Warpfire and Warpstone: The Air-Frying of Onion and Gravy

Of course it began with Etoch’s ideas.

“I have brilliant thought-think,” the flesh-tinkerer croaked, waving bloody schematics and twitching claws. “Sharper-killier blades for rat ogors. Alloy of warpstone and emberstone. Cut through everything—armour, bone, hope.”

Struk Covenlasher listened. He always did. Etoch’s ideas were dangerous, expensive… and useful.

Then Zyrr Quickfoot spoke from the shadows, voice like a knife drawn slowly. “Rumours, yes-yes. Verminlord. Deceiver. Drawn to amberstone and warpstone both.”

That made Struk’s tail lash.

Bigger ogors. A Verminlord. Power stacked upon power. The Ravaged Coast bending-kneeling to his will. It was obvious, inevitable, his destiny.

“Yes-yes,” Struk hissed. “Skulpile. Adamantine Chain. We leave-go now.”

Kret opened the gnawholes, and the Conclave crept beneath the world like a sickness. When they emerged, the earth itself glowed—amber and green veins of promise. Warpstone. Emberstone. Alloyed already, humming with power.

Then the shadows shifted.

Two mountains moved.

Gargants.

Stupid, colossal things. Onion and Gravy, though Struk only learned their names later, muttered like half-remembered insults. One carried a tiny human on its shoulder—chattering, waving, far too calm.

“They sit on my realmstone,” Struk growled. “On my destiny.”

The gargants wandered aimlessly, entranced by the glow, trampling value beneath their feet. Struk’s claws twitched. Killing them outright would be costly. Wasteful.

Then inspiration struck—pure genius.

“Incarnate,” Struk whispered.

Warp-energy poured from his claws as he tore reality open. A Krondspine manifested in a blaze of yellow-green brilliance, roaring as it surged toward the giants.

Perfect.

The gargants noticed immediately. They lumbered after it, fascinated, distracted. Onion’s human squeaked warnings. Struk bared his teeth.

“Heh. Fools.”

“Etoch,” he hissed. “Send the Fist. Behind the hammer-one. Surgeon’s Dream with them. Grinderpack—flank left. Ash-Gnaw, Volt-Pack—centre. Burn them. Chase them off!”

The tunnels shook as the Fist of Etoch erupted behind Gravy. The Beastslayer roared and brought his club down, smashing a rat ogor into paste. Acceptable losses. Expected.

The ogors tore back with claws and teeth, while the Surgeon’s Dream bathed the gargant in warpfire. More clubs fell. More ogors broke.

But then—oh, then—Struk saw it.

As Gravy smashed them apart, shattered limbs knitted themselves back together. Flesh rejoined. Bone re-formed. Emberstone pulsed.

“Excellent,” Struk purred. “Yes-yes, Etoch. Very excellent.”

Gravy collapsed at last, rolling away from the swarm, beaten, broken, fleeing.

On the far side, chaos unfolded—as always, thanks to Kret.

The Grey Seer had teleported himself directly into danger, Doomwheel screaming, bell ringing, warp-lightning arcing wildly. Doom-flayers buzzed forward. The Volt-Pack advanced under the cover of clanrats, spewing death.

Onion panicked. The human screamed. And then Onion fled, loping after his brother, leaving the realmstone behind.

Struk laughed aloud.

With the gargants gone, the Conclave swarmed the ground, tearing warp-amber alloy from the earth. Etoch’s forges sparked immediately, grafting metal into ogor flesh, blades glowing with impossible sharpness.

“Nothing withstands this,” Etoch chuckled.

Zyrr knelt, studying the stone, tracing sigils only he could see. “Verminlord mark,” he whispered. “Only one could bind stones like this. We follow-track its trail.”

Struk straightened, claws flexing.

Yes.

Sharper ogors. Stronger armies. More emberstone. A Verminlord within reach.

Everything was proceeding exactly as Struk Covenlasher intended.

Yes-yes.