Kret Skulksnare's Day Out

I love the Bell.

It loves me.

I can tell by the way it hums when I approach, by how the Emberstone veins glow brighter when I touch the levers, by how the rats shudder in wonderful fear when its shadow passes over them. This engine, this masterpiece of ringing ruin, was meant for no one else. Struk built it, yes-yes… but only because the universe, and the Great Horned Rat, bent his hands in my direction.

One day, all will know the Bell's voice.

And they will know it speaks my name.

We came to the burning vale on my urging, though Struk would never admit it. The air here tasted of ash and ambition. Emberstone sang beneath the scorched soil and the mountains leaned inward as if eavesdropping. Etoch sought stone and flesh for his new… creation. Struk muttered about cannons and fire. Fools. All of it was noise around the true purpose.

I wanted to ring.

Struk was the first to see the Emberstone glittering through smoke, and scurried forward like he'd invented discovery. I let him believe it. When he sent the Grinder Pack ahead, my whiskers twitched. Destiny always hides enemies in the place you were about to rule.

And there they were.

Lord Vyrmous. The rot-king. The walking wound. Stinking like a prophecy gone bad.

I felt the Bell grow warm beneath my feet.

Struk whispered, thinking himself clever: "They do not see us. We encircle. We strike from all sides."

Lies.

Nurgle's pets always smell ambition.

They surged toward stone like hungry maggots. I laughed and yanked my Bell-Ogor's chain.

The Bell rang. Ohhh, how it sang.

The air folded inward. Rats straightened like soldiers. Their eyes caught warp-light. Even Struk flinched -- a pleasing sight.

The Conclave burst outward like shrapnel from my will. Etoch's Fist thundered north, stuffing Emberstone into sacks like toddlers stealing sweets. The Ash-Gnaw Mob scuttled west, blades rusted, hearts blazing.

The flies came screaming.

I watched them swoop down like Nurgle's personal punctuation marks… and then the Volt-Pack answered with grammar of their own. Warp-fire stitched sky into meat. The flies burst hilariously. The Ash-Gnaw lived.

Yes-yes.

The Bell protects.

Then came the disaster.

Etoch's Rat Ogors. His Fist. Wading into filth. Roaring bravely. Fading terribly.

Blightkings lumbered through warpfire like it was rain. Flies clamped down, needling rot into glorious muscle. I watched my finest ringing-hammers collapse into pus and screaming.

And I nearly rang the Bell too early.

Then crack -- the world split pretending it hadn't been waiting for me.

Gnawholes yawned. Gnawholes gaped.

The Bell appeared beside the dying Fist like a god with a sense of drama. Struk tumbled out beside me yelling something frantic and mostly unimportant. The Volt-Pack followed, guns already whining in anticipation.

"FIRE-KILL BURN-SHOOT EVERYTHING," Struk shrieked.

The guns spurted.

Flies burst into rain and stars.

One foul oozing Blightking remained, wobbling, confused.

"Swoop-Charge!" I screamed, and the Bell obeyed.

We smashed into it, the rotten-corroding Blightking.

Metal met rot.

Magic met meat.

And the Blightking became a thought I had already finished thinking.

I preened.

But I could still smell him.

Vyrmous.

Watching.

Waiting.

More Blightkings lurked in the smoke. The Lord of Rot stood unharmed, patient as infection.

Then Struk leaned close, voice cracking like a bent gear.

"We need more power," he hissed. "We cannot move-shift him like this. Etoch? Enough-sufficient stone?"

Etoch rumbled. "Yes. I will make something better from this place. From these Ogors. From whatever still squeaks."

I smiled and stroked the Bell.

Good.

Let the fleshwarper dream of monsters.

Let Struk dream of cannons.

I dream only of sound.

Of the Bell of Doom.

Of the one true ringing.

Soon, I shall not ride the Bell-Engine.

I shall be it.

Struk hated many things.

Rot.

Flies.

Grey Seers.

And worst of all — Grey Seers standing on his machines.

The moment Kret yanked the chain and rang the Bell without permission, Struk knew the day was already ruined. The resonance surged through his circuitry, overclocking half his systems and setting fire to a perfectly good capacitor-sprocket. But did Kret notice?

No - he giggled.

Struk saw the Emberstone first, as always. He deployed the Grinder Pack perfectly. He devised the encirclement. He would have flanked Lord Vyrmous clean, efficiently, scientifically—

Then the Maggotkin charged like diseased idiots.

“Conclave! Take-take what you can!” Struk snarled.

When the Bell rang, his battle plans rewrote themselves mid-fight. The rats surged unpredictably. The Gnawholes warped off-sync. The Doom-flayers drifted alarmingly close to him.

Then Etoch’s Fist was hit.

Struk felt it as a spike through his brain-plating.

Perfect-ish Rat Ogors… Perfect Guns.

Ruined.

Then the Bell arrived like a collapsing lunatic god.

Struk barely rolled out of its path as the Volt-Pack erupted behind him. Warpfire stitched death across the vale. And when that last Blightking staggered…

Kret screamed “CHARGE!”

And smashed the thing to pulp using Struk’s invention.

He considered killing Kret.

Later.

They did not have enough warpfire to crack Vyrmous. Struk hated that more than anything.

“We need more power,” he spat.

When Etoch said he could build something better from the wreckage…

Struk smiled.

At least someone here did science correctly.

The gnawholes hissed like wounds sealing themselves. Rats poured through clutching Emberstone. Blood. Parts.

Struk slammed his tools onto the stone. “They ruined my timing! They stained my gears! They touched my invention!”

Kret drifted past him, stroking the Bell. “It touched me first.”

Etoch knelt in the dark sorting limbs into piles. “This one still twitches.”

“Good,” said Kret, “Let it dream.”

Struk stared at the pieces, “…what exactly are you making?”

Etoch smiled with all his needles.

“Something that does not rot.”