The Not Quite Perfect Check-Test of the Doomwheel Prototype Mk.IV Emberfire Edition!

Struk Covenlasher peered-squinted through the green-slick foliage, keeping well out of danger (strategically, not cowardly). Around him, the Stormlash Volt-Pack twitched-chittered in anticipation, their Warpvolt Scourgers humming with restrained power. Nearby, the Ash-Gnaw Mob gnawed-clean their rusty, decaying blades, drooling at the thought of fresh kill-meat.

To the left-left, through the undergrowth, lurked his newest, most brilliant creation — the Doomwheel Prototype Mk.IV Emberfire Edition!

“Yes-yes,” Struk muttered, eyes gleaming, “today we test it proper-good…”

Through the twisted trees, the enemy came into view: the Flayful Disciples — those bone-pile constructs that had fled-fled their last glorious defeat at Struk’s hands. Now they gathered again, their skeletal bodies clacking together as bones rose from the soil, fusing to repair them. The fools stood oblivious-unknowing amid glowing shards of Emberbone, the sacred warp-rich realmstone the Conclave claimed as rightfully theirs-mine!

“Thieves! Rust-thieves!” Struk hissed, clutching his staff. “They dig-steal what is mine! No-no! This cannot will not must not stand!”

He jabbed a claw toward the trees. “Etoch’s Fist — forward! Crush-smash! I distract-lure them, yes-yes!”

At his squeal-command, the Doomwheel roared to life, rolling from the brush with sparks and screeches. Lightning arced from its brass coils, carving smoking scars in the forest floor. The Ossiarchs turned — distracted, confused by the glory of Struk’s genius.

That was when Etoch’s Fist burst through a nearby Gnawhole, the air warping with green fire as hulking Rat Ogors poured through. Etoch himself rode their backs, swinging his cruel injector-staff, bellowing:

“For the Conclave! For mutation!”

Warpflame poured into the bone ranks — but the Ossiarchs did not crumble. Too many still stood, clattering, reforming faster than they fell.

“Hmm! Data unexpected!” Struk squealed, scribbling frantic notes. “Will fix-improve later, yes-yes!”

The bone legion surged forward in grim silence, their ranks like a tidal wave of ivory. Struk ordered an immediate strategic redeployment (definitely not a panic-flee). The Skaven dove into nearby Gnawholes, vanishing and reappearing behind the Ossiarch camp in flashes of sickly light.

Meanwhile, the Doomwheel, its warp-engine howling, spun out of control — bouncing over roots, clipping Rat Ogors, and spewing fire in all directions. It vanished into the treeline with a final shriek of metal, still spinning.

“Fine-fine! It will return later, improved!” Struk insisted. “Version Mk.V will explode only when commanded, yes-yes!”

With their enemies still reassembling and the battlefield ablaze, the Ember-Warp Conclave gathered what glowing shards of Emberstone they could pry from the ground. Then, in a series of expertly timed (and totally planned) retreats through the Gnawholes, they escaped with their prize.

Back in his burrow-lab, Struk scrawled his report:

“Partial success, yes-yes. Bone-things still animate (irritating). Doomwheel performance: impressive—until it left battlefield screaming. Emberstone yield acceptable. Further testing required. Next time—victory total-complete, yes-yes!”