Etoch and the Lightning Knights

We-sneak skittered from the gnawholes first, my mighty Fist at my back, noses twitching at the sweet-sweet stink of raw Emberstone. Struk jabbered "Mine!" the instant he saw it glitter-shine across the cleft.

"Ours, fool-friend," I corrected, baring my fangs. Emberstone makes machines and monsters--why should warp-clinker Struk get more than master-moulder Etoch?

Before he could argue-whine, I smelled something wrong. Clean air. Polished metal. Righteousness.

Across the rift stood tall-tall knights in bright lightning-blue armour, gleaming like freshly skinned bone. Stormcast… but twisted by Tzeentch-magic, feathers shifting, colours writhing.

Disgusting. Dangerous. And worse: coming for our Emberstone.

Struk squealed orders, waving his staff like he invented command.

Voltpack! Forward-forward! Blast those shiny man-things!

Etoch--take your Fist down the tunnels.

Grinder Pack--flank flank!

Ash-Gnaw Mob--guard the emberstone, yes-yes!

I hissed at him, but obeyed. For now. Better to let him burn-die first while I take glory.

The clanrats surged out, tripping over their own tails but eager enough. Behind them, the Voltpack crackled with charged warp-fire, lightning hissing in their claws. Their first volley struck true: several of the blue-armoured fools staggered, armour sparking and sizzling. Good.

Then the sky screamed.

Blue lightning hammered down, shaking earth and bone alike. Massive knights, thicker-plated than the rest, slammed into the ground, weapons glowing with storm-sorcery. One of the precious Voltpack disintegrated into warp-slag instantly.

Struk wailed and shrieked: "Blast them! Blast them ALL-ALL!"

Then the ground beneath him cracked, swallowed him whole.

Typical. Arch-warlock vanishes the moment things go wrong-bad.

While they panicked and flailed, I burst from a gnawhole on the far flank, my Rat Ogors frothing, claws twitching for blood. We charged toward the knights' rear – but the storm-things were too fast, too sparkly-bright, dancing with unnatural grace. Every time we lunged-close, sorcery shifted them just out of reach. My Ogors howled in frustrated rage.

I saw then the reality-truth: we could kill many, yes, but win? Ha! Not with the sky itself spitting new knights every moment.

"Enough!" I screeched. "Grab-take the Emberstone! Back to the dark below! SAVE what can be saved: live-fight another day!"

My Fist obeyed instantly. The Ash-Gnaw mob squealed and stuffed Emberstone into sacks, mouths, anywhere it fit. The Grinder Pack spun and whirled, carving a path back to the tunnels. Even the shattered Voltpack crawled, gnawed, dragged themselves to safety.

Behind us, the storm-warriors closed ranks, sparks dancing across their armour, but they did not give chase. Clever? No. Lucky. Next time, Etoch Spleensplitter comes for them.

We fled down into the under-dark, Emberstone clutched tight.

A defeat? No-no.

A cunning, strategic extraction, yes-yes!

And next battle, we strike first, harder, sneakier.

The Conclave will triumph.

Etoch will triumph more.