Mutually beneficial

                                                       - Mutually beneficial -


– Foul-nasty... – You gag, it is not the best you ever had, nor the worst, you think to yourself, as you gnaw on some goblin meat. A lucky coincidence that a scouting party would be so far from Iron rock. – Lucky-lucky, yes-yes, one between the eyes, one in the neck, one poison wind globe and all die-die! – You chitter merrily, as it dawns on you, your brow furrows, however, as the revelation hits you – Ugh wasteful, fun-fine, yet wasteful. –, it costed you a handful of warptokens, yes, but it made passage through Mad Dog pass much quicker. – Can’t delay-relent, no-no… – You muse to yourself, you already had to give Barak-Bar a wide berth, cursed beard-things. Hopefully the pirate currents as you sailed the sea-sea, across Tilea, made your journey into the black gulf swift, and uneventful. Is a good thing your clan has eyes and eyes everywhere, otherwise it could have been unfortunate. Still fortune would not suffice while traversing the howling river, its roaring, gelid waters, reminding you both of Kislev and Skavenblight at the same time. As you sip some Kvas to wash down the goblin meat, you try to focus on Kislev the most, trying to forget those roaring furnaces, the whirs and clicks of Skryre’s playthings, oh so loud a noise, it has been too long. – Yes, it has been long enough yes-yes… – It could have been longer however, through the veins of the under-empire, besides, warrens squeak, squeaks scurry fast, they could reach unwanted ears, from unwanted muzzles, no, you are no fool, you sigh and think to yourself twice. – This one is no fool-fool, no-no, Sneekkit is no fool-fool, Sneekkit hid tracks-trails, make no-none fire-smoke, no, good-good! – The great horned one has bestowed his blessing on you this far, – …yes-yes most gracious is this one, yes-yes! – You mutter to yourself as the overcast shadow of the World’s Edge Mountains shrouds your makeshift encampment. You’ll get your mark, you always complete your task, one way or the other.
Besides, a runty clawleader? With but a clawpack or two? Laughable! You are not even tasked with bringing his folly to the sword, just to recover what was lost. With some luck, it will be but a task of tracking bleached bones across the Wolf Lands, huh, what a waste, yes, but so has decreed the clan. Might it come to pass, that your mark still draws breath, now that could bring a bonus, traitorous vermin fetch good prices to the laboratories of Moulder, or might even bring the favour of clan Rictus, many warptokens for the taking, ah to think of it! You close your eyes briefly, and savour the moment, the last draft of warm air making your fur bristle before the onset of the gelid night. The last rays of sunlight cowering behind the crooked peaks, you enjoy this respite, bask in it, as if getting drunk with Koumiss, a decision you hope you’ll not regret, or live to remember. Either or, both are one in the same, are they not? Before you inquire with yourself further, the last ray perishes on the horizon, it is time to run, as Mannslieb waxes all but insignificant, and Morrslieb appears distant, the shroud of darkness will make for a welcome a warren-mate, in your trip to Crookback mountain. There you’ll find your contact, yes, a bent and crooked grey seer.  Not hard to find no, secluded, yes, but you hug the shadows and dart through the passages, you move unseen, unheard of, your scent muted, forgotten completely among the towering, brutish stormvermin. Three taps of your paw to the wall, a pause and two taps follow, and you can hear your client shift in his quarters, anxious, but hindered by age and fatigue.

– Ah yes-yes, the Eshin agent! You-you arrive early-soon! Come-enter, we must discuss. –

– How might I serve most wisest, most blessed of masters? – You say as you peek through the opening given, head high, throat exposed, no musk other than his, no glint of a jezzail, no gunpowder, some warpstone yes, and at that you halt, awaiting further instructions from the pompous, pale, fleabag.

– A clan item, yes-yes, a most important one, it was stolen-taken, from me-me… – he continues - A tome, a grimoire, about this size… – he gestures to you dramatically with both paws – …wrapped in beard-thing’s skin, contents, not important, find it, FIND IT, FIND IT! – The grey seer chitters to no end.

– Oh most verminous of vile masters, where could I find this precious tome? – You bow courtly.

– A fool-stupid stormvermin took it, in moment that was unguarded, it will be dead-vermin, vermin-meat, backstabbing meat, find him, kill him HARD-HARD! –  as he catches his breath, the seer elaborates, – Must have gone-went to the mountains, too stupid, not stupid enough to hide in the dark lands, many green-things, beard-things, many-many patrols, we would have seen him, black-fur, like you-you, taller, name’s Krak, Krak Spinebreaker, was slave-catcher, now I want him slave-meat, DEAD-MEAT, break his spine myself, or you-you, bring-fetch me him, part of him, I pay more-more, many-many warptokens, find grimoire, I still pay, he stole-took, slaves and warptokens, anything you find belongs to you-you, good bonus, yes? –

You nod your head approvingly, and think to yourself, what a waste.

– It will be done, quick-fast, most exalted of seers. –

And as you came you depart, again to the Wolf lands, to find your quarry.

– How do you find-catch renegades quick-fast?  One can change coat, change their clan, change, many-many ways to change, yes. You cannot however, change what you know; you cannot do what you do not know. Seek-look for what they want-need, and you’ll find them. – You repeat to yourself that which you learned in Cathay way back when, to pass the time at least, chasing patrols of green-things seldom is a source of excitement, save for when they club or prod each other for no good reason. – Brutish, silly green-things, so very silly, bah! – You mutter, as you casually skim some man-thing book. – Im weiteren Verlauf des Angriffs, folgt der Infanterie, daher muß sofort der Gegenstoß erfolgen, der Gegner ist möglichst aus der Flanke anzugreifen, Sperren sind zu verl… verlassen? Verlaufen? Hmmmm. – You squint your eyes at the page, what remains of it at least, a myriad of bloodstains robbing you of its contents, tears, cuts and rips defying your inquisitive gaze. – Uhmmm, no-no, no… – You sigh as you fish for another one from the pile, can’t let your Reikspiel go rusty. – Man-things, can-will, murder-kill each other for words of man-thing breeder, silly-silly man-things. – You chuckle to yourself, as you remember that snooty noble at Pavona, with that seamstress and that guard, that saved you some time, yes. You sigh as you lazily roll another page, times like these allow you to unwind, to relax, it’s just how to use the waiting, really. You sharpen your blades, go over your vials, check your poisoned wind globes carefully, check that your black powder is dry, and resharpen your blades again for good measure. An ear to the goblins, another to your back, and your nose to the wind, can’t let some distraction get the better of you.

And you wait.

And wait some more. You go over your vials again, – …is the beard-thing bile still good, yes? – You chitter to yourself, narrowing your eyes while shaking the vial, as if to ascertain its state, that’s when a smell makes your nose twitch with excitement. – Musk of strength! – You almost jump in excitement, almost, would be foolish to reveal yourself like an amateur so brazenly. After three days of idly chasing a ragtag group of green-things, the fourth night, what you were waiting for finally comes to pass. Of course it would be at night, you don’t have to be an assassin to appreciate the shroud of the night, more so now, with Mannslieb almost absent from the sky. You then lie in wait, cresting a ridge, a good vantage point to watch what is to come.

The melee is vicious, cresting a slope, they come, five stormvermin, flanked by several clanrats, a dozen plus one. The goblins shriek and panic, caught by surprise, as the stormvermin cut through them right in the middle, they just kill their chieftain, making the runty little ones scramble to the four winds. One by one they are felled or caught, by whip, catcher, or club. You scan the group, looking at them intently as they depart, none of them matches your target’s description, they are all piebald or brown – Ah matters not, they’ll guide-take me to you-you. – You squeak expectantly. And when you are finally you are sure they are a good distance away, you give chase.

It’s a long walk, as they drag the goblins with ropes to their den, pressing ever faster, ever onwards, ever eastwards, ever fearful of daylight. It is almost at dawn that you finally come to your quarry’s den, nestled in a narrow passage by a cliff, on the side of a peak north of Death Pass. – …crude-fake beard-thing tunnel, maybe Mors? Maybe green-thing? – You muse to yourself looking at the wound in the side of the mountain, would make sense, far away enough from Rictus, close enough to Grey Hag’s globins – Cunning stormvermin, yes-yes. – you think to yourself.

Breaching through the front entrance just like that would not do, your mind whirs into action, its gears starting to click and your schemes to unfold. You take a vantage point, high above the entrance, high enough not to be seen, close enough to jump in, not so forward as to give away any scent. And you watch, you watch as they enter their lair, watch the trails they leave behind, deep footprints on the loose, dirty soil leading to the entrance, many going, many coming, some deep, very deep, with weight to them, others not so much, small and petty, clanrats and stormvermin. You count carefully, going through the number thrice over, sixty-three clanrats, twenty-three stormvermin. This should be like that time in Foul-peak, it has been so long already. However, despite the movement, something does not change, at the entrance, three sentries stand guard, one with its back against the entrance, and two rotating, alternating, marching… – Not Rictus like, Mors like, what-what? – You whisper to yourself, double checking their clan markings, this will make things so much easier.

As you go over your plan in your head, again, you part with your cloak, it will do you no good inside the dark tunnels. You gently fold the silky black cloth, into a bundle, your possessions safely hidden beneath stones and pebbles, pressed firmly enough not to fall prey to a gust of wind, yet not too tight to crush one of your special surprises. One dagger, a vial of bile, and two poisoned wind globes should suffice for your machinations. Then you set your scheme in motion, when the guards pass by each other, scant feet from one another, a single pebble is enough to kickstart your chance.

- YOU HIT ME-ME YOU FOOL-FOOL! - screeches the brown one to his companion, nostrils flaring with anger.
- What-what? – Answers quizzically a piebald stormvermin, head tilting to the side, receiving a full fist to face that sends him careening to the ground. To which the third sentry leaning against the wall laughs to no end. It would seem your plot bore more fruit than you expected, a good gathering around both combatants cheers and celebrates the change of phase, squeaking and chittering merrily to the shouts of – Murder, kill-kill! – and – Crush-smack that filthy brown-fur! – Among a few colorful slurs which would only make sense for a member of their clan. You are almost even tempted to watch as they go at it, rolling on the ground, fist against fist… chest against chest, it has been so long… – No-no Sneekkit complete mission, ha-ha, ah, Sneekkit not a fool-fool! – You seize the opportunity and drop from your perch, a poisoned wind globe on each paw, your tail clutching your vial of poison, and your trusty dagger in your maw, you don’t close your eyes, you need, nay you must keep focus, see that you are not seen, roll at the right time, lest you pull a muscle. Hopefully everyone is too focused on the brawl to pay heed to you, you drop flexing your knees and rolling to the side, straight into the darkness of the tunnels, unheard, unseen, unharmed, this should be easy.

The tunnel was made to look like a beard-thing construct, crudely, yes, collapsed at places, sure, out of the wrong materials, undoubtedly, but to the untrained eye, to the greedy prospector, it would look like any other dawi hold, a promise of treasure, luring them to their doom. You know better, what few traps might remain you swiftly avoid by the surest of methods, avoiding the floor altogether, why risk a sentry catching you? When they have placed wooden supports so conveniently for you? A dead giveaway surely. – Beard-things do not build-make with wood, not as skilled as us, no-no, all must be stone-rock, huh… – You whisper to yourself while you scan your surroundings, luckily, the great horned one has blessed you with a good eye, capable of piercing the shadows with outmost ease, sadly, so it has to your kin, ninety paces too close, and it could be your doom. You wait, and move, timing your jumps, looking at each passing sentry intently, looking for an specific something, while you map in your head the tunnels, one entrance, one hallway that forks into three corridors; one takes to a holding pen, where they seem to keep the slave-meat; other to the barracks; and in the center, a great chamber, surely this is where your mark resides – Most cunning, yes-yes. – You chitter – But Sneekkit most-more cunning. – Finally you find what you were looking for, back lazily pressed against an archway, guarding a food storage, about the same height, a rich black colour, just as yours, no visible scars, a bit scrawny, but it will do. You move silently across the wooden beams atop him, unseen, unheard, you take a deep breath before closing in, and causally drop a pebble nearby.

– What-What?! – Jumps and screeches the startled guard – Veekt this no fun-fun! I’ll claw-flay your tail, you puny flea-maggot! –
You chuckle a bit at that, it would seem there’s a prankster in the rank and file here. Dropping another pebble close to him and making him all the more paranoid proves delicious.

 – Come here and quarrel-fight, when I find you-you, you’ll be in pain-hurt! Master Krak will make-turn you into nice pelt-banner! –
That’s about as much as you need to hear. Getting a good sense of his voice, tone and quirks, you casually drop behind him, his jump giving you enough space to position yourself behind him. One swift hit with the pommel of your dagger it’s all it takes, and he falls with a meaty sound, undone, what a waste.

– Can’t let blood stain-marks, too obvious, yes-yes. – You chitter to yourself, thinking how much you wish you could snap necks, like those man-thing warriors of Nippon, or those scary man-things with pointy hats, that make people fall to the ground as they touch them. – Eh, not much fine-seh, but still fine-good. – you state matter-of-factly, few have been the times this trick has failed you, you think, as you take your victim inside the storage room for the next part of your plan.

– Hmmmm, how far-deep must push-press for the right musk? – You wonder aloud, it is not a sure science, at least that you know, you are pretty sure a warlock-engineer of clan Skryre would know, in fact you think you could name at least one, he even made a machine for it, come to think of it, warp-battery and all. – Hmmmm, should buy-get one, would make things easier, yes-yes, other uses too… – but as you consider the further uses of a warpstone powered metal probe, you strike warpstone, metaphorically speaking, if your paw was a pickaxe milking his musk glands for all they can give, and his tail-pipe a shaft, that is. – Ah, ha, ah, yes-yes! Yes! – You chitter merrily as you inhale the musk of the guard, it’s not very potent, but it will do. You quickly smear it all over yourself, armpits, elbows, thighs, paws, can’t leave no spot but your nose uncovered. As you finish coating yourself in his scent, you gently disrobe him, he won’t be needing his armor and vest any time soon. They hang a bit loose on you, the helmet wobbles a little, it is clear at a glance that you are no stormvermin, but neither was this fellow. You settle his unconscious body behind a dilapidated cupboard, in case someone comes for a snack all of the sudden, and start to make way for your mark.

You stroll at a brisk pace to the doors of the main central chamber, it’s not unguarded no, he would not be that much of a fool, two towering stormvermins, easily a feet or two higher than you eye you warily, their noses twitching expectantly, it is not long before that you grab the handle of the door that one squeaks at you.


– What you do-do Treek?  Spinebreaker rests-sleeps. – He barks at you while blocking your path with his halberd, you clench hard, looking at him coolly, with a nonchalant expression of annoyance.

His companion tilts his head, barging in the chatter with a fairly menacing screech – You-You should be-be guard-keeping the stores you small-meat. –

– Flea-maggots are quarrel-fighting in the entrance, Krak will claw-flay them, make them into nice pelt-banner! – You say, making your best imitation of the guard you just knocked out cold.

The guard blocking your path with a halberd straightens up, carrying his paw to the top his muzzle while letting out an exasperated sigh – Ugh, again-now? –

– Yes-yes, must be Veekt again, making fun-fun, puny flea-maggot, when Krak find him he’ll feel lots of pain-hurt! – You say, making it sound as close to anger, without going off tone.
– Ah that sounds like Veekt yes-yes.  – Goes the other guard, rolling his eyes.

– I go-go tell him. –

– You wake Spinebreaker, you are do-do-doomed, yes-yes. –

– He wakes and finds-sees, we are all doomed. –

– It is your tail, not me-me. – The guard shrugs, removing the halberd from your path and allowing you entrance.

The first thing that hits you when you enter the warren of your mark, it’s the smell. Oh horned one, that smell, it’s everywhere, it hangs in the air, clings to the walls and permeates your every being, it’s acrid and has an oh so sweet tinge, making your nose twitch, musk of strength. You don’t know how long you just stand there, looking at nothing, basking fully in it, it has been so long… – No-no, focus… – it is only then when your chittering makes the mass of midnight black fur in the middle of the chamber to roll in his slumber. He must be easily twice your size, a toned chest rippling with muscles that wane and wax softly. You try to advert your gaze from the brute’s lower section, but alas, another roll, and he’s splayed bare, limbs hanging lazily from the heap of cloth and furs that make his bedding. As he is all stretched out, you catch a glimpse of his tenting loincloth, seems he isn’t unarmed at all… maybe, maybe a sniff couldn’t hurt.

You approach cautiously to your mark, the perfect mark, throat, eyes, heart, pulmonary, femoral, and carotid, all major weak points exposed, ripe for the taking, it would be but a quick plunge of the dagger hidden in your robes, and that would be it, subclavian, aorta, iliac… you are already inches away from it, your gaze wanders low, this damn musk… one sniff, one sniff wouldn’t hurt, right? Besides any other smell you might catch upon closer inspection might clue you in how long your mark has been and will be asleep, can’t take too many risks.

As you take a drag from his earthy musk, right from the source, the brute shifts, your nose colliding face-first into his sheath, this could be bad… you must keep focused, but as you muster your willpower to pull away and complete your deed as cleanly as possible, you hear it, a faint rumble at first, the throaty crescendo becoming a loud gasp, your mark starts to rise slowly, before abruptly falling again, snoring as loudly as before, you sigh in relief, that was clo… and then your eyes go wide as a paw darts in a gripping motion, inches above your head, clawing at the air with enough strength to crush a skull, and enough speed to dazzle a knife-ear, hopefully seems he was expecting someone larger to rouse him from his slumber. Time to change plans.

You place both your paws on his chest, rocking him softly.

– Master Krak, wake-rise, hurry-quick! –

– Ughhhh… – A blinking par of beady, crimson red eyes met yours, Krak’s figure dwarfing you completely, head tilting to the size, with a mild look of annoyance towards you. He looks at you intently, nose twitching, taking in your scent.  – Ugh, Treek, you craven-runt, what you do-do? Speak, quick-quick! –

– Trouble-ruckus at the entrance most exalted of masters! – You mutter as you expose your throat to him, lowering your muzzle to seal the deal.

- ATTACK?! WHO-WHAT, MAN-THINGS?! BEARD-THINGS?! GREEN-THINGS?! RICTUS SCUM?! SPEAK! QUICK-QUICK! – He screeches excitedly, sword in hand, taken from the great horned one knows where, jumping from his bedding to stand at his full height.

– Ah no-no, Veekt again, yes-yes, making fun-fun! – You chitter nervously, clenching your glands not to betray your ruse.

– Oh… oh… this-this again? – Squeaks the now deflated warrior, that excitement banishing completely with a long, dragged out sigh. – I will hang-hang him by his tail to my banner, you-you, craven-runt, prepare-ready my armor, yes-yes! –

– Yes-Yes Master! –

You quickly scan your surroundings, spotting a glint of metal, next to a grimoire, a fully armored helmet rests atop a makeshift table in the corner, a full set of plate, and a halberd hanging from a rack nearby. You casually tip-toe to it, a merry gait in your step, which doesn’t go unnoticed by the clawleader. As you pick it up, you can feel his gaze burning a hole in your back. You hold it gently and lift it carefully when your mind sparks into a flurry of ideas, schemes upon schemes unfolding on top of one another. The seer said, that everything else you found could be your bonus, and this most certainly is a big, meaty, plus.

You make a sudden motion, as if to pretend you tripped, dropping the helmet in the process.

– Treek what you do-do? Quick-quick! –

A little arching, a little bending, and you pretend to reach for it, raising your tail high, making it push your robes aside, for the clawleader to see.

– Treek… –

A bit of a sway to it, a small shake, and some jiggle to it, while pushing the helmet further under the table.

– Treeeek! –

Now on all fours you finally grab the helmet, not without giving your mark a good view. As you raise and turn you are greeted with a quite flustered stormvermin, and to seal the deal, you merrily tip-toe to him.

– Sorry master of masters let me aid-help, please, yes? – You chitter happily as you place the helmet atop his fuzzy head, fastening the straps with gentle care. As you finish with the straps you gently caress his collarbone with both paws. The fact he knelt for you to do so makes your heart pump faster.  – There, better-good, yes? –

The stormvermin eyes you warily, a pant trying to escape his muzzle, lust winning over reason, as his loincloth tents further. – Ugh, Treek what you do-do you craven-runt? –

And you finish him with but a phrase – It has been so-so long, yes? – You approach him boldly, embracing his lower half, your arms not long enough for your paws to met at his back, but it’s a good sign, for once he hasn’t ripped your throat clean off, he could have, through teeth or claw, but he hasn’t, he is doubting. – You didn’t say no-no… – You contest him with a purr – …friend here says yes-yes! – You retort coyly as you point at his tenting loincloth.

– Here-now?! –

- Yes-Yes! – You reply clapping you paws together. – Master Krak tired, Master stressed, yes, much stress, Treek make it better-good, yes? –

Krak eyes the doorway warily, then back at you, then back at the doorway, and sighs, overcome by your advances, he stands at his full height, making you feel small and vulnerable – First I deal-fix. – He states as he screeches to the guards past his doorway – YOU TWO FLEABAGS, SCURRY-RUN, FIND-FIND VEEKT, MAKE HIM, PAY-PAY, MAKE WARREN STILL-QUIET, OR YOU TWO PAY-PAY! –

The sound of paws hitting the dirt is a good telltale sign that such a threat is not empty, so is the faint smell of musk of fear, and you are glad is not your own.

Once he is finally satisfied you two won’t be disturbed, he lifts a wooden plank, easily twice your size across, and bars the door, lifting the wooden pillar with the ease you let loose daggers. As he turns, he is greeted with quite the sight, you took the chance to disrobe of all but your stolen helmet, your tools of death safely stowed away, within your reach should the need arise, and lay in wait, splayed across his bedding, tail excitedly shifting from side to side.
Krak joins you shortly after, flexing his arms for your delight, loincloth failing unceremoniously to the floor as he closes the distance. When he starts to unfasten his helmet you place a finger to his nose.

– No-No, we keep helmet, we can make this training, yes? Mors-like! –

He chuckles at that, the oddity of the idea, lost in the foreplay. – You fool-fool… – He spits out with a grin across his face.
The clawleader lifts you up as if you were weightless, intent on repositioning you for his is convenience – Wait-wait, no rut-breed, no-no, we mate-mate, yes? – Annoyed at your interruption he rolls his eyes, but you press on nonetheless.

 – Kiss-kiss? Kiss yes? -

– Ugh… –

– Yes-yes? –

He turns his face away, looking at the door, it’s not what you were expecting…

– No Kiss-smooch, no? – You whimper crestfallen…

Only to bounce back, his tongue invading your maw, wrestling with yours with the strength of a ratogre, it was most certainly not what you were expecting. Caught by surprise, you do your best to press back in kind, but it is an uphill battle, he knows it, you know it, but it doesn’t matter, it’s a fight without losers, the siege of a castle with its doors thrown open. Yet, it’s not the only thing that intertwines, paws find backs, legs wrestle one another, tails entangle each other. It’s almost silly, how massive he is, obscuring everything from view but him, all you can see, all you can feel, all you care about this moment. Alas, breathing beckons, as much as you would pray to the great horned one for that not to be the case. Lips part, still connected by a silvery, translucent line, a lifeline. As he lowers you down slowly you plant small kisses in your descent, collarbone, neck, chest, as you trail your diminutive paws across his flanks, small bumps and dents hidden under the dark coat do catch your attention, your ears perking up in interest.

– Fighting green-things, Tusked-Sunz, a cleaver-knife-thing, hurt much-much, but don’t break formation. –

You caress the spot lightly, looking at him adoringly – Hurt much-much and still no skitter-run? –

– Ha! This one is no craven! If you break formation, you die-die. –

– True-true, oh and this one here-here? –

– On silver road, beard-things, with jezzail-things, poor-bad shots, it only grazed my skin-fur. –

You caress the scar, palm gently rubbing it up and down. – What about nail-claw marks on back, yes? – You chide smugly.

He only rolls his eyes, and presents you with a firm counterargument – Here, shut-stop. –

A very firm, lengthy and throbbing counterargument indeed! It must be at least a feet long, furiously red with the occasional blue and red line, its tip a paler hue, truly a tool fit for a warrior of clan Rictus, standing fully at attention because of you. You give it an experimental lick to test the waters, the pillar of flesh reacting accordingly, the mass of muscle and fur groaning to the sightless caress of your tongue. It’s salty, and it has an earthen flavor coupled with a very unique smell, quite like Reik Eel, oh you’ll enjoy this. You cup the massive tip in your tongue as it enters your muzzle, like a welcoming red carpet inviting it to advance further. Seems your ministrations are having the desired effect as you can feel you mark humping ever so slightly. You give the Spinebreaker a gentle push as you cup his equally bloated orbs. He falls back into his beddings, arms swaying to the sides, his balance offset by your affections.

– What-what? Treek… –

– Oh master Krak is so-so tired, so hard-hard working, yes? Let this craven-runt do all the work for master Krak, yes? –

You don’t give him time to protest however, as soon as your muzzle spits its last squeaks, you dive in again at that red pulsing mass of flesh, silencing all objections instantly. He just arches his head back, all that comes from his maw is a throaty groan, just what you wanted to hear.

It goes on for a while, the back and forth, that is. Trying to make headway with your tongue, time flies by, insignificant, meaningless, your taste buds making contact with that pulsing, writhing mass of flesh is all that encompasses your attention, an inviting carpet to pave the way for things to come. Its throbbing is what takes you out of it, but it’s too late to deflect, dodge or parry, you take a deep breath through your nose on your ascent, and dive in, your nose colliding into midnight black fur. And so, with an earth shattering wail your mark goes off. It’s daunting, the flow, like a severed artery that spills forth in a warm jet, all its contents, headless of what lays in its way. Peeling your eyes open you can see in your peripheric vision, how the Spinebreaker holds on his bedding for dear life, you’d grin in satisfaction, but that’d mean letting go of your salty morsel, and that would be a terrible waste, would it not? You wait for the flow to ebb and subside before you move, but as you are about to peel off, something develops. Is he, scritching you? Your head arches instinctually upwards, a purr escaping the corners of your mouth. Is he really? Oh it is on.
You afford him a glimpse of his produce, cupping it in your tongue before you audibly shallow it. That seems to get his attention, his eyes widening, a grin forming on his face ear to ear. You don’t let the surprise end there however, catching a furtive drop going down his length, you make sure he is nice and slick for what it is to come.

– Heeee-Yaaah! Heeee-Yaaah! – You intone merrily.

A rather amused clawleader chuckles at the notion, tilting his head to the side, eyes with eyelids half closed, part in joy and part in lust.

– Sing-chant, yes? – You press on, as you climb atop him.

– Sing-squeak march chant? –

– Yes-Yes! –

– Heee-Eeek! –

And at that you grab him, tail lifted high, and line him up.

And descend.

You… always thought you where all but impervious to physical pain… well… seems that’s not the case. Halfway through you start to have doubts about your plan… no… how could it be flawed? It was your plan after all, and those never fail, ever. Beads forming in the corners of your eyes, you press forward, downwards. And with a sigh, you are relieved to have your taint met his groin, another point of connection, upon which to collide, over and over again.

Alas as you start your ascent your mark seems to have other plans, placing his paws by your hips. You bat them away tenderly.

– No-no, this one said it would do-make all the work-effort, yes? –
Krak protests but not for long, as you slowly but surely work your way down to met his hips again. You are in control here.

– Heeee! –

– Yaaah! –

– Heeee! –

The chanting helps you to set a rhythm.

– Yaaah! –

– Hee-eeee! –

It also muffles the sound of flesh colliding upon flesh, the only other sound that can be heard in his warren now.

– Ya-aaah! –

The occasional pant, grunt, or moan, making both your vocalizations erratic, ecstatic.

– He-he-eeee! –

– Yaaah! –

Time becomes meaningless, but an arbitrary construct, measured only in heartbeats, one moment blurring into the other.

– He-eeee! –

– Ya-aah-aah! –

But as with your duel of tongues, naught is eternal. You can already feel the telltale throb of the grand finale, you relinquish your hold of him, allowing all that pent up energy to burst out in a flurry of movement. He stands, lifting you up, his arms crossed behind your back as he deposits you swiftly into his bedding. The tables now turned you now can feel his full weight pressing on you, one powerful, erratic, thrust after the other, making you elicit moans with a voice not of your own. All you can see is a wall of black fur, with the occasional streak of pink, the slash of a cleaver, the pathway of a stray musket shot, among others. All you can hear, is you both, the sounds of wet slaps, of flesh crashing upon flesh. All you can smell, is him, his musk of strength, all encompassing, earthy and peculiar, just like Reik Eel.

– Heeee-eee-eeee! –

– Yaaaaaaaah! –

And with one last stab at your posterior, he’s off, firing all he has into your accepting bowels, before rolling onto his back, panting, wheezing, all coherent thoughts gone from him, as one by one his lights turn off, claimed by exertion.
Your plan has worked! He’s asleep again! You yawn, completely exhausted by the ordeal, maybe you should recover a bit? Yes, that sounds sound and reasonable. You curl into him, pressing your snout into his chest, another point of connection between you two, and with a sigh you let unconsciousness claim you.


The rumbling is… annoying, do all these doohickeys make all this much ruckus? The ticking is also rather off-putting, truly. You’d think Skryre’s warlock-engineers would do a better job with their playthings… is it… rattling? – Oh no-no-no-NO! –
You jolt back into your skin. Your eyes bewildered as you take in your surroundings, a strange sensation in your gut. This is not your warren. This is… not Under-Altdorf…


– Ugh… –


You look down to see that you are still linked to a very much still asleep and snoring clawleader. The rumbling and rattling, his heaving chest, waning and waxing as he breathes. The ticking, his heartbeat, slow but steady, controlled. He seems so at peace, a dorky smile sprawled across his facade, tongue hanging to the side with the occasional string of saliva here and there. Much as it pains you, both literally and metaphorically, you disentangle yourself from him. No longer contained by that pillar of flesh, the effluvia trapped inside you rushes out, staining your mark from the waist down. You plant your muzzle in his chest on last time before wobbling back towards the pile of gear in the corner. Each step demands a titanic effort, you can hear you spine pop as you stretch your arms and bend your back, trying to regain any semblance of coherent locomotion. You finish redressing in relative peace, a pauldron here, a leather strap there, you also take the liberty to grab the grimoire from the table, and ogle it over to see if it matches your description, something is off about it. For once it has a lock, tilean, three pressure pins, and on the other hand it’s light. Most tomes of the magical arts you have come across tend to be gargantuan in size, this one is most certainly not. – Hmmmm what-what is you? – You ponder as you stab a finger at the lock, the pins falling in place one after the other with the deft movements of your claws.

– What-what? –

 This most certainly isn’t a magical tome, that grey-seer bastard tried to trick you! Instead its contents are far more valuable, patrol routes and schedules, deals, dawi and goblin movements, rotations, hidden caches, locations of several chunks warpstone that fell from the sky, it’s all here! Oh this could most certainly be very profitable! This must have been how your mark has been avoiding his former clan so effortlessly. You tuck the grimoire carefully inside your robes as well as a good amount of warptokens which you pocket in your pouch carefully, lest they jiggle. Finally you head back to the exit, still barred from the inside, shouldn’t be too hard to dislodge the obstruction quietly if only…

– Ughhmmm… Tch, tch, you go-go no saying bye-bye, you craven-runt? –


You freeze on the spot, he is awake.


– No-no… – Your mind a whirlwind of ideas, excuses, lies, but which one? – …I try-do say bye-bye but master Krak asleep, yes? – You squeak, a smile in your face, as you point towards a ruffled spot of fur on his chest. He looks at it intently, mesmerized. He beckons to you, to which you comply, if anything went south, it would be but an instant for you to puncture his jugular, his femoral, carotid or any other major blood vessel. But he doesn’t attack, instead both of his paws fiddle with the straps of your helmet.

– There, no wobble-jiggle, better-good, yes-yes? –

– Ah yes-yes, master Krak better-good, yes? – You inquire, a sense of smugness and pride as you catch wind of his breathing.

– Very-very. – He answers as he groggily stands, in one swift motion leaping to the door and removing the board blocking the way. His tail flicking side to side excitedly. – Glad this one joined clan Spinebreaker, yes-yes, will be most-bestest clan this side of the wolf lands! – He squeaks, his chest puffing out with contentment and pride. – Treek now go guard-keep food storage, yes-yes? Train-train marching formation later, yes-yes? –

– Here, Treek, help, yes? – You squeak as you carry the clawleader back to the corner, paw in hand.

– Another go-go? So soon-fast? – He chides at you, an eyebrow arched.

You chuckle as you settle him down on his beddings, wrapping him on furs and linens. The Spinebreaker yawns once, twice, nods and stretches, stirs and settles. He’s out cold, down for the count. You tentatively grasp the dagger at you hip, the vial of vile in you other paw, nah, you have further plans for the clawleader, he might still be useful to you alive and help you turn even a greater profit out of all this.

As you close in the barracks section of the lair, you cup both orbs in your hand, and observe. They are quiet for the most part, order restored, albeit if briefly. Some come and go from a steaming pot in the center of the room, most are on and about, frolicking lazily among the rubble. As you analyze their movement patterns it quickly downs on you. You don’t have to land a perfect hit with both, just set them into motion, and that will be that.

You let the first poisoned wind globe sail through the air, landing squarely at the back of the room, and soon panic sets in as it takes those few that were within the blast radius. Crowd mentality, truly, and with only one pathway to go? They are as good as dead. Just before the first group reaches the archway to the main hall, you let loose your second one. The effect is instantaneous, as they try to flee, they are cut down by the noxious fumes. Unable to halt their momentum in their panicked state, they all try to run through the green mist to no avail, wails of pain and screams are muffled as they suffocate to death. You watch intently from your perch, for any straggler that might be left behind, untouched by the fog of death. It’s kind of interesting, watching them asphyxiate to death, their mouths contorting in the most delirious of shapes, some trapped mid scream, their lips shaped like a circle, as if they were mid release. It’s curious how death and pleasure intertwine sometimes in that split second, and odd dichotomy, you think to yourself. Tinges of red coloring your checks as you think that not too long ago your face made such delirious expressions. – Ah-ha-ha, no-no, Sneekkit don’t look that silly-fool, yes? –

You have precious little time to waste, you appropriate a couple of daggers from your fallen foes and you set about a brisk pace. Passing in front of the guards by the main chamber you give a courteous nod and move on. Not long after you are in the main hallway and well outside their view, you let loose your tools of death. Having measured both guards tail to ears, the daggers strike true, piercing each through the neck, they don’t even make a sound as they slump to the cold ground.

Now to the exit, from there to Crookback Mountain, and then to the end of this sordid affair.


The guards by the entrance seem wary at your presence, sniffing at the air around you they coalesce into one another, blocking the way.

– Treek you small-meat what-what you do-do her… –

He doesn’t have time to finish his question, as you bump into him. Your motions swift and deadly, as you stab his flank, the only opening on his iron plate armour. Three punctures to his right side, liver, heart and lung are all that it takes. It’s also a good thing they clustered together, really, with one fluid motion you yank the dagger free from the guard’s flank and rotating your body in tandem with your dagger to give weight to your momentum. You make one wide slashing ark and catch both his companions in their exposed throats, a quick, one, two, three if you may. One by one, center, right and left, they fall to the ground, dark blood oozing from where your blade met their flesh. They whimper and wheeze as the light fades from their eyes, nor word nor squeak on their lips. They die just as '' Clan Spinebreaker '' dies, a quick, swift, inglorious, silent death.

You sigh as exhaustion finally sets in, your stomach rumbling and demanding sustenance after all the exertion you have submitted your body to. As you stretch for you ascent you start discarding your borrowed plate armour and cloak, the bulky metal carapace no longer useful. One pauldron here, a bracelet there, then the helmet… it is a nice helmet… you are not one to keep trophies, but just tossing it away would be a terrible waste. Determined to make good time, you climb back to the perch from which you dropped without a care for any noise you might make, at this point there’s no one to hear you, at least not yet. Finally reunited with your black cloak and the rest of your possessions you feel whole again. The silky fabric caressing your body as you don it once again. You stretch once again for good measure, letting your black clothes hug your form like a second skin, you dexterity restored, now that you are no longer hindered by some piece of metal. It feels nice, like you are yourself again, which reminds you of the perks of being yourself. You quickly dip you claws into your pouches, and there it is. – Hmmmm, ah yes-yes! – Reik Eel, sliced and diced, spiced and salted, the touch of Kvas makes your tongue tingle as you gulp it down greedily, fingers coming out of your mouth with an audible pop.
Your energies restored, you set about the grand finale of your master plan. Making sure to take mental notes of everything of note in the ledger, you quickly set about measuring your fuses, packing tightly the black powder in every nock and cranny you find at the archway at the entrance. Setting apart a bundle of rations and warptokens, you take stock of your situation, and persevere. A carefully placed pebble is the last component, and with that done you carefully drop from your perch, eyes peeled, ears perked, you drop and roll, not even a scratch, and then, you wait.

You don’t wait for long however, you can already hear the thunderous steps coming from inside the warren. You sigh, just in time it seems.

– Treek? –

You don’t have to turn to know who it is. You can already feel his gaze burning holes in your back.
– All tunnels lead to Skavenblight, yes? – You mutter, your voice almost a whisper, your gaze still fixed on the horizon.

What follows is the angriest roar you have ever heard, laden with fury and bloodlust. You don’t even turn to meet his gaze. You merely sigh, lifting your dagger, your eyes closed as you do so. That’s when your meticulous sharpening pays dividends, the reflection of the sun at your back, warm and inviting, catches the charging clawleader by surprise, his focus lost, his charge robbed of momentum. At that you turn, a posta di falcone, his arms raised high, he intends to cleave you at your center, but you already knew this. You cross your daggers to met his strike at the haft of his halberd, slide them upwards, and arch yourself backwards, almost bending to it, using its own momentum against its wielder, and at that, you close your cross, pushing the halberd forward, out of his grip, with his own, waning strength. The mighty weapon flies across the air, the sound of metal clattering against the rocks the last thing you hear of it as it gets lost into the mountainside. And with his weapon gone, you sheathe yours, and allow yourself to hit the dirt, rolling to the side lest you be crushed underneath the mass of the midnight black fur that comes crashing down into the floor. – Oof! – Is all you can hear the Spinebreaker say as he lands face first just where you were standing. – Eek! – Is what he squeaks when he realizes where you are now standing. Right atop his back, the tips of your daggers lightly pressed against the nape of his neck. A plunge, and a twist is all it would take, whether he moves or not, he knows it, you know it, is a siege with the castle’s gates thrown open. But the strike never comes, instead what lands on the nape his neck is a pouch, rations for three days, fifty warptokens, and a piece of parchment, all tucked together in a bundle with extreme care.

– You gone soft-soft Eshin-thing? You cannot-will not, stab-kill mighty Krak, now? I prefer to die-die than be slave-meat! – He sneers at you with a forced, dry chuckle.

You close in till your muzzle is by his left ear and whisper softly. – Sneekkit no kill-kill Spinebreaker, no-no. Have plans for Spinebreaker, yes? You go-go to City of Pillars, you’ll seek-find entrance, yes? And you tell-say all you know, yes? Become Mors-thing, sounds good-fine, yes? –

The clawleader is incredulous at what you are proposing, his brutish mind unfit to even grasp the concept of your master plan. – What-what?! –

You roll your eyes, even though you know he cannot see you. – Clawpack gone-dead, yes? If Spinebreaker wants to breathe-live, he go to City of Pillars, sell very-very valuable information to Mors-things. Gain trust, become Mors-thing, Clawleader fight many-many things for new clan, sounds good-fine? –

The prospect of survival seems enticing to him, even if he doesn’t fully grasps your angle. Fortunately, he doesn’t need to, it would be too much of a burden for his simple mind.

– What you do-do get-gain of this Eshin-thing? –

You press your daggers against his neck for emphasis, just slightly, enough for him to feel the pressure, yet not enough to draw blood.
– Sneekkit could use-have more Mors-things, friendly Mors-things, yes? Sounds good-fine? Yes? –

He just grumbles, defeated and cornered, but after a brief silence he accepts your proposal. As if he had any choice. You chitter happily as the penultimate piece falls niftily into place.

– Also… Sneekkit no want to go-go, without saying bye-bye, yes?  You squeak as you press your nose against the back of his head, to which the warrior grumbles.

– And what-what now? –

– Spinebreaker covers ears, yes? – He does as you instruct and at that you grab his tail.

– What-what?! –

It is but a swift slash, and the tip of his tail is severed. The dagger doesn’t stop there however, it flies through the air, hitting the pebble you placed atop the entrance. It’s but a tiny spark, but it is all it takes, the telltale fizzle and sizzle of black powder igniting followed by a thunderous, ear-splitting boom. As the entrance collapses, sealing the warren and robbing your new accomplice of whatever notion he might have to go back to his old ways.

As the dust settles, he raises again, fury and ire spewing of his muzzle with a myriad of curses directed at you. Eyes wildly scanning his surroundings for you, to crush you and rend you with his fangs and claws. Alas, you are out of reach, atop your original perch, high above what was the entrance. You look at him intently, both your gazes meeting once again. He hurls at you stones and curses, few of them hitting, and those that do, bounce harmlessly of your robes. You sigh at the maddened mass of black fur as it tries to climb the rubble to reach you, to no avail. In kind, you hurl at him a bundle of clothes, soft and clean, bandages. He looks at you, his stare piercing and venomous, his nostrils flaring, and then at your offering with an expression of utter surprise. Stunned, it would seem.

– You no bleed too much, yes? Infection no good, yes? –

That only earns you a pebble that almost hits your right temple. You roll yours eyes unfazed and press on, mimicking the motions one would make when applying a tourniquet. He seems to get the point across when you flaunt a star shaped metal object between your fingers. You could still very much terminate him and the deal in an instant. Your point made, you reiterate your instructions before you depart, as well as some useful names he might know to ease his way in. Not that clan Mors is particularly picky when it comes to new recruits, but better safe than sorry.


Your return to Crookback Mountain is uneventful gratefully, if a bit sluggish.

– Ugh Sneekkit needs-wants beast of burden, ugh… –

Yet the jiggle of the warptokens in your backpack keeps you motivated, because the pile is just about to get larger!
As you come again face to face with your client he is now flanked by two bodyguards, those mute pale fellows, clad in steel armour, polished almost to a gleam, pompous bastard. You present him with the '' Grimoire '' he so much coveted, as well as the tip of the Spinebreaker’s tail. The grey-seer sniffs at it intently, exited and content at your performance.

– Yes-Yes! Spinebreaker is dead-gone, yes-yes? –

– Ah, no, alive and ashamed, yes, very much alive, very shamed, yes, clawpack is done-over, he is done over, much good-better, yes? – You know better than to lie to a seer of a powerful clan, that generally only leads to many assassinations that go unpaid, what a waste.

– Ah… oh… yes-yes, much-much shame! Krak half-tail! Ha! You did good-well Eshin-thing, Clan Rictus is most pleased! – He chuckles, malice and perfidy in every word.

– Now seer-thing pay-pays, yes? –

– Ah yes-yes! With bonus too! Good-great bonus, yes-yes! –

At that he produces from a corner, a rather voluminous box – Thirteen hundred warptokens as per our agreement-deal yes-yes… –
You cup the wooden box in your hand, much to the delight of your client, its weight off… Oh the gall of this fool! You know exactly what lies within, as if only! You had spent enough time around warlock-engineers to know this trick.

You turn the box around, the lid facing the grey-seer. – Sneekkit offer-give discount, yes? –

His eyes widen as he squirts his musk of fear at your motions. As soon as the lid is open, you can hear a hiss as a shard of warpstone flies from the box. The projectile ricochets in the left horn of your client and with a new trajectory it goes flying in the opposite direction to sink deep into the flesh of one his bodyguards. The poor thing drops dead instantly, a spring loaded warp laced projectile coated with manticore poison, such an old trick.

– Tch, No discount, no? – You chuckle, as you stare at the grey-seer, who is now completely paralyzed by fear. – Sneekkit is very-most generous, yes? Sneekkit is only generous once, seer-thing understands, yes? –

The seer only nods, you made your point.

Now with that slight misunderstanding cleared, you set about solving your other predicament. Fortunately Crookback Mountain has a vast market, where you can unload your warptokens. Some spices, some ale, and maybe even some knick-knacks to go with your new helmet. You could use some more rations for your return trip, nothing too outlandish, maybe a chateau syrah Castello di Rugazzi if you can get hold one. You might as well take a detour and pass by the City of Pillars, and check on its newest addition. Who knows? It might prove mutually beneficial!

– The End.