A proper offering

                                                       - A proper offering -


– Move now-now! Scurry-quick! Skitter-leap! –

The sound of a hundred hunched bodies sprinting reverberated across the mountain pass. The skittering, the screeching and grinding of teeth drowned even the occasional cricket chirping into the vastness of the night. It would have been a sight to terrify even the most stalwart of individuals, the skaven crawling out of their burrows, their beady red eyes spelling doom for anyone foolish enough to lock gazes for an instant instead of fleeing.

– ... –

But no this one... mace in hand he braved the horde with no qualm.

– Halt-wait! –

Taken aback by this act of defiance the verminous horde froze, encircling their prey with cold blooded precision, biding their time, waiting for an opening.

– Murder kill-kill! – They shouted as they leaped over their unflinching prey, the sounds of teeth and claws buckling against steel plate, of swords colliding with an oaken shield, and that shield colliding with teeth, sending them flying across the pass.

– Raus! Raus! Ich werde nie aufgeben, Sigmar wird mich schützen! – The man-thing proclaimed in his foreign tongue as the clanrats reeled from the impact of a few well placed strikes. To all this grey-seer Vaskrits groaned in desperation, shifting on his chair atop his perch over a cliff as he scrutinized the battle taking place below, peering through a spyglass, the brass groaning and the glass creaking under his grip. – Can these flea-mice not take one simple merchant caravan?! For the Horned Rat’s whiskers! Useless! Cravens! – His plan has been perfect, he had the element of surprise, the numbers, but still this lone caravan guard refused to give in, even when his kin had already surrendered the battle and run for the hills! What pushed this man-thing to fight on in the face of such a superior foe?! This could not stand! His warriors were getting pummelled by one measly manling! But how, how to turn the tides of this uneven battle? Vaskrits though as he stroked his chin deep in thought and the realisation came to him quick as lighting, warplightning! But of course, what problem is there that cannot be solved with sorcerous might?

In an instant the air crackled as the smell of ozone filled the area, an arching whip of viridian energy came surging through the grey-seer’s staff as he channelled the forces of the aether with malevolent intent. Far into the cloudless night it went, if such sorcerous display could distract the man-thing but for a brief instant, that would give his cowardly troops the opening they needed to see the night through. He could easily blast the man-thing into a charred pile of flesh and bone, sure, but him being so close to his bounty the risk was too great! The impudent fool! To deny Vaskrits in such a callous manner of his well deserved prize! – Hmph! Odious man-thing! – He exclaimed as his spell lit the night’s sky.

– Scurry-flee! – Shouted all of the sudden the standard bearer amidst the clawpack, everyone dropping sword and shield in quick succession.

– What-what?! Cravens! Fool-fools! Useless flea-mice! Ungrateful wretches! – Vaskrits shouted at them, his anger reaching a boiling point and blowing past it in an instant. Whereas his idea was brilliant indeed and flawless in execution, the same could not be said about his troops which at the thought of being charred together with their foe turned tail and ran. He took a nearby rock and in anger shoved it downrange, the boulder plunging into the pass below.

– Eeeek! – The sound of bone snapping followed by a heavy thud made the grey-seer grimace, indeed he had knocked out cold a clanrat, – ...useless craven deserved it. –   Vaskrits thought as he congratulated himself for his great aim. – Great-mighty is this one! – And before he could gloat more, a malicious grin crept through his muzzle, as he scooped another stone and hurled it down below. Vaskrits leaned further, a paw spread to his temple to increase his hearing, he watched as the conglomerate sailed through the air, and what a spectacular noise it made when it hit! The ringing of metal a telltale sign that he had indeed hit his target, the wet sound of sweat coated flesh hitting the floor was enough confirmation that he had knocked it out cold, and the clatter of an iron mace as it fell useless to the floor, enough reassurance to make the grey-seer leap from his perch into the void bellow. From stone to stone the grey-seer leapt, safety forgone in a fit of gleeful maniacal laughter, this was a great victory for the Horned Rat!
Amidst the remains of the glorious battle laid a few pitiful whimpering clanrats, rubbing their heads and elbows to mitigate their pain, a few even knocked out cold  in the unforgiving harshness of the carnage that just took place.

– Mighty-mighty I am! – Proclaimed the grey-seer as he screeched to the heavens above, today they were victorious! With the pesky man-thing defeated the verminous horde turned their attention back to their coveted price, the trading caravan was theirs for the taking. Some clanrats took the horse’s rends, the steeds would soon feed the clan; others took to the wagons, pilfering through the wares therein. Many a clanrat looked hungrily at the plunder, fine cloth and parcels of food but the grey-seer perched atop the fallen imperial halted their ravenous hunger with a show of his sourcerous might. – Halt-stop! You fool-fools! We take-carry everything to our warren-nest! Quick-fast! –

And so with a few taps of his staff on the ground and some sparks of aetheric energy he got the clawpack on its way, carrying all that could be carried and pushing those carts that budged against the pressure of so many bodies, the rest was to be left as carrion for any would be vulture. Even Vaskrits clutched in his paws that which drew his curiosity, among the loot was something that drew the grey-seer like a moth to the flame, Bretonnian wine, and a very old vintage at that. The grey-seer abhorred the stuff, grapes mashed and squished to left to age? Ludicrous, but he knew someone who would kill for it, quite literally!

– Heh, yes-yes Dusktail will like this one, yes-yes – He thought as he stroked his chin, concocting in his mind all the benefits he could extract from the noxious brew. But as his mind wandered his perch suddenly felt unstable. – The man-thing! He breathes still! – As mighty as his blow was, the odious creature was still among the realm of the living, so resilient a creature! Vaskrits levelled his staff at him, thinking to end him then and there, but was it not a waste? Such a worthy foe was rare indeed, would it not make a great offering for the Great Horned One?

– You flea-mice, come! Scurry, quick-fast! – He shouted to his minions as they were making for their lair. To his call answered a pair of scrawny clanrats tiptoeing hurriedly as they barked and hissed to each other. – Take this man-thing to our-mine nest-warren, quick-fast! –

Terrified of the fallen foe but more so of his master, the clanrats bobbed their heads courteously and departed with the half-conscious imperial, tied at his wrists for good measure.

And as he was dragged, in scarce fits of consciousness the man could hear and smell their captors, a thousand different aromas colliding with one another, a maze of tunnels, each more twisted and crooked than the last filled his gaze, the passages lit bit torches every now and then. He knew he was being moved as his feet dragged through the damp and cold earth, the occasional bristling sensation of furred bodies keeping him upright, and then the ground came closer, his body felt weightless for an instant and then darkness.

To all this the lair was a cacophony of a thousand voices, all screeching and chittering merrily, the echoes of laughter and merriment echoed through the main chamber as the skaven enjoyed the fruits of their plunder. To all this grey-seer Vaskrits rejoiced, this was a much needed success for his clan, with the beasts of burden turned into meat, his clan would not turn hungry, and his clan not being hungry would mean they’d not turn against him. The clothes and linens were a plus as it was the gold, whereas the latter was just decorative, he could maybe fashion himself a proper skullcap from it or even some rings to exalt his grandeur, but with the fine cloth he could finally have regal robes, maybe even dress his underlings in finery and parade them around. – Yes-yes! Maybe they’ll not scurry-flee then! March-drill march, ha-ha! – Vaskrits muttered to himself as he visualized his clawpacks turned into an effective fighting force.

But alas his daydream lasted what ice in the dark lands. Sudden and spontaneous chittering broke him away from his musings, whisperings, never a good sign. The man-thing in the middle of the chamber was standing upright, defiant and unflinching, his gaze fixed on him. But that was not all, his warriors recoiled, giving them both a wide berth. To this the grey-seer’s mind jumped into action. Were these cravens truly allowing such a dangerous opponent to close in on him just like that?! Was this some sort of plot against him? The traitorous vermin knew the man-thing was a mighty opponent after having faced him in battle. Were they expecting for the man-thing to lunge at him? They knew well in advance he was capable, were they expecting him to spend his sorcerous powers on the man-thing to then strike him down? He’d not stand for this ruse!

– Out, now-now! – He commanded, his beady eyes exuding a viridian energy filled with malice and perfidy.

– What-what? – His minions chittered in unison.

– Yes-yes, out now-now! Quick-fast! I deal with this man-thing myself! –

And with that he took the imperial to his chambers, barring the doors behind him. Vaskrits then felt secure as he scanned his surroundings, the familiarity of his own musk reassuring him as he took into his surroundings. A pile of linens stacked unevenly into the corner, just perfectly placed to hear the rushing waters of the under-empire pass besides the stone walls. His sturdy table, witness to several devious plan-schemes and great personages. The banners of his clan, proudly hanging from the walls, their aged cloth a telltale sign of their historied past, two of them opposite to the entrance pierced at the centre by a certain Eshin-thing... everything as it should be... everything but one man-thing, the only foreign smell in the room.

Vaskrits sized his prey, such a mighty warrior would make for a grand offering to the Great Horned one. But something sent chills down his spine. What if those cravens have planned on this very thing? What if the flea-maggots he called his warriors were so cunning as to orchestrate his downfall by counting on his cunning? What if they intended for them to be alone, now with the doors barred they were both completely trapped! Were they as sly as they were perfidious? Maybe they even had armed the man-thing for such a task, the nefarious traitors! He had to know!

To this end Vaskrits produced from the sleeve of his robes a sleek dagger, his previous encounters with agents of clan Eshin were to him an enlightening experience, so he promised himself never to be taken off-guard again, and indeed were the agents of clan Eshin most generous in instructing him how. With a swift movement the seer made short work of the garments of his captive, taking the outmost care not to damage his offering, he wanted him sent to the maw of the great Horned Rat whole, for his verminous patron to taste him in his entirety.

To all this the man-thing grunted in defiance, but was nonetheless laid bare. Oddly enough there were no weapons, no hidden devices, was maybe he thinking too highly of his would be opponents? No! There surely was a plot against him, the man-thing was deadly indeed! But even as he tore the last garment there was indeed nothing out of the ordinary, the no-fur was just covered in milky white skin, smooth as the tip of his nose.

The seer was a flurry of motion, eying his opponent up and down, and down and down... his gaze transfixed into the man’s groin. As their eyes met the imperial grinned, was this aggression? No, man-things do not bare their teeth like skaven do when they lunge for an attack. Defiance, maybe? Was the man-thing mocking Vaskrits? How dared he! He’d show him he was not to be mocked! In but a heartbeat he lifted his robes and tossed them aside, his many cooper medallions making a clattering sound as they settled into the ground.

– Was meinen Sie? Hä? – He questioned the manling in his raspy Reikspiel as he laid himself bare, to show he was not to be outdone. He was after all, well versed into them, a towering intellect he was indeed, he thought as he stroked his own chest. To this his adversary only lifted his hands, was this some form of ruse? A combat stance? No! He was too clever the devious no-fur, he wanted to strangle him with his bindings! In one swift motion the seer slashed downwards cutting off the ropes that tied his captive, now there was nothing with which the man-thing could harm him!

– Du doch nicht! – He shouted with glee as the man-thing recoiled terrified. Was it trying to flee from him, the coward?! He lashed his tail like a whip, catching the man-thing’s ankle and yanked hard, a trick he had witnessed firsthand working many times before by those devious Eshin-things. But the man-thing didn’t fall flat on his face on the floor as he expected though, instead he fell atop him, their combined weights pushing them atop the table. In the commotion the dagger flew through the air, landing into the table and embedding itself onto the wooden surface and his staff fell to his side rolling almost to the edge of the table.

In this frantic movement of limbs the man-thing noticed as the skaven made for the dagger, intent on striking him down! So he did what first came to mind and pushed his weight forwards, but alas the friction had awoken in them more than anger, in one swift motion he sheathed himself inside of the grey-seer, both of their eyes widening at the sudden realisation of what was transpiring. Their eyes locked for what seemed an eternity, the fast and laboured breathing of each other the only sound filling the seer’s chambers. But as Vaskrits halted, the man-thing made for the dagger, his movements only pushing him deeper into the groaning mass of white fur beneath him. Panicked as he was, the grey-seer did what came to mind first and quickly coiled his legs behind the man-thing, pushing him deeper into him, if he was distracted and spent maybe he could overpower him. But yet it was not enough, even as his every muscle was put to the task the odious man-thing still weakly tried to crush him beneath his weight and reach for the instrument of his doom. A myriad of ideas passed through the seer’s head, he thought, what could break the man-thing’s concentration? And as the realisation came to him he lunged forward, lips interlocking and tongues fighting each other for what precious little room there was into this bundle of fur and skin. That gave the seer enough time to reach for his dagger, the gleaming weapon still shining with malevolence as it reflected the light in the room. But as he was to reach it man-thing pushed down on him, the force of the blow making the table rattle with such force that the dagger came free of his wooden prison and fell to the floor, the clattering sound a telltale sign that it was out of everyone’s reach. Paws intertwined with hands and wrists as each tried to out the other, somewhere in that struggle, all fight was spent of them, each pushing into the other greedily and hungrily.

– S-schneller! – Vaskrits groaned amidst moans, his objective to tire this man-thing so he could be rid of him lost in a cacophony of utter delirium. As hips met, the wet slaps of flesh grinding down on flesh reverberated through the seer’s chamber, a perfect rhythm only broken by moans, grunts, groans and the creaking of the table inching ever forwards.

Time was only measured in thrusts, each passing second punctuated by a moan, a push or a shove, each other trying to outdo and undo the other by smouldering them into nothingness with the heat of their bodies. It was only when his horns bumped the wall that Vaskrits realised how much time has transpired, by then his opponent was a panting mess atop him. As confident as he was aching the grey-seer clenched hard on the man-thing, eliciting a longwinded groan, once, twice, thrice they groaned in unison and then the imperial bottomed out, screaming his release in words the grey-seer cared not to understand, the gooey warmth filling him from within enough to fill his mind as well as his insides. But yet he was not done, this was his chance! As his opponent spasmed and his muscles fell apart in post-coital bliss, the grey-seer turned, the man-thing still embedded within him and all, and positioned himself in all fours. The wall serving perfectly as point of leverage he now pushed back hard, hammering into the man’s hips as one hammers an iron while it’s still hot. As the seer’s hammering rear met with the anvil that was the man-thing’s loins, the imperial found himself devoid of breath, too tender after release his back arched as his tool throbbed yet again, his release triggering an avalanche of blinding lights in his head, each one fading away, one after the other like candles in the wind until none was left. Shot after shot of his seed flowed like a river for the second time within the grey-seer, a fresh coating to his insides so he might be as white inside as he was on the outside.

On that moment something broke inside Vaskrits, much like a spark triggers a beard-thing’s cannon, the last push catapulted inside of him a cascade of sensations. His whole body shivered, his heartbeat raced, his eyes widened and his back arched as much as it was able under the weight of the man-thing atop him. He blinked once, twice, thrice and he locked below, white effluvia dripped from him and out of him, both from the front and the read as his tool, no longer at attention retreated back into the confines of his sheath.

– That was good-good... – Sighed the wizard as he shoved the dead weight off him with an elbow. As the man-thing fell flat to the floor and out of the table he pulled with him the only thing plugging the seer’s insides shut. A shiver ran through Vaskrits’s spine as he was now empty, the veritable amount of the man-thing’s effluvia now oozing out of him in droves to pool on the table with his own. Experimentally he scooped it up, watching it run down his paws as if to compare both substances, see if they’d mingle or coalesce.

But as the bliss faded, consciousness came back rushing to the grey-seer’s mind. The realisation dawned on him, he was victorious! He outlasted the man-thing! Yet... he still had to deal with him. Gathering his quarterstaff Vaskrits considered his options, would he fry him? Dissolve his innards? Make his head explode, a myriad of macabre and horribly ideas all passed through the grey-seer’s head, but yet... none seemed fitting. Such mighty opponent... – Mighty-mighty like me-me... – Me-me, he thought aloud. But of course! What better way to exploit this offering given to him, than to make it, more like him?

Waving his staff in the direction of the man-thing he unleashed what aetheric powers were still within him, a viridian and malevolent light engulfed the imperial as the seer recited a prayer to his patron god. But yet it did not char or turn to ash. Instead his flesh shifted, bones snapped and popped into places anew. His face elongated, becoming tapered as his eyes reddened, becoming glossy and foggy like the mind behind them. His spine snapped and grew, a wiry, fleshy tail forming around it. Sinew and bone twisted, like melted cheese as his fingers became paws and his nails claws. To all this grey-seer Vaskrits watched with glee as the blessing of the great horned one fell upon this wretched man-thing, now truly children of the Horned Rat, bigger than when he was a manling, covered in coarse black fur to signify his greatness.

Thus that which was once a man looked at the sorcerer with confused beady eyes, as if seeking meaning into the seer’s figure.

– Me-me, Vaskrits, Vaaas-Kriiits – He signalled, pointing to himself.

– Vaaz... me-me Vaaz? – Muttered the black-fur.

Vaskrits pondered, and for a moment he wanted to object, but in the ended he considered it appropriate, it was after all, only half as great as he was!

– Yes-Yes, you Vaaz, me-me Vaskrits, master Vaskrits! –

– Master Vaskrits, master of Vaaz? –

– Yes-yes! Vaskrits good-good to Vaaz, Vaaz loyal- faithful to Vaskrits yes-yes? – He whispered as he scratched the black-fur’s chin. Even kneeling he dwarfed Vaskrits, yet he was putty in his arms.

– Yes-yes, master of masters. – Intoned the stormvermin, his rumbling and deep voice echoing back a forth through the seer’s chambers.

To this Vaskrits clapped with glee, truly this was a true born killer, at his command no less! Yet there was a matter to settle, for the Horned One was promised an offering, yes, and for this grand gift he dared not to withhold his end of the bargain. As soon as he made himself decent, he summoned with haste his chief warlord to his chambers. The mewling flea-mice stood there trembling, as the seer sat into the table, his figure accentuated by the candlelight shining behind him.
 – Ah mighty-great warrior you-you, that flees battle, yes-yes? –

– Mercy-piety oh most grandiose of potentates, mercy for this one, p-please! – The warlord pleaded as he shivered in fright, the clanking noises of his armour reverberating back and forth through the chamber. Yet what he did not notice by the blinding light was the figure by the door’s arch.

– You see, now-now, I replace you-you with greater-mightier warlord, yes-yes! Vaaz, murder-kill-kill! –

To that the hulking figure leaped from the darkness but even when the warlord lifted his halberd in a defensive stance, it was already too late. The mass of muscle swiftly broke his weapon in half and with a vicious bite, tore the warlord’s neck apart, his maw frozen in a wordless scream of agony and gurgling noises. The body twitched once, twice, thrice and then went limp, right atop a hex specially drawn for that very purpose, the Horned Rat had his offering, and grey-seer Vaskrits had a new warlord. In his mind, things were as it should be, thought Vaskrits, as he caressed the stomach of his new warlord, the circular motions eliciting purrs from Vaaz’s still bloodied maw. No, not just Vaaz, Vaaz Throatripper! It has a nice ring to it, and it was fitting indeed Vaskrits thought as he glanced below to the stormvermin’s netter regions. He chuckled at the notion, even though the prospect was enticing, for now he contented himself just to treat the black-fur to a belly rub, Vaaz only looked at his new master, a dopey grin on his muzzle and his eyelids half closed, for him this was indeed a proper offering.

-The End.