A not so irresistible force meets a rotting (almost) immovable object

The Changecast debacle still gnawed-gnawed at my brain-meats. Too much lightning, not enough magic-might. My magic. I needed a Grey Seer - yes-yes - but tricking one of those horned smug-clowns into helping? Hah! Impossible. Unless… unless I built something irresistible.

A vision struck me -brilliant, genius, obviously.

A towering shrine-engine of wood-metal, bound in warp-tendrils, crowned with a great bell of buzzing, crackling Emberstone! One of Etoch's brute-ogors would ring it. The Masterclan would drool over such a wonder. They would beg to use it. They would owe me.

"Yes-yes… more-more emberstone… more warp-wood…" I crooned, pacing in manic circles.

Thus the Conclave quested once more, for my grand design. We found an ancient redoubt--rotting, corpse-littered, half-swallowed by time--and around it: sunken emberstone and a grove of warp-wood, twisted and perfect.

"Cut the trees! Gather the stone!" I commanded. They obeyed, of course, they always do.

But decay-thoughts lingered foul in the air. A stench. A presence. Northeast - wrong-wrong, wet-wrong.

"Grinder Pack - investigate!" I barked, and the Doom-Flayers spun off, buzzing like lethal metal insects.

Then we saw them: The Festerwomb Host. The Maggotkin. Filths of Nurgle: backs bloated, armour dripping, flies buzzing thick as fur. At their center wallowed Lord Vyrmous the Pale, one of those smug rot-kings of plague.

"Hmmm…" I mused, whiskers twitching. "These corpse-fattened pests stand in my way. My wood! My stone! They must be driven-destroyed."

So I unleashed the Fist of Etoch.

With a rip-crack of gnawhole magic, Etoch's brutes erupted behind the Maggotkin line, belching warp-fire into the Blightlords. One fly-beast burst spectacularly - splattering pus, guts, and half-digested whatever across the clearing. Glorious!

The Rat Ogors slammed into the Blightkings - but the bloated warriors did not budge. Not even a twitch.

Then infection-needles fired from the Rotmire Creed behind them, stabbing into ogor flesh. My beasts howled, but they fought on, smashing another foetid fly into rancid paste.

Still, Vyrmous' infantry stood. Unmoving. Annoyingly resilient. Disrespectful.

Then I saw it: an opening, a perfect strike-window.

"GRIND-GRIND! FLAY-FLAY!" I shrieked.

And oh - how they obeyed.

The Grinder Pack launched themselves from a rocky outcrop, whirling Doom-Flayer blades screaming. They hit Vyrmous like a storm of metal teeth.

Crunch. Grind. Shrrrk.

Chunks - actual chunks - of the Lord of Blights scattered across the field.

I threw back my head and cackled.

"How like-that, my lord? Leave-leave the stones and wood to ME--ME, STRUK GREAT-CLEVER!"

But then the rest of the Maggotkin slogged forward. Slow, but endless. Grinding. I could see the tide turning. Rotten, bloated inevitability.

"Retreat-retreat!" I ordered. "Grab-take the stone! The wood! Retreat into the dark-deep!"

And with a final triumphant crackle of warp-energy, I leapt into a gnawhole -first to safety, as any wise Arch-Warlock should be.

Struk had been muttering ever since the Changecast debacle. Muttering, pacing, cackling, muttering some more. "Need more magic, yes-yes! Need Grey Seer!" As if a Grey Seer would ever willingly help him. Or anyone. Fool.

Then he told me his "brilliant idea":

A huge bell on a tower of warp-wood and scrap-metal, rung by one of my Rat Ogors, with a clapper made of precious Emberstone. The kind of noisy nonsense that attracts the Masterclan like fleas to a corpse.

But if it got Struk's brain to stay focused for once, good-fine. We would gather wood and stone for his bell-engine.

We found the perfect place: an old ruined redoubt, corpses everywhere, Emberstone half-buried in the dirt, and warp-wood trees twisted into delicious shapes. Struk shrieked orders, waving his staff like a mad conductor. "Cut trees! Gather stone!" Idiot.

But then came the smell.

Rot. Wet rot. Thick rot.

The kind that coats the tongue.

Before I could even say, "Perhaps we should -" Struk squealed, "Grinder Pack! Investigate!" and sent our Doom-Flayers whirring into danger. Typical.

Sure enough, squatting behind a grove of warp-wood were the Festerwomb Host. Nurgle filth. Fat Blightkings wobbling on swollen legs. Rotflies buzzing. And at their center, Lord Vyrmous the Pale: a mountain of dripping armour and mould.

"Well," I thought, "this is bad."

Struk, of course, decided we must attack.

"My wood! My stone!" he screeched, like he ever lifted more than a finger to gather anything.

So I went first.

I led the Fist straight through a gnawhole, bursting behind the Blightlords and showering them with warpfire. One rotfly burst into a glorious rain of guts - my ogors roared approval. Then we charged.

But the Blightkings… urgh. They barely noticed. Just stood there, leaking and grinning. Then needles - infected, rusted, filthy - shot out from behind them and stuck into my Rat Ogors' hides. They shrieked, but kept fighting, smashing the other fly to sludge.

Still, the stinking infantry held. This was not going to be quick.

Then, suddenly, Struk screeched,

"Grind-Grind! Flay-Flay!"

And the Grinder Pack hurled themselves from a rock, right onto Lord Vyrmous' bulk. Gears grinding, blades screaming - they carved the rot-giant apart. In pieces. Disgusting pieces. But effective.

Struk immediately started bragging, of course. "See-see! Genius plan! Mine victory!" Bah.

But then the rest of the Maggotkin started lumbering toward us. Slow, but unstoppable. Endless. And we? We were losing rats fast.

Struk vanished into a gnawhole -first, naturally -after yelling: "Retreat! Take the wood! Take the stone!"

So I had to drag the survivors back through the tunnels, hauling what we could and dodging rot-flies.

Another day survived. Another day working with an Arch-Warlock who thinks he's smarter than he is.

But at least we kept the Emberstone and the warp-wood. And Struk's ridiculous bell plan might yet be useful.

Maybe.