The Under-Tunnels beneath the Ravaged Coast groaned with the scrape of rusted gears and the scurry of claws. Fumes of warp-oil hung heavy, thick enough to choke a lesser rat. But Struk Covenlasher — Arch-Warlock of Clan Skryre — breathed it in like incense. His muzzle twitched with excitement as the green light from his warp-lantern shimmered off the damp stone.
He had come here following a whisper. Not the usual chatter of scheming rivals, no. This was something older, deeper—rumors of Emberstone buried beneath the cliffs, a mineral that burned hotter than warp-fire but without the unstable crackle. Perfect for his next invention: the Stormfurnace Engine, a machine that would melt through rival burrows like butter through moldy bread.
But the tunnels were not empty. Ahead, something moved—a low, wet growl, followed by the sound of bone hitting stone. A hulking Rat Ogor stepped into the lantern light, its stitched flesh glistening with warp-gel. Behind it came Etoch Spleensplitter, Master Moulder of Clan Moulder, his hunched frame draped in patchwork furs. One beady eye glowed with a cruel, manic light.
“Out-out of my tunnels, spark-thing,” Etoch hissed, clutching his meat-hook staff. “Moulder-kin found Emberstone first-first. For Rat Ogors. For beasts-beasts.”
Struk’s tail flicked with irritation. “No-no. You found rock, yes-yes, but you lack clever-mind to use-use it. Emberstone wasted on dumb brutes. I make better—machines that burn-kill all rivals. Skryre brilliance!”
The Rat Ogor snarled, lifting its claws. Sparks danced on Struk’s gauntlet as he raised a warp-pistol, the barrel humming. A standoff: brute force against cunning invention. Yet neither Skaven struck.
Both knew the truth. Emberstone was plentiful, but the dangers around it were greater — storm-beasts, sea-things, rogue warbands. Neither Moulder nor Skryre could claim it alone.
Etoch’s whiskers twitched. “Perhaps… deal-deal. Moulder make strong-kill beasts. You make boom-burn machines. Together, we smash all-things. Yes-yes.”
Struk bared his yellow teeth in a grin. “Yes-yes. Most Secret-Sneaky, Most Fire-Burning Ember-Warp Conclave. We lead-lead, others follow—die-squeal if not.”
Their alliance was sealed with a clawshake slick with oil and blood.
The days that followed saw the Ravaged Coast tremble. Skryre engineers hauled rusted generators and warp-turbines through tunnels lit by green glow-globes. Moulder packmasters dragged cages full of frothing, mutated beasts.
Deep beneath the cliffs, they carved a new warren—a sprawling fortress of pipes and pens, cauldrons and cages. Above it, the wind howled over jagged rock. Below, the Emberstone veins pulsed with sullen orange light.
Struk built furnaces and plasma conduits to harness the heat. Etoch grafted Emberstone shards into the bones of Rat Ogors, making them burn with unnatural fury. Their armies swelled: Warpvolt Scourgers with burning cores, Doom-Flayers powered by Emberstone engines, and packs of ember-rats whose breath came out as steam and fire.
Their first test came swiftly. A rival warband of Clan Rictus crept too close, seeking to claim the mine. They were met with screaming warp-flame and howling mutants. The tunnels ran slick with blood.
When it was done, Struk climbed atop the smoldering wreck of a Rictus Doomwheel, raising a burning Emberstone shard. Etoch stood beside him, Rat Ogors howling in triumph.
“Soon-soon,” Struk hissed, “all clans will bow-cower. Skryre fire and Moulder flesh together. Perfect-perfect.”
Etoch chittered in agreement. “Yes-yes. All will serve Most Secret-Sneaky, Most Fire-Burning Ember-Warp Conclave. Or burn-scream trying.”
And deep beneath the Ravaged Coast, the Emberstone pulsed brighter—as if eager to feed the coming war.
