The Great-Glorious Idea
Struk Covenlasher always believed—deep in the twitching, misfiring circuits of his warp-enhanced brain—that greatness would come not to the cautious, the careful, or the sensible, but to the bold, the foolish, and the explosively inventive. And as he surveyed the half-constructed spire of the Ember-Warp Resonance Bell-Engine, its warped beams glowing, its gears shrieking in complaint, its bell humming with unstable promise, he knew he was on the cusp of something marvellously catastrophic.
If only he could find a Grey Seer stupid or ambitious enough to climb aboard the thing.
“Need one with brains—yes-yes, and magic. Much magic,” he muttered, pacing around the contraption as sparks shot between its bronze plates. “Someone who knows the old rites, doom-spells, warp-summonings. Someone who thinks they are big-big important, enough to fall for flattery. Or threats. Threats always good.”
And so Struk turned his keenest thoughts toward the most gullible power-hungry Grey Seer he knew of: Kret Skulksnare, also called He-Who-Sniffs-the-Warp-Fumes, The Bell-Babbler, and Eater-of-His-Own-Tail-once-during-a-ritual-but-we-do-not-talk-about-that. Kret was a creature of ambition and paranoia in equal measure, exactly the balance Struk needed. And more importantly, Kret guarded the sacred rites for two things Struk very much desired:
The Summoning of the Bell of Doom—a sonic catastrophe that could shatter armies, minds, and masonry; and the Forbidden Lore of Gnawhole Expansion—the ability to rip open tunnels through reality like peeling rotting skin off a corpse.
Struk needed both. The Conclave needed both. If the Bell-Engine was to attract the eyes of the Masterclan, then it had to work, or at least explode spectacularly enough to impress.
So Struk began his quest.
The Journey into the Midden Warrens
The Midden Warrens were a miserable sprawl of tunnels, caverns, and half-collapsed burrows claimed by no clan sane enough to maintain them. Warp-fungus lit the walls with a queasy green glow, and slinking shapes whispered in the dark. Perfect territory for a treacherous Grey Seer.
The Conclave followed Struk reluctantly—Etoch Spleensplitter stomping in the rear, Rat Ogors grumbling, the Grinder Pack revving their doom-flayers, all of them muttering (but not near Struk) that this was a terrible idea, which meant it was a very typical Skaven plan.
Struk had acquired—through bribery, intimidation, and a small amount of creative kidnapping—a rough map to Kret’s hidden sanctum. The Grey Seer moved often, fearing rivals, shadows, and occasionally his own reflection, but his retreat always centered around one irresistible object: a crumbling rune-stone arch said to carry faint echoes of the ancient Bell of Doom.
The closer they drew, the more Struk could smell the warp-stoned musk of Grey Seer rituals. Acrid smoke drifted from side passages, and the walls trembled with distant chanting.
“Near, so near!” Struk hissed excitedly. “Keep close-close. And do not step on any glowing runes on floor—unless you wish to explode.”
The Ash-Gnaw Mob immediately stepped on three. Two exploded.
“Bah! Weak runes!” Struk waved dismissively.
The Ritual of Smokes and Screaming
They found Kret in a cavern painted with swirling glyphs and flickering warp-light. The Grey Seer stood atop a mound of bones, waving his staff and chanting nonsense syllables that drifted between brilliance and stupidity.
“DOOOM! DOOOOOM! DOOM FOR ALL—except me-me, of course!”
Struk cleared his throat and immediately regretted it, because Kret spun around with murder in his red eyes.
“Who dares interrupt mighty KRET, Chosen of the Horned One, Grand Seer of the Ninth Smell, Keeper of—”
“Yes-yes, yes,” Struk interrupted, “great-big titles, very impressive. I have come to offer you a chance. A gift. An opportunity for glory-power beyond imagining!”
Kret paused. His ears twitched. His whiskers trembled. One eye narrowed while the other widened dramatically.
“Power? For me-me?”
“Oh yes-yes,” Struk purred.
Kret jabbed his staff toward Struk. “Explain, fool-warlock, before I turn your guts-bones into ritual maracas.”
Struk bowed with exaggerated reverence. “Allow me to explain-show you.”
He gestured to Etoch, who dragged forward a miniature scale model of the Bell-Engine—about the size of a ratling gun, except more volatile. Struk pressed a lever. The model emitted a high-pitched hum, burst into flame, spun in a circle, fired sparks in every direction, and then exploded in a brilliant orange flash.
Kret stumbled backward, eyes wide with awe.
“Is… is that… a bell? With Emberstone? With warp-resonance? With possible doom-energy?”
Struk nodded proudly. “Yes-yes! And the full-size one is even better! It screams! It shakes! It belches warp-power into the air like it is trying to summon the Horned One himself!”
“And you—you want me to ride it?” Kret whispered.
“Ride-command, yes,” Struk said smoothly. “Direct its power. Shape the resonance. Amplify your own spells until entire armies crumble!”
Kret trembled. The idea invaded his mind like a parasite. A bell that made his bell louder. A doom that made his doom doom-ier. How could he resist?
“And gnawholes?” Struk asked innocently. “You know the ways-ways, yes? The expansions? The reinforcements? The ancient rites?”
Kret puffed up like a bloated tick. “Of course I know! I am Grey Seer Kret! Master of forbidden tunnels! Walker of twisted paths! Scholar of seven… no, eight arcane treatises on hole-making!”
Struk bowed again. “Then splice-join us. The Conclave needs you. Your magic, your knowledge. Your ego.”
Kret hesitated only a moment before nodding enthusiastically.
“Yes-yes! I come! But only if I am given proper accommodations!”
Struk grinned. “Yes. I have a very special throne-seat on the Bell-Engine just for you.”
The Ride of Destiny (and Mild Terror)
When Kret finally laid eyes on the full Bell-Engine, his jaw fell open. The tower wobbled dangerously. The bell crackled with Emberstone fury. Gears spun without reason. Rats kept catching fire spontaneously.
“It is… beautiful…” Kret whispered.
“It is yours,” Struk said, “to command-control!”
Kret clambered up the swaying structure, gripping the railing as it lurched under him. Etoch tightened the Ogor’s harness below, ready to ring the bell at Struk’s signal.
As Kret planted his staff into the mounted socket at the top, warp-lightning flickered between the runes. His eyes glowed. His whiskers stood on end.
“Yes-yes! I feel it! I feel DOOM! I feel POWER!”
Struk nodded eagerly.
“Good-good! And soon, with your knowledge of gnawholes, we will open tunnels anywhere! Everywhere! The realms will tremble before the Conclave!”
Kret shrieked with manic laughter as the Bell-Engine gave a deep, resonant groan.
“Ring the bell!” Struk shouted.
Etoch pulled the lever.
The clapper swung.
The bell tolled.
Reality shivered.
And with that single deafening note, the Conclave’s destiny changed forever.
They had a Grey Seer.
They had a weapon of impossible ambition.
And they had a plan—dangerous, foolish, glorious.
Just the way Struk liked it.
