim the cup that is rightfully ours. So if you would excuse me, I have greeted you and acknowledged your arena. I would leave now and prepare for the game.”

And with that, he turned on an ancient heel and with a snap of his fingers, strode out of the banquet hall in perfect unison with his team. Erhard well understood the sentiment, but nonetheless was left in dismay. Because if he wasn't chatting with the Kemrian Coach the alternative was-

“Helloo there man-thing.” spoke a sickeningly sweet voice. Erhard started to turn about, but a clawed hand clasped on to his shoulder and stayed his movement before a dominating presence formed at his back.

“Very long-time no smell-see.” a broad, black snout spoke into his ear.
“Heard-listened to the news. Did Daddy-manthing let you own precious-sweet stadium?”

The moment stretched on into several before the grip on Erhards shoulder tightened, and the presence grew to a weight pressing on his shoulders. Erhards breath caught in his throat.

“How trusting of daddy-manthing.” Krissik hissed, a hint of laughter hiding underneath the malice.

Erhard bit back a shriek and jumped away, wheeling around and running back into the banquet table, staring at the stormvermin in front of him in horror.

It was him. Now with a few more scars and not completely naked, armored in his tournament best and now, Erhard realized, almost taller than him. It was like having something out of a nightmare greet you in your bed as you wake up. A shameful, disgusting fantasy inviting itself to your families dinner table. Erhard struggled to find his words and stammered, now realizing that he was completely alone in a room full of Skaven.

Krissik only smiled, throwing his arms wide in a parody of a warm gesture, teeth glinting like daggers with vile intent. He took a step forward, then another, swaggering towards the cornered manager as Erhard edged his way along the table, racking his mind to find some phrase, some rule, some words potent enough to halt the stormvermin and give himself the time to compose himself.

Both parties were interrupted when yet another clawed hand grasped another shoulder, but this time Krissik stopped, glaring at the clawed hand that gripped his armor with barely restrained distaste.

“Harassing the owner-staff are we?” asked the figure attached to the hand. Leaning out from behind Krissiks broad frame was the lean, toned body of a much slimmer Skaven. Wrapped tightly in pitch-black cloth, and a hood hiding much of his features, the Skaven immediately projected a cool, calm demeanor in comparison to Krissiks smug aura. The Gutter Runner stepped out from behind the Stormvermin, taking his hand from Krissik’s shoulder and inspecting it as if checking his nails, seemingly oblivious to the disgust present on Krissik’s face.

The Gutter runner turned on his heel and locked Erhart in his gaze. “So-so, acting manager-thing.” the Rat-man started.
“It’s obvious-easy to see you love-care a great deal for this stadium.” Erhard noted how the Gutter-Runner, despite great effort not to show it, was straining to resist the verbal-tic common to all Skaven. Krissik left the two to chat with a scowl, more interested in the banquet table then banter.

“I do in fact, Mr…?” Erhard inquired. The Skaven simply regarded his question with a raised eyebrow and deafening silence. Erhard opted to press on. “It’s been in the family for generations, although it seems like my more immediate relatives are more content to see it be a grease-stained tourist trap then the spectacular stadium we all know it can be.”

“Quite.” the Assassin responded tersely. “I’m sure-sure you could make this stadium something great. But only if you were to remain as acting manager-thing.” The Skaven said, inspecting the tablecloth instead of looking at Erhard.

“Is that a threat?” Erhard asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Not at all. Simply observing the obvious. You’re quite the up-up and comer young Erhard.” a pregnant pause marked his subtle advance towards the young human. “Make sure you don’t fall prey-victim to the pitfalls of fame.”

Erhard paused for a moment, the Rat-man was clearly fishing for something, maybe probing for a weakness or attempting to prod a guilty conscience. Stepping back from the leering vermin, he gave a shrug and his best attempt at hiding the nervousness he felt. “Fame is barely a concern of mine. No one out there in the stands knows who I am, and that suits me just fine.” Erhard scanned the table, looking for something to snack on. Nervous eating was a bad habit of his. As he reached out for a fresh-looking apple, a blur of dark-brown fur left him grasping at open air.

“But they could.” The rat man stated bluntly, sharpened incisors cutting through the apple as if through open air. “Every breed of thing out in those stand-stands could know exactly who runs this stadium. Your face could be right there in their head-skulls next to every happy memory they have of this place.” the Gutter-Runner gestured around them. Erhard felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “But if your face reminded them of some horrid controversy…” the Skaven trailed off, his silence pounding on Erhards mind.

Erhard knew exactly what the Rat-man was saying. His eyes broke contact with his tormentor and glanced at Krissik involuntarily. The stormvermin was carrying with him a heaving pile of food, the fine silver of his plate straining under the weight of his meal. “So you see then, Mr. Cadelburg.” the Skaven advanced, face split into a parody of a smile. “I know exactly what you have done with my teammate over there,” he savored the word ‘exactly’ like one might savor a wine. “And if you don’t play by my-my rules, your stadium-home will be torn away from you by nothing more then-then public opinion.” his vocal tic coming back alongside a gleeful edge to his voice.

“And those rules are?” Erhard asked, his voice small and wavering.
“Simple rules really, the Pillar-City Pillagers win the game-fights they play here at Averland Greens, and get exclusive-special marketing deals, just for us-us.” the vermin spoke at speed, excitement making no effort to conceal itself. “You put effort-time into making the bribes and tasks to ensure our win-success and I don't ruin-fuck your life.” the rats tail was erratically twitching behind him.

Erhard retreated inward. Here he was, a prime opportunity for corruption standing in front of him. He wasn't even the official manager yet and someone wanted him in their pocket. It was impressive, really. But as much as he fantasized about oh how clever he was, and how he would never stoop so low, the Gutter-Runner had him dead to rights. If the secret got out, people would associate his vile act with the stadium, attendance could plummet and with it, the value of the entire enterprise. Other stadium-owners or those in the industry could leverage that to buy Averland Green right from under him. And if they didn't, the spectre of his locker-room liaison could hover over the stadium, painting every dealing with the Skaven with suspicion and a prime opportunity for coaches to claim further corruption against him, bogging down games and advertising deals in a legal mire.

Erhard turned, placing both hands on the table and staring down into a punch bowl. His despair sat in his gut like a weight. He had no leverage against the Rat, nothing to fight back with. So early in his career, and he would hand over what little clout he commanded just to save something that he didn’t own. Just as he turned to sell his soul to the Assassin, something caught his eye. A golden whistle, carved in the unnerving likeness of a scarab, hiding beneath the rim of the punch bowl. Except now it's legs were out, and it's wings peaked from under the shell. Erhard dumbly stared at it, confused for a moment before the realization dawned on him that the Khemrian Coach could be spying on them at this very moment through the bizarre artifact.

Erhard couldn’t go through with the deal now with the Tomb-Coach knowing about it, with the evidence he had he could declare the match a no-contest, and even as common as corruption was in the sport of Blood Bowl, it's exposure could tie up the people involved in legal fees and bad press for months, even more so at tournaments. His father would be livid if while he was gone Erhard stuck the stadium right into scandal. This was his leverage, his chance to escape his fate. Erhard turned back to the Gutter Runner, a hand behind his back, and one on his clipboard as he attempted to project a sense of authority. He noted for the briefest of moments the Rats eyes locked on to the Scarab for just a moment before snapping back to him.

“Rather bold of you I must say, to waltz in here and threaten me with a bald-faced lie like that.”
The Gutter-Runners features hardened.

“No, I don’t think I will be entering into such an arrangement…” Erhard trailed off, flipping through his clipboard, looking for something intently.

“It is funny that you mention ‘special deals’ however… I was inclined to offer a unique publicity deal for the winner of the Averland Cup, but that can only happen…” Erhard leaned close to the scarab. “If both teams play fair.” he leaned further still towards the Rat-man. “And of course, an upstanding gentleman such as yourself would never really stoop so low as to cheat and bribe for his win, Mr…” Erhard stopped for a moment, finding exactly what he wanted from his clipboard. “Mr Grifkit.”

Grifkit the Gutter Runner had seemingly developed a twitch as he stared at Erhard. One little scarab having popped his balloon.
“You-you understand man-thing, that I could still reveal-show your precious little secret? Still ruin-shame you?”

“You could, but my hands are tied you see. I enable you and the Khemrian brands me a crook, I deny you and you brand me a deviant. I can't give you what you want if I’m not the manager, or if the tournament doesn't come to its rightful conclusion.  You want your money and marketing deals? You earn them.” he spoke with finality. Gripping his clipboard with both hands and smiling like a Dwarf who just met Bugman himself on the trail, he stood straight up again and taking note of the time, he made his exit, striding towards the massive doors of the banquet hall. “Enjoy the food Mr. Grifkit, and remember now, play fair!”

The doors slammed shut, leaving a heavy, unpleasant silence as the Skaven in attendance stared at the visibly irritated Assassin, each holding his breath and wondering what form his anger might take if he lashed out. Each Skaven, except one.

A clawed hand clasped a shoulder as the broad figure of Krissik leaned on the lean and twitching form of Grifkit. “Smooth-nice moves there, friend-pal. Now we actually have to try to win-win.” Krissik spoke with a steady, tired edge to his voice. His joy in prodding his rival-in-arms tempered by the failure of the attempted bribery. As he bit back into a leg of roast squig, he leaned further still on his fellow, testing the lean muscle with his weight.

“I wouldn't be so sour-pissed if I were you though-though.” he trailed off, words heavy with intent.

“Why would that-that be fat-ass?” the Gutter-Rat spat back, far too used to the weight of Krissik and his ego.

“Averland Greens has a long-running tradition-habit, the winning team of tournaments gets to have a feast with the manager-thing and his staff.” he said smiling ear-to-ear as a horrid giggle snuck out from between his pointed teeth. Grifkit visibly relaxed as he realized the opportunity he was presented with. Krissik may have been planning on acting out some hedonistic desire, but Grifkit wasn't some Stormvermin too used to the pleasures of his rank. He was a trained assassin, cunning and wicked. And after they had won the game and claimed that cup… he would have Erhard Cadelburg all to himself, at his mercy, to be little more than fuel, a stepping stone in Grifkits ever-winding schemes!

Hours after his encounter with the horrid Rat-men, Erhard sat in the VIP box high above the stadium, a perfect vantage-point to watch the action. His foot tapped impatiently as he watched the pre-game show without paying the slightest attention, mind working at his current predicament at speed. As the acting manager, he had a stake in who won the tournament. He would have to treat them specifically, coordinate with the winners marketing or sponsorship people, try to secure profitable deals and agreements beneficial for the stadium using that team as leverage. The Tomb-Kings had money, and said money was less likely to evaporate at a moments notice as some Grey-Seer or Warlord decides he needs a shiny new Doomwheel or those same warp-tokens aren't ground up and snorted by some warp-head skaven.
No, Erhard thought. The Tomb-Kings had to win, he would much rather manoeuvre the delicate courtesies of the Khemrian culture then be doomed to spend intimate time with Krissik and his band of vermin. He sighed heavily and propped his head up on his arm. That was the true issue, far more pressing then the affairs of his pride and joy.

His personal stake in this was that if the Skaven won, he would be sentenced to a dinner with them, and their presence at Averland Green would increase dramatically. He still remembered his encounter with Krissik. How he had been left shaken in every sense, and how the wretched desire to contact Krissik had lingered on his mind for months. How his few options for romance had passed him by as Krissiks leering face intruded on his every fantasy, the distant memory of his scent alone doing more for Erhard then the scantily-clad sports fans so common at his stadium.

He had spent months trying to hate the Skaven, trying and nearly succeeding to train himself back into some semblance of normalcy again. But every now and then his eye would linger on the tail of passing skaven fans in the halls. Hoping they would lift their tails, or let Erhard run his hands over their round, muscular bellies and count the scars-Erhards own anatomy interrupted him. He stared down at the bulge straining his trousers.

He felt like crying.

Just then, trumpets rang out and the magically-enhanced voices of the announcers rang out, competing with the cries of hundreds of screaming BloodBowl fans. Erhard leaned closer to the glass, watching in a sort of detached horror as the two teams marched out onto the field. Even over nearly two hundred feet and through a full set of Blood Bowl gear recognized his tormentors. Coming out first was the Gutter Runner known as Grifkit, his personnel file had very little personal information on hand, simply that he preferred to take an active part in the team's affairs behind the coach, and that he had very few listed injuries. A small clipping of a magazine article speculated that his relatively low number of career touchdowns was related to that low injury count. The author of the article musing that it was either pride in his sleek, unscarred appearance or typical skaven cowardice that kept him from scoring as much as the rest of his impressive record suggested he could.

The Gutter-Runner, out of three on the team, marched out with a measured stride, sticking out sharply against the shambling Khemrians and the skittering skaven. His head was held high, and his tail flicked impatiently behind him. The rare example of a groomed Skaven. The line-rats were next, all rather average specimens. And behind them were the Stormvermin. Swaggering and strutting out at the head of their number was Krissik. Grinning wider and performing as he marched out, jumping about, gesturing to the crowd, encouraging their cheers and soaking in the attention like sunlight on a summer's day. After a series of flexes and poses, he stopped for a moment to blow a kiss towards the VIP box as Erhard watched in horror.

Somewhere in the Warp, a Daemon of Conflicted Arousal was born.

Erhard was shamefully familiar with Krissiks record. His favorite spot to be on the pitch was right next to the ball, and although he rarely went for it specifically, he knew that's where the cameras were usually pointed. He reveled in the violence focused on the squigskin ball, and could be counted on to help protect it being one of the few Skaven who could hold his own on the line. A psychotic level of confidence for a Skaven, as countless Skaven-printed magazines pointed out.

The Pillagers Rat-Ogre Nibbles was the last one on the field, a lumbering abomination that, by skaven standards was practically well-natured, only having mauled a few dozen stadium personnel over it’s career in Blood Bowl.

Across from the chittering athletes stood a stoic and stern assortment of beautifully decorated skeletons, all standing in traditional Khemrian war-stances, the finer points of which were completely wasted on a stadium full of Averlanders and Skaven. Within the ranks of line-skeletons were the teams specialists, a pair of Blitz-Ra’s and Twin-Ra’s each. Flanking either side of them were two towering Tomb-Guards, well-preserved flesh and heavy golden armor rendered an already imposing figure into a wall of bone-crushing weight. As the two teams stood ready, the Stadiums commentators launched into a heated discussion of tactics and strategies, making references to both teams previous performance and preferred tactics on the pitch. The Pillar-City Pillagers classic Gutter-Runner centric play and the brutal, casualty-focused play of the Nehekhari Nemeses.

A representative of Cabal-Vision sauntered out on to the green between the teams, bearing a heavy gold coin and ready to set the match off. The flip awarded the Tomb-Kings team first possession. After a short period of deliberation with their coach, the Pillagers opted to give the kick-off to Nibbles the Rat Ogre. Both teams readied into their positions as the Stadium settled into an eerie quiet, the tension rising like a storm in the air. The Rat-Ogre sniffed the air apprehensively before simply dropping the ball from head-height and launching it across the field with the bulk of his tail. For an instant, time slowed to a crawl and thousands of people in the stands and throughout the old-world and beyond via Cabalvision watched the spiked football glide through the air with the dynamics of a bullet, spinning like a bullet as it flew towards a shambling skeleton already primed to catch it out of the air.

The moment ball met bone, the field exploded into action. Gutter Runners launched into a breakneck sprint towards the lone ball-carrier while the skeletons and line-rats fell on to each other in a brawl more fit for a dingy bar then a sporting event with Krissik at it’s center, teeth already gnawing into an unfortunate skeletons exposed spine. The Tomb-Guardian on the right could barely shamble inches forward before Nibbles threw himself against him, the force of the two titanesque athletes colliding sounding like a cannon shot. As Mummy fought Ogre Grifkit and the Gutter-Rats weaved between their legs, coming out of the mess at speed, the tight turns required of them barely hindering their pace. One of the Runners was taken off his feet as a Blitz-Ra who had been waiting at the rear of the brawl swung his weighted arm-blade against him, the ceremonial weapon testing itself against both regulation and the Rats ribcage.

The other two didn’t stop, deftly avoiding their clattering opponents as they hurtled towards the ball-carrier, covering the last meters between them and their target in seconds without leaving their victims team time to support him. The Skeleton emoted with a dropped jaw before two assassin-rats tackled him to the ground, massive incisors digging into the ragged tendons at his wrist as the other kicked and clawed at his ribs, trying to do as much damage before the ball was freed. With a puff of corpse-dust and hand-bones snapping apart, the squigskin ball flew out of his hand and was deftly captured by Grifkit who had barely touched the ground before he once again sped off towards the end-zone. His speed was unmatched as claws tore grass up and away with every step, not even stopping to look behind him as he slammed homeward into the endzone, horns and cheers going off and soaking the stadium in sound and color as flags waved and fans screamed.

“An incredible touchdown by Grifkit for the Pillagers, completed only moments into the match!”

“Yessiree the Nemeses will have to keep that ball caged if they hope to  keep the Pillagers runners out of the equation!”

“Do you think at all that the Rat-Ogre being assigned to kick was integral at all in that strategy?”

“Well it's unconventional, but I wouldn't be surprised…”

Erhard stopped listening, staring with wide eyes at the field. Barely twenty seconds in and the Pillagers had effortlessly scored a touchdown. Anxiety gnawed at already frayed nerves as both teams again prepared to face off. Even from the VIP box he could see a sickly-sweet smile from underneath Grifkits hood, white fangs shining out from the shadow. No, the Pillagers couldn’t win. But here in the VIP box with random nobility and Stadium guests-of-honor free to observe him he couldn’t contact Thestaf to offer aid. He was stuck waiting and praying that the Nemeses could pull out a win.

A loud thump alerted Erhard to the next round starting, as the Pillagers augmented thrower launched the ball from a pneumatic arm-cannon but either due to wind or the likelihood of his warpstone augmentation malfunctioning, the ball launched forward straight into the mass of line-rats at the front, and nowhere near the two Gutter-Runners who had been waiting to receive. It was on that line between teams that it became obvious that no victory could come of playing a bashing game against the Skeletons. Cruelly barbed and spiked Skaven armor and gear scraped uselessly against bone where sensitive flesh should have been, and as more and more red painted the field the Line-rats were being pushed back. The Rat-Ogre could tie down one Tomb-Guardian, but the other pushed the crowd where he wished.

Swinging a massive arm, the Guardian sent the Skaven crowd sprawling, before coming to stride aside one of the decorated Blitz-Ra, who had claimed the ball from the chaos in the now scattered skaven line. As the two began a ponderous path down the field the Rat-Ogre was battered aside, dazed for a moment by an opponent that could match it’s animal rage blow-for-blow as the second Guardian went to join the procession. A moment of scattered chittering could be heard before the Skaven attempted to regroup, with much of their number still locked in combat with the Skeletons. They had time on their side as the Blitz-Ra shuffled down the field, but little other advantages with the ball in the enemies hands. A spear of StormVermin with Krissik at it’s head soon formed, and with the Rat-Ogre shaking off the pain it had suffered, the Khemrians fell under attack from two angles. Krissik booked it past the swinging arm of the guardian, dodging by inches as he performed a slide beneath the killing blow, coming back to his feet and continuing his chase of the Blitz-Ra with a manic laugh on his lips, as the other Storm-vermin and a group of Line-Rats fell upon the Tomb-Guardian, climbing up the dessicated champion and cutting at him with their claws and armor, desperate to strike something structurally vital and inflict as much damage as they could.

The Rat-Ogre wasn’t slowed by the Skeletons as it again collided with the Tomb-Guardian, the momentum it had carried bringing both to the ground, crushing a Throw-Ra in the process as the crowd shrieked  like frenzied animals at the wanton violence. Claws like steak-knives tore gaping holes in once-pristine wrappings, and the Tomb-Guard could only offer his wrist to try and stop the ogres ratty maw from closing around his skull, the other pinned beneath its weight. The sickening sounds of snapping bones and the oozing of necrotized flesh was drowned out by the gasping crowd. Erhard watched pointed hands and excited waving from the crowd as he realized that the Blitz-Ra had been taken down and was now lying sprawled out in the field. Krissik stood triumphantly over his defeated foe, the ball underneath one arm as he cackled. His ears twitched and he whirled around as the Tomb-Guardian swung a line-rat by the tail at him, keen senses his only warning. Dropping flat to the ground, he dodged the worst of the clumsy attack, the line-rats wrist-blades cutting into his snout as it passed. Righting himself in a flash, he took off towards the opponents endzone at the far side of the field, his heavy stormvermin armor limiting the speed of his advance and blood pouring from his slashed snout.

Grifkit came sprinting aside him, cursing at the Stormvermin and motioning for the ball. But Krissik didn’t pass it, continuing along unabated, a mad glint in his eyes. Suddenly a shadow grew over the both of them, their reactions coming too slow as they came out of their argument before being bowled over by a thrown Stormvermin. Krissik lost his grip on the ball as they came skidding towards the middle of the field where the Line-Rats and Skeletons had kept each other occupied, the second Blitz-Ra responding to the sudden presence of the ball by shoving a bloodied and enraged Line-Rat away with a kick that knocked the wind out of the Skaven before grabbing the ball and shambling back towards the protection the Guardians offered back at the Skaven endzone. The first tomb-guardian now looking plenty ragged as shredded necrotic skin and ruined bandages hung from his towering form, but nonetheless freed of rats as his attackers lay dazed and bloodied on the ground about him. Empty eye-sockets sensed the approach of the Blitz-Ra and just as the two other Gutter-Runners came to tackle the carrier to the ground in a repeat of the last rounds scoring play, the skeleton drew back an arm and hurled the ball straight towards the guardian, the crowd stunned into silence as the guardian raised a massive arm in the path of the ball, hand closing around it on contact before simply allowing the dainty impact to take the necrotic giant down, arm coming down squarely in the endzone as he slammed into the floor with enough force to rattle the goalposts.

The crowd, and Erhard with it jumped from their seats as they cheered such a ballsy play, the commentators going wild in praise at such an unorthodox, spur-of-the-moment strategy.

“And with an absurd turn of events the Tomb-Guardian, of all the players on the field scores a touchdown! Woah-ho you just can’t make this stuff up folks! And you can just tell the Pillagers coach is hopping mad!”

Erhard noted a portly skaven with bushy, poorly-trimmed sideburns having a conniption on the side of the field.

“Oh can you blame the little guy? His lead Stormvermin kept his paws on the ball for far too long and the Tomb-Guardians proved a fantastic distraction for much of his team, the Ogre getting distracted surely didn’t help none!”

“And the Ogre is still distracted it looks like!”

Indeed, a group of of the Pillagers support staff wielding things-catchers were desperately trying to peel the Ogre off of the Tomb-Guardian, golden armor bent out of shape and broken bones poking out of the wrapping at disturbing angles.

“If The Nemeses coach was hinging his strategy on both Guardians being in fighting shape, that strategy just suffered a major blow! Look at the damage already done!”

Indeed, as the Rat-Ogre was calmed and torn away from it’s victim, the Tomb-Guardian couldn’t right itself, the weight of his monstrous attacker having cracked his ribcage and seemingly warped his spine. An exceedingly tall Liche Priest shambled his way out to the field beside Thestaf. A time-out was called as the Coach and his staff took a moment to analyze their damaged asset. All the while the Skaven team licked their wounds, and Krissik stood glaring daggers at his belligerent coach as he was chastised for not passing the ball.

“If the Nemeses lose that Guardian, it's not just harmful to their particular strategy, it's a huge loss over all!”

“The Pillagers might not need to change up their strategy after all with this turn of events.”

“Indeed, one can only hope that...oh, the Liche Priest has called it! The guardian is being taken off the field! Oh the coach looks mad.”

A team of Averland Greens employees and Khemrians were struggling to lift the guardian onto a monstrous stretcher as Thestaf looked on, visibly scowling even from the VIP box.

Erhard felt a particular empathy to the man.

“The Nehekhari Nemeses do have reserve players of course, but regrettably, no additional Tomb-Guardians. Terribly expensive to replace, even in the costs of bandages alone.”

“Indeed, hell, if the Nemeses pull this game off, a sizeable chunk of their winnings may go necrotic-repair fees to get the big guy back in the game. Regeneration or not, that Guardian looks rough!”

“And with that, and a replacement skeleton is being sent onto the field and we are primed to wrap up the first half with only a few minutes left on the clock!”

And with the sun directly overhead, both teams were ready to go with possession going to the Nemeses. The ball being entrusted to a Throw-Ra already prepared in a cage-maneuvre.

And with the game resumed, The Guardian and Ogre were again at each other's throats, hammer-like blows raining down against the ogres head as the beast attempted to wrestle the guardian to the ground and enact a similar kind of mauling it had just enacted on the Guardians fellow, a few line-skeletons trying their best to keep the Rat-Ogre from inflicting too much damage. Below the two massive athletes the Skaven pushed and jostled against the crowd of bones, racing against the clock to rest control of the ball from their opponents. Grifkit and Krissik at separate ends of the mess both trying their best to find an opening.

As the Khemrian crowd was pushed back, an open space appeared within the mass of bones, and an enterprising gutter-runner leaped into the crowd, in an instant the Skeletons turned on him, battering and bruising the Gutter-Runner. Grifkit leapt on the turned back of the Skeletons, the Throw-Ra clutching the ball in his sights. With incredible ease of movement the adept moved from skull to shoulder blade and back to skull as the Throw-Ra backed further and further away from the Gutter-Runner approaching him, with so much of his team either distracted with beating the Gutter-Rat on the ground or helping the Tomb-Guardian, there was too little in the way to stop the Rat.

With a sound like a panicked xylophone the last Skeleton behind the Throw-Ra was thrown bodily to the ground by an incensed Krissik, blood seeping through his hastily-wrapped snout as he brought both fists down on the unfortunate skeleton. The Throw-Ra backed up over their scuffle and accidentally flung the ball away as hell fell. His victim forgotten as the ball flew into the air and was deftly snatched up by Grifkit, keeping the ball under a vice-grip he hurtled down the field.

“With Grifkit once again in possession he is going for the endzone at top speed!”

“But there's barely any time on the clock!”

“The cage was too effective, he doesn't have time to score!”

Regardless, Grifkit sprinted like a rat possessed, a dark-green blur as he flew down the field.

Without consideration for the Skavens effort, the clock ticked down all the same.

5.

4.

3.

2.

Grifkit threw himself and the ball into the air, crossing the last few yards totally airborne and crossing into the endzone mere inches from the ground-

“And TIME!”

A harsh buzzer sounded off along with the announcers declaration.

“What a photo-finish! We need the instant replay on that!”

“And how!”

Erhard, biting at a nail watched a Cabalvision technical support wizard limp out onto the field, a goblin cameraman following him holding the crystal-ball recorded footage aloft. The wizard focused on the ball for a moment, before calling out an incantation and casting his arms out, pointing out to both sides of the arena. As if thrown, the spectral image of the endzone appeared, accompanied by a helpful timer. In slow motion Grifkit appeared floating in the frame, and gilded ever closer to the endzone as the timer ran out. A mixed sound of disappointment and relief came from the crowd in waves as the timer ran out a mere .02 seconds before grifkit slammed home.

Still in the endzone, Grifkit swore and spat on the field.

Erhard breathed a sigh of relief. The teams were still even.
Regrettably, he couldn’t focus on the half-time show, trying and failing to take his mind off of the building anxiety he felt, instead falling into a kind of stupor as he overthought his predicament and squirmed in his seat. Suddenly a terribly familiar voice boomed into the VIP box. Jolting upright and staring down at the Crystal-ball installed in the VIP box that was permanently tuned to Cabalvision. Staring back at him was an insufferably smug Krissik, puffing his chest out for the camera as a Cabalvision reporter was holding an impromptu interview. Out of twenty people, he was the one to end up in front of the camera. Erhard felt ill.

“You have been fighting with unusual zeal today Mr. Scargiver, is there anything in particular that is driving you on today?”

“Glad you ask-pondered! You see, when we win this game, there’s a specific-certain somebody at the victory-feast that I’m planning on-” Whatever he said, Cabalvisions profanity-filter spells caught it.

“O-oh my. Are you sure you want to say that on live spell-o-vision?”

“What kind of question is that-that? I want that fat, juicy, manthing-”

The profanity filter went off again. Erhard stared in shock as the VIP box fell into an eerie quiet. He barely noted Grifkit attempting to distract the camera crew by doing a series of increasingly impressive backflips. The Camera panned back to the bewildered reporter, who motioned for the video stream to be cut off before a series of advertisements were used to fill up the remainder of half-time.

Before the shock of Krissiks ‘bold words’ could wear off, both teams prepared again to face off in the final half of the game, with the Pillagers in possession. The Khemrian line was an odd squat thing, spread out across the half-way mark, the Guardian being off to the far left of the field, exposed. The horn went off, and the Skaven team launched into a familiar motion, the augmented thrower launching the ball directly to the trio of Gutter-Runners without a hitch, who caught it deftly, the skaven sprinting off to the far right of the field making a break for the thinnest part of the Skeletons line. The Stormvermin and Linerats again threw themselves against the skeletons in an effort to keep them from interfering with their Gutter-rats, and the Ogre taking off like a cannonball towards the Tomb-Guardian. For a moment it appeared that the Skaven would repeat their first play in the game, with Erhard staring on, biting at his nails in anxiety. Suddenly the pair of Blitz-Ra’s came lurching into the supposed weak-point of the Skaven line, having managed to duck out of the fight in the center and collapse on the unprepared Gutter-Runners.

Throwing their gold-enhanced weight against the runner carrying the ball, the unfortunate rat was pinned to the ground, his arm bending at a nasty angle as he squeaked in agony. At the same time the Rat-Ogre closed in on the Tomb-Guardian, ready to savage him like he had his brother. The Guardian bracing himself and catching the ogre, forcing it to the ground using weight and brute strength in equal measure, struggling to maintain a hold on the beast. The Skeletons fought with renewed vigor, driving the Skaven lines back and offering no opportunities to advance or break through their lines. Slowly but surely the Skaven were driven back, their greatest weapon against such a tactic struggling to free itself from the Tomb-Guardians vice-like embrace. The arena clock ticking down lower and lower as the Skeletons stalled for every second they could.

Somewhere in the brawl Grifkits voice could be heard, calling out, seemingly having realized the strategy employed against them from within the mess of combat. Time continued to slip by as more and more of the Skaven fell back, rallying to the ball carrier, all the while the Ogre and the Tomb-Guardian had fought back to the Nemeses endzone, still engaged in their struggle. The Commentators trying to keep up with a rapidly evolving and changing field, trying to make sense of a growing mass of viciously fighting athletes as the Skeletons pushed the Pillagers closer and closer to the boundary of the field, a Line-rat being abducted off the pitch by ravenous fans and disappearing into the crowd with a shriek, the wall of skeletons closing in tighter and tighter. Suddenly a triumphant cry drew the attention of the crowd as Grifkit and two Stormvermin, one being Krissik broke free of the crowd, the Skaven line-rats having managed to pull the bulk of the skeletons towards the back of the mass, manipulating the crowd expertly to offer an escape route out of the cage they had found themselves in. Grifkit held the ball close and for the third time in the game flying past yard line after yard line towards a rapidly approaching endzone. The Guardian, looking up from his struggle against the ogre saw the runner, who in his haste to make up for lost time was daring to pass by the guardian rather then giving himself more room.

The Guardian shoved the Rat-Ogre back with all of his might, following up with an elbow-strike across the beasts snout. The crowd barely had time to gasp as the Guardian opted for a follow-up, launching into an elbow-drop, bringing armored bone down into the skull of his opponent, and his opponents skull into the ground. Each seperate impact sounding clear and true even above the clamor of the stadium. The Ogre offering no more then a teeth and blood-flecked cough before shuddering and losing consciousness, the Guardian rising triumphantly above his battered form. Taking off on unsteady legs, the Tomb-Guardian rushed the Runner, suddenly filling the fastest and vital route off with several tons of necrotic flesh and armor.

Grifkit retreated, fear overtaking reason as he skidded to a halt even as the final seconds of the timer mercilessly ran out, but just as he overcame his momentum to retreat, he was taken off his feet as Krissik, in a full-blown bull-rush, came by him, wrenching the ball from his much smaller rival and going for the endzone.

The Commentators couldn’t believe it, Erhard couldn’t believe it, one Skaven against a tomb-guardian, no pleading for mercy, no panicked squeaking, Krissiks face on the Cabalvision screen was a tooth-bearing smile that spoke of mania and adrenaline. The Guardian slid into a crouch, sweeping the yards in front of him with a bone-crushing arm, grass and dust rising into a storm that chased the momentous blow. Krissiks was battered off his body, and his flailing body was lost in the storm of dust. The dust settled as a cloud, obscuring his no-doubt mangled body, the final timer blew. And Erhard cheered triumphantly. Relief like a drug in his system as he flopped back into his chair, wiping his brow of sweat he hadn’t realized was there. He was safe, finally, and at last-

“THE PILLAR CITY PILLAGERS WIN!”

“What!?” Erhard screamed.

“I can’t believe it either folks! But with CabalVision instant replay, we can watch the endzone to see that amazing play!”

And see it they did. The Crystal-viewscreen offered a behind-the-endzone camera view that watched Krissik charging forward towards an attack that should have ended his career, but the Magic-enhanced camera piercing through the rising dust, to watch in beautiful clarity as Krissik slashed the straps of his armor with nothing but a well-sharpened claw, letting his bulky Stormvermin gear fall away, before leaping *towards* the Guardians arm! He barely cleared it, inhuman reaction putting his feet squarely on the mummies wrist before launching himself, with the ball in tow, past his foe and squarely into the endzone!

The crowd went wild, screaming and cheering and nigh-immediately requiring security personnel to try and defend the players as Skaven poured out of their seats to assault the Khemrian team, which was rapidly being escorted off the field by terrified Stadium-workers. Erhard was dumbstruck. He was fucked. Literally. Krissik was going to do horrible things to him. He fumbled with his thoughts for a moment, trying his best to think of an excuse, a reason to not attend the post-game feast.

Wait.

He didn’t need an excuse.

He was the acting-manager.

Immediately he broke into an absurd, arm-flailing run as panic stripped him of his dignity, hurtling out of the VIP box and down the stairs to the stadiums labyrinthine hallways. He failed to notice a black streak of motion hurtling towards him from the field proper as he dodged past a food-cart selling fried Squig. He saw it there, a large EXIT sign hanging near feet away from him. Eyes lighting up and his pace quickening further, he came to a screeching halt as a sweaty, panting, livid-looking Grifkit slid into his path from behind yet another food cart.

“You!”

“Me?” Erhard asked backtracking, eyes rapidly scanning potential escape routes.

“You lucked out-out back there, the Dead-Thing sneak-spying on my perfect plan-” he spat ‘perfect’ like the word was toxic. “-embarrass me in front of clan-team, and when I win fair-fair and square, you try to cheat-cheat me and run out of your deal!”

“I thought Skaven constantly lied and cheated anyways?” Erhard asked, fear cracking his voice as he backed up into a wall.

“It’s ok when-when we do it!” with a strangled scream, the Gutter-Runner launched himself at Erhard, sharpened fangs bared. Erhard cringed away from the attack, screaming in horror when a presence manifested at his back, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him away from the wall, away from his assailant. Erhard looked up at his savior, praise  and thanks already on his lips.

“Oh thank you so much! I don’t know what that Skaven was talking about, we never had any sort of deal-” oh. He stared up into the expecting face of a very smug, and very sweaty Krissik Scargiver, who had caught Grifkits muzzle with a hand and was now holding the struggling Gutter-Runner at an arms distance as he held Erhard close. It was here at this wretched proximity that Erhard experienced his greatest fear. That smell, the intoxicating aroma of a worked up, sweaty Skaven body working it’s black magics on him. He inhaled involuntarily in Krissiks embrace, eyes already tracing the muscles that hid underneath Krissiks many meals worth of chub. His will to run wavered, not able to find the strength to attempt escape, Krissik took his rival and his quarry along with him towards the executive lounge at the stadium.

“Oho I am so excite-hyped! What kind of food-meats do you have for us hmm boy-thing?” he asked, genuine, near-innocent glee sounding exceedingly strange coming from the monstrous rat.

“Uh.” Erhard stuttered, not sure how to answer. “Tons of stuff, really. You don’t really need me there to enjoy your meal, do you?”

At this, Grifkit renewed his struggle, scratching at Krissiks arm pitifully, the lack of oxygen quickly working at his strength.

“Funny-funny boy-thing.” Krissik started to laugh, before shoving Grifkit back and placing both hands on either side of Erhards face.

“You-you’re not getting out of this fuck-feast, Horned-One as my witness.” his tone deadly serious as his beady red-eyes bored into Erhards soul. With Erhard temporarily pacified, Krissik turned to Grifkit, still approaching the executive lounge at a hurried pace.

“No-no! You do not get-get to steal this evening-night from me! I earn-earned it! Fuck off and ruin someone else-elses schemes!” his previous air of dignity lost as he whined at the Stormvermin nearly twice his width.

“Earned it? My ass-tail you did!” the vermin spat back, dragging Erhard and holding him close to himself like a child with a stuffed toy. “I won that game-game for us because you-fuck can’t be trusted not to cower-hide away from the endzone like a flea-bitten mouse-curr!” his skavenesque stutter acting in full force as his emotions boiled to the surface.

Before Grifkit could respond, they turned the last corner to the executive lounge, wading into a writhing sea of color and harsh sounds as countless cameras and reporters, mostly Skaven, pressed in on the trio approaching the lounge. Numberless questions and accusations were hurled out, battering Erhards ears as he shrunk away from the cameras, trying best to use a free arm to cover his face and nametag. Krissik and Grifkit were distracted from each other as both scratched their egos like cats at a post as they strutted through the crowd.

“Will you-you sign this for me oh brave-toughest Scargiver?” a short rat-man asked, providing a quill dripping with green warpstone ink and a well-used copy of ‘Tawdry Tales from Clan Detritus, issue number 42’ to Krissik, who handily signed it with his name in stylized queekish.

“Grifkit, what-what can you say about the rumour-whispers that you will be starring in the cabalvision adaptation of ‘Sneekkits Finest Hour’?” an excited skaven waving his microphone prodded.

“Well-well, I can neither confirm nor deny-hide such things, but I will-will say…-” Grifkit sneaking into the crowd to do his part in pushing the rumour-mill/

Erhard was only relieved of the onslaught when finally, the trio slipped into the delicately-decorated dining room that the lounge had been converted into, with Grifkit trailing behind ever so-slighty. He could tell immediately that the dining staff was completely overwhelmed as a full team of Skaven, sans the Ogre, gorged themselves on every morsel available, fine cuts of meat and delicate, artfully-constructed pastries were devoured with the gusto one might expect of a drunk Ork, hundreds of Imperial crowns worth of foodstuffs were defiled and flung about by the comedically ravenous crowd. He would have offered his sympathy if the grip on his shoulder hadn’t pushed him towards the private dining quarters, a cozy, dimly-lit space meant for more intimate evenings with important clientele.

“How do you even know this place so well?” Erhard dared to question.

“Plan-scheming this for a long time.” Krissik said plainly, punctuating his sentence with a tight squeeze of Erhards shoulder. Krissik finally released Erhard, pushing him against the door and impatiently began to tap a foot as he waited for Erhard to unlock it for them. As Erhard fumbled with his keys, an odd sense of apprehension and excitement bubbling through his nevers, Krissik pushed his weight against the young man, smiling a villainous smile as he watched Erhard squirm under close examination. Finally key found lock, and the door began to swing inward, before being shoved against the door, nearly bounding back into Erhard before Krissik shoved him and himself through the tight doorframe, slamming it in Grifkits snout, sending the Gutter-Runner swearing and cursing as Krissik locked the door, and then for good measure, broke the knob, warping it’s delicate brass downords as to discourage lock-picking, scooting the pair of them away as Grifkit shrieked and clawed at the door in impotent rage before settling himself down, practically on-top of Erhard in a heavily-pillowed corner.

In the candle-lit and delicate space he found himself in, Erhards senses were overwhelmed by the musky rat-man now peering at him with dangerous red-eyes, and the fear he had felt during the game came back in full force. Now faced with the object of his nightmares, a small voice of honesty spoke out. He wasn’t afraid of the skaven for the obvious or even reasonable causes. He was afraid of him because he *liked* what Krissik did to him. Even now as the Skaven peeled himself out of his remaining gear, wearing little beneath aside from a cheap linen shirt and boxer-briefs, he understood that the well of shame he felt at enjoying this treatment wouldn’t stop him, it never could from enjoying what was about to happen. Not some delicate fantasy, but being used and abused by a callous, verminous, fat-bellied Rat-man.

“How are they supposed to bring us food if the door is busted?” Erhard asked, shocked at the casual nature of the question in the face of his current circumstance.

“Food-meats can wait, I have better things to do-enjoy.” he said, a husky edge to his voice.

“Oh.” Erhard said, suddenly feeling very small as the Skaven leered at him.

“Oh is right little man-thing.” Krissik giggled, inching closer. “Do you have any clue-idea as to how exciting this-this is? Food at my every whim? Dry and warm sheet-blankets? The life-life you live manthing, it’s every Skavens dream-wish!”

“What has that to do with me?” Erhard asked, curiosity beating out worry.

“Everything-thing!” Krissik declared, pushing Erhard over, tearing at his trousers and underwear with a clawed hand, holding Erhard down as he de-robed him, a girly shriek escaping the panicked human.

With both hands on Erhards waist, Krissik spoke directly into Erhards ear, that same husky edge intensifying as a familiar scent of Skaven lust tickled the humans senses. “If I can have-own you all to myself, I get-get to live out my days as a king! No back-stabbing, no scheme-planning, just playing Blood Bowl and getting to fuck-fuck you whenever! Grifkit can have-have his schemes and his planning, I just want this-” he punctuated his sentence with a harsh grope of Erhards bare ass, claws pricking at sensitive flesh.
“Whenever I-I wants it.” With that, Krissik sunk away from Erhards flushed face, passing his cock at half-mast on his way down, hot breath inciting a twitch, before spreading Erhards ass. Overstimulated and mind spinning, Erhard merely panted and allowed the Skaven to toy with him. A wet pressure made itself known at his backdoor, lapping and slurping at his rear as the Skaven shamelessly went to eat his ass. A long, wild tongue preparing every inch available with slick, slimy spit. The slimy muscle pushed past the tight ring of his asshole, a moan dragged out of Erhard by the delicious sensations of pressure and warmth now working their way inside of him.

Again he was back in that locker-room, ass bare and being used by a Skaven as he pleased. The haze of lust dampening his rational mind from seeing it as the ‘horrid nightmare’ he so constantly told himself, what he ‘wanted’ it to be. But here, legs and ass held up to the Ratlike maw of Krissik, he simply felt good. Shame having been rendered into a giddy bubble-gum warmth inside of him. Inch after inch of Skaven tongue prodded and tested the confines of his ass, going far enough to push against the bulb of pleasure deep inside of him, his hips giving an involuntary thrust against his captors arms. The tongue retracted, before pushing again inside of him, a slow rhythm built as Krissik openly tongue-fucked his stupefied prisoner, enjoying the sense of control he got, the rush of dominating someone above him on the social ladder.

Both parties eyes fluttered shut, shutting out any sensation that wasn’t their own pleasure and the rhythm of the others body. Erhard felt the pleasure in his ass bloom further, toes curling and a gasp sneaking out of his mouth, his cock giving another half-hearted twitch as precum oozed from his cockhead. He moaned openly, allowing himself for the first time in so long to revel in the perversion offered to him. Krissik read his body like a book, improving the speed at which he tongue-fucked him. Their pace improved, Erhard squriming and stretching on the pillows below him as Krissik gripped tighter and tighter, moving a hand from his captives waist to grope greedily at his ass. Just as the pressure inside of him hit a wonderful peak, a shriek of metal and a blur of motion tore him from his fantasy-world, and he, ass still full of Skaven tongue, stared right into the face of Grifkit.

“Fool-meats! No locked-door or broken-lock-lock can stop me-” he stopped his triumphant boasting dead. Staring at his rival and his target, one with their tongue hilt-deep in the others ass.

Krissik mumbled something that could be interpreted by some as ‘Fuck off’, as hard as it was to understand given a jaw resting on ass and groin and a tongue violating health and safety standards.

Grifkit merely stared, arms hanging loosely at his sides. His eyes went from Krissiks disapproving glare and Erhards mildly concerned face. To one, then back to the other.

“Fuck-fuck it.” he sighed.

With that, he dropped his trousers, deftly pulling his belt away and allowing gravity to drop his pants for him, leaving dark-brown fur with a hint of pink peaking out as he idly groped his stiffening cock. He placed a foot on either side of Erhards head, the human rapidly reddening as the Skaven dropped his ass down right on to Erhards face, the human voicing his outrage for merely a moment before the reek of Skaven musk pacified him, shaking hands finding their way to the Skavens noticeably wide hips, running his hands through the well-groomed fur.

“The fuck-fuck are you doing?” Krissik asked, for once sounding indignant.

“Enjoying my-myself for once.” Grifkit responded tersely, grinding his ass into the humans face.

“No! Fuck-fuck off! My prize!” he protested.

Grifkit locked Krissik in his view, swiveling on Erhards face as he turned towards the Stormvermin, wiggling his hips in the process and receiving a tongue against his asshole for his troubles.

“I’ll let you-you keep your boy-toy if you let me have-have this.” he said plainly, the pretense of giving a fuck having left him completely.

Krissik merely stared, unsure of how to proceed, for once.

The Assassin carried on. “I put Averland Greens in Pillagers pocketses,” he stated, queekish accent ruining the word ‘pocket’, “And I work you into scheme-plan. You keep-keep boytoy. I get rich. We both enjoy-live with perfect Grifkit-plan.”

Krissik looked at his rival. Then the ass before him. Then back to his rival.

“Deal!” he offered a clawed hand, shaking on the suggested plan with one hand and finger-fucking Erhard with the other. Grifkit smiled a tired, smug smile and went back to riding Erhards face.

Erhard of course wasn’t involved in that conversation, mind soaked with lust and gears grinding against skaven musk as he wantonly licked and slurped at the tight skaven asshole presented to him, his entire world reduced to fur and flesh, his cock throbbing uselessly against cool air. Hips bucking against flesh that wasn’t there as he pleasured himself with the perverse oral alone. When Krissiks finger slipped inside him, he moaned into Grifkits insides, knees shaking and motor control leaving him as he spasmed around the clawed digit. For a few blissful minutes he sat there, perfectly content with a broad finger, then another inside of him and the shapely rear of a Skaven built for speed lounging atop his mouth. With odd timing, both vermin pulled away from Erhard, leaving him treated with slobber at both ends and pouting sadly as he sat there, deprived of his fun.

Grifkit turned again, prodding his mouth with a long and slender prick before he could voice his complaint, and at his behind, although he couldn’t see it for the assassin-cock in the way, he felt the delightfully familiar pressure of Krissiks cock at his asshole. Neither asked if he was ready, neither really cared. And with the hurried pace of manic rats, both holes were swiftly filled up. Erhards mouth was suddenly filled with salty, sweaty rat-prick, and his ass stretched around much of the same, albeit with Krissik being having a much broader and noticeably shorter cock. He couldn’t moan, he couldn’t move, he could simply take it, mind succumbing to the sense of submission he felt, pleasure being its own rewards as both rats bottomed out inside of him, and drew back, both settling into a rhythm of abuse, with Grifkit slowly testing his throat with his prick and draping his balls over his chin, and Krissik stretching an asshole that had only been used once before over his girthy cock, clawed fingers damaging pristine skin as he groped at his thighs and ass.

Tears formed as he fought against his gag reflex, some battered part of his psyche noting with perverse pleasure at the ease the concept came to him, and a much baser part of him feeling outright joy when Grifkit gave a shuddering laugh, pleasure evident in his voice. “This mouth is...much-much better at sucking then talking.” Wait a minute. Erhard felt that one, even through his near-drunken revelry, but a sudden thrust from Krissik stopped that train of thought. His ass receiving his now steady thrusts readily, his ass tight against every inch of the rats fat prick. Heavy balls slapping against his ass, a reminder of the overwhelming masculinity of the vermin now grunting as he fucked him bodily.

“Fuck...I missed this hole-slit so badly.” he moaned, hands on Erhards thighs as some long-suppressed reflex had Erhard wrap his legs around Krissiks broad waist. It was all the encouragement he needed, picking up the pace of his thrusts, Krissik wantonly fucked the human beneath him, and not to be outdone Grifkit matched his pace, their combined body weight pushing Erhard deeper into the pillow-pile he was resting on, body being pushed this way and that as he struggled not to cum on the spot. And although Erhard resisted, his fellows were not so  courteous. With a ragged gasp and shuddering hips, both rivals came, hilting to their quivering balls inside of Erhard, who took to the task of swallowing rat-spunk surprisingly well for all the worrying and whining he had done mere hours prior. With shaking hips, both rats pulled out of the well-fucked human, giving contented sighs, at least until Krissik noticed Erhards twitching member, still relatively pristine, not a drop of cum to be seen. The Rat considered the cock for a moment, before leaning over towards Grifkit with a devious smile. Picking up the smaller vermin handily and depositing him between Erhards legs despite the panicked screaming.

“Look-look Griftkit, poor-poor Man-thing didn’t get to cum!” Krissik giggled at his own odd humour.

“Why the fuck-fuck should I care? He’s your-” he struggled against Krissiks grip as he pushed his head closer to the prick, smearing his cheek with precum. “-your boy-toy!”

“That’s exactly why you should care! My man-thing, the manager-thing, the reason you’re going to be swimming-sunk in warptokens soon! Best-best show your-” he grunted again, pushing harder against Grifkits resistance. “-appreciation!” With that he succeeded, forcing Grifkits mouth over Erhards cock, the sudden warm, slick hole he found himself prodding the inside of set Erhard upright again, staring in disbelief at the disgruntled Gutter-Runner being forced up and down his cock, choking on his prick at the hands of Krissik. Erhard doubted this was done by any true empathy towards Erhards failure to orgasm, merely a means to humiliate and abuse his rival. Not that he could care. He quite liked the feeling of Skaven tongue against his dripping dick. Leaning back and enjoying the easy pleasure of getting his cockhead sucked. It was odd, with Grifkits rat-like incisors in the way, but his rodent cheeks accommodated his prick well, soft, malleable flesh making plenty of room for the cock swabbing his mouth and tongue, with Krissik occasionally leaning hard over his victim, pushing Erhards prick into the tight, spasming throat.

Grifkits claws dug into Erhards thighs, but remarkably lacking the pressure to break the skin, despite the worry, Erhard was soon panting, already having been worked up by the spitroast, he grunted, his cock so hard that every pulse and throb pushed him closer to the edge, even without the sensations soaking his groin. A scant few moments passed before Erhard doubled over, practically wrapping himself around Grifkit as he pumped shot after sticky shit of cum into his mouth, the Assassin left no option but to swallow or literally drown in cum as the human shook like a slave-rat in a moulders lab as he forcefed the Skaven his nut. Krissik held Griftkit down longer then it took Erhard to shoot his load, before releasing the poor gutter-rat, watching in satisfaction as Grifkit lifted his head off of Erhards lap, dazed and exhausted from struggling against Krissiks far-superior strength, a slimy mixture of cum and spit leaking from the side of his mouth as he struggled to get his bearings. Looking up at Erhard for a moment, some distant light in his eyes the only sign of intelligence. Krissik rose up behind him, patting his hands together and congratulating Grifkit on the opportunity to enjoy the station he deserves. Erhard, staring into the eyes of the seemingly dumbstruck Gutter-rat was unprepared when his clawed hand snatched him by the ear.

Turning on a knee, Grifkit lifted Erhard up by the ear, before practically throwing the young man squarely between the fat asscheeks of the Stormvermin, wrapping an arm around his waist, and a clawed hand on Erhards head and Krissiks prick, using the value of both to pilot their owners together. Erhard once again found his face buried in a Skavens ass, and Krissik was too enticed by the idea of th human eating his ass to really care.

“If Krissik owns man-thing, then surely Krissik wants to enjoy everything man-thing can offer, yes-yes?” Grifkit prodded, his usual cunning self could be heard through his voice, despite a still dopey expression. Erhard wondered for a moment what his angle could be, before he once again decided that Rat-ass was more important then schemes and plans, putting his tongue back to work on the closest asshole. All the while Grifkits paw worked at Krissiks prick, using the spit and lube already present to stroke the stormvermin back to full-mast, and his tail found Erhards soaked cock, working at it in much the same way, a delicate tail wrapped around his shaft while the tip of his tail wiggled about beneath the foreskin, teasing every delicate facet of his cockhead with a speedy pace. Seemingly all parties involved were plenty content to allow Grifkit to ministrate the pleasure, Krissik leaning back, spreading his asscheeks further to allow Erhard to properly enjoy his ring.

With well-practiced motions, Grifkit drove his rival to the teetering edge, leaving him shuddering and shooting off spurts of creamy pre before pulling pack both his claw and Erhards maw, having to actively keep the human peeled off of the Skavens behind, lest he dive back in. Grifkit was honestly worried that the human might suffocate himself. Again and again he repeated this, needing to edge Erhard far less, the human being slower to work up then the stormvermin, surprisingly. Krissik at first found the denial to be fun, but bemusement soon grew to frustration, and when he began to turn to voice his complaint, Grifkit made his move. His tail whipping from human cock to the stormvermins ankle, and his knee finding its way in front of Krissik shin, he expertly overbalanced and toppled the unprepared Stormvermin, clambering over his stunned rival and pulling Erhard over him, once again flipping back and pressing down against Erhard.

Erhards prick rested between the well-furred cheeks of Krissik, and he felt Grifkits prick resting at his cum-leaking hole, primed and ready. Krissik was stunned for only a moment before attempting to squirm from underneath this new and dreadful arrangement. But seemingly couldn’t work up the strength to pull himself out from the two relatively skinny men. “Poor-poor Krissik, tough day on the field?” Grifkit asked, malice dripping from his every word. The proximity of snout-to-ear left Erhard just feeling aroused at the Skavens patronizing.

“I bet you feel awfully tired, only eating the one meal before the game, that stunt with the Tomb-Guardian…” he trailed off, clawed hand finding Erhards cock and guiding it to the spit-slicked hole of the Stormvermin of his dreams. Erhard gasped, feeling the hole give at the slightest prod, the prospect of getting to fuck the Stormvermin perverse, leaving him achingly hard in moments, his throbbing prick depositing pre directly into Krissiks guts. Krissik himself on the other hand, was merely panting, still struggling to lift himself, the fight seemingly having gone out of him.

“I despise-hate you Griftkit…” he panted.

“Try to remember that when you’re cumming.” the Gutter-Runner responded, before thrusting into Erhard with near double the force necessary, forcing Erhard down into Krissik, and Krissik into the floorboards. Erhard made an odd, strangled cry before retreating inward, the sensory overload finally pushing him out of the world of the waking. The familiar pleasure of his ass being filled, the reek of Skaven sex, of cum and masculine musk, all the things that haunted his fantasies pumping like a crude replacement for thought through his mind, but the new pleasure, of feeling the muscular insides of a Skavens asshole, that was entirely far too much. He was making noises, not of any intentional choice on his part, but on reflex alone. When Grifkit pulled back, so did he, when Grifkit thrust, he followed suit. A surprising level of motion for someone who simply wasn’t thinking anymore, eyes lidded and threatening to cross as his balls rise and fell against Krissiks, and Grifkits balls against him, being the centerpiece in an art-show for the depraved, sandwiched between the slender, wiry form of the Gutter-Runner and resting on top of the muscular physique of the much larger stormvermin. And none of this compared to the sensations his cock was being subjected too. A Skavens ass was filled with tight, contracting muscle, working this way and that against a foreign intruder, a kind of half-baked resistance as his insides attempted to force out his prick, doing little but massaging every inch submerged. And when he bottomed out, the feeling of Krissiks wiry, thick fur against his groin served as a potent, arousing reminder of what exactly he was doing, what he was fucking as his ass gulped greedily at the humans prick, betraying it’s owner with it’s basest functions.

Even the sound of Krissik beneath him, a barely restrained moaning and grunting, decorated with the occasional profanity or threat leveled against Grifkit, who was contentedly humming as he fucked Erhard at a leisurely pace, soaking in the sounds of the one plan of his todays that had gone off without a hitch. His pace slowly but steadily improving, his thrusts punctuating the beat in a song only he knew, his fingers moving from the Krissiks sides to Erhards hair, idly scratching at his scalp in patterns he made up on the spot, teeth grinding against each other in some odd, Skavenesque display of joy. Krissik made an odd noise, sounding like a choked whimper at first, the sound piercing Erhards blitzed mind and reaching to the sad little corner of him that was still functioning. It listened to the noise again, and again as it came. And finally recognized what it was.

Squeaking.

Krissik shook, shuddered, and groaned as he tried to escape the dog-pile on top of him, but every time Erhard thrust home, a high-pitched, mouse-like squeak escaped his throat, try as he might to mute it with a hand around his own snout. Erhard could practically hear Grifkits smile through his breathing as he improved his pace, acting as their puppeteer by pulling them on their easiest strings, the desire to feel pleasure alone being manipulated expertly. The pace built, and something inside of Krissik fell away, his snout snapping open and his toes curling, fists balling and opening on mismatched impulse as he openly squeaked, stopping only to gasp for air as Erhard fucked harder and harder, rewarded by his efforts by Grifkits pencil-like prick hammering hard against his prostate on every thrust. Erhard came first, but wasn’t allowed to stop. Pushed harder and harder against him at a pace that was frankly uncormftable by Grifkits manic thrusting, openly laughing now like the villain out of a childrens story as he used Erhard as a proxy to fuck his despised rival. Erhard only then realized how hot the room was, how absolutely soaked in sweat each of them were, but despite the obvious discomfort each detail imparted, he remained hard, some deep-seated part of him drinking the vile details, reveling in the depravity of it all. Still cumming inside, his balls held tight against his form as shot after shot came naturally, before the next was forced out more by Grifkits abuse then any natural impulse. Grifkit was snarling, swearing and cursing Krissiks name as he came, hot Skaven cum pumping inside of Erhard, mixing deep inside of him with what Krissik already shot inside, but Grifkit was driven, despite the overstimulation he felt, and how his balls and hips shook and shuddered against Erhard, he kept thrusting, grunting wordlessly as he forced the rhythm to continue, and at long last, just when his rhythm began to fall apart, a loud, ear-splitting squeak was forced out of Krissik, sitting at the bottom of the pile and shaking the hardest out of any of them, muscular reflex providing enough strength to his battered form for him to arch his back forward, hunchinng forward and lifting the two men on his back high up as he came to rest on his knees and elbows, spraying cum against the fine hardwood floor in great, impactful shots, rope after rope of creamy, thick Skaven cum decorating the floor beneath him as he squeaked like a mouse, being forced to cum in a way that Krissik had never wanted to experience.

He lay there, still supporting the weight of the three of them for a moment, panting like a bull in it’s last moments against a Tilean matadore. He shook once, then twice, as Erhard began to drift off to sleep, dully noting the quiet snoring of Grifkit on top of him, before Krissik shuddered a third time, flopping over onto his side. Erhard couldn’t care less, sleep taking him all the same.

Erhard woke up cleanly, no sleep or fog hanging on to his thoughts, spooned between Krissiks mass and entangled in Grifkits wiry frame. He expected panic in his post-orgasm clarity. But could feel none. In an odd way, embracing his depraved desires had brought a level of peace to his mind. An odd thought indeed as he lay there in a sticky, reeking mess of consequences. He was literally in bed with the enemy. No, despite everything he felt rather at peace.

Until the doorknob shook. Then rattled. Then a great weight fell against it and the battered door simply fell away from it’s hinges. Standing there however wasn’t stadium security, or his father, or some dangerously nosy reporter. It was another one of the Pillar-City Pillagers, staring dumbstruck right into Erhards eyes. At first he simply stood there before his nose gave a twitch. Then another, and right in front of the Horned Rat and everyone, simply stuck a hand into his pants and began to masturbate in front of him, the reek of skaven musk acting on him in a disturbingly Erhard-esque way. Erhard, suddenly feeling very self-conscious tried his best to retreat into Krissiks sleeping embrace, unsure of himself in this strange new world he was living in.

The Skaven stroking himself sauntered towards Erhard, a familiar, dangerous smile painting his features, his fellows filtering in behind him into the room, each processing the scent in a similar way. Time proved a flimsy shield against them as the verminous horde suddenly surrounded Erhard, still buried underneath the two star-players of the Pillagers.

“Post-game reward, methinks.” said the first Skaven to have entered the room.”

“Post game reward, indeed.” his fellows repeated, Erhard watching in equal parts horror and excitement as belts and trousers fell around him, filling his view with aching, twitching Skaven cocks.

He was a good acting-manager he thought in the last few moments before they full upon him.

He deserved a reward too.