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Description
Squeak-hiss sunk the curved blade deep in the fleshy back of his armored target, curving around armor between his shoulder blades and hitting several major organs. As he stepped back with a graceful tide of his cape, the Warlord Snitchk gave out a gurgling, bloody gasp before collapsing to the dirt.

As he wiped the blade on a cloth, he sniffed the dry, arid air for signs of Stormvermin to march into the chamber, but he smelled nothing of the sort; only the pulsing blood-scent pooling out and staining the red-mud ground. Some kills were simply too easy, especially if you got the chance to plan them yourself as opposed to working around some special orders. In fact, he was very tempted to eat the muscle-rich body of the slain Skaven.

His whip-like tail twitched with delight as it wrapped around a note in one of his pockets.
He left a note on the body and took his symbol of power; a small, rusted curve of iron lined with spikes. He knew that the Stormvermin bodyguard could read; it was how Snitchk treaty-pledged things to them, with a special paw-mark and scent that ensured it was his orders. In this way, nobody could lie or question what it was exactly he demanded.

Squeak-hiss' concern would be if they would have the patience to read it, and more so the fear to follow its instructions. He slithered into the pit leading to what was a Rat Ogre's lair. In case the Warlord thought someone worthy of feeding his pet, the option was available in his own quarters but the giant was sleeping now.

The assassin pieced together the puzzle of his master plan. The first and most important step was done; attempting control of the small but rapidly-growing Clan Snitchk. The second was ensuring control of it, which would prove to be the most difficult.

An entourage of gutter runners crept out of the shadows as strictly ordered when he arrived, and Squeak-hiss nodded to them. Not that the caution was completely necessary; if they tried any sort of betrayal, it would be their ultimate doom. The thread of connections and requirement of near-constant reports by agents kept everyone busy and locations known.

Nobody betrays Clan Eshin and escapes, from outside sources or within; it was impossible. But Squeak-hiss grinned inside—he would prove them all wrong.

"All paths lead to Skavenblight," he whispered. And they all knew where to go. They passed through two of the slave pits owned exclusively by Clan Snitchk, and Squeak-hiss remembered his early years...

Light streamed into the caves lined with thick bars as roughly two hundred slaves in a room that barely allowed any movement came alive. The slave pits as they were called putrefied the walkways with puss, smell, and torn flesh, bones piled the floor several bodies deep and a horde of scampering rats fled into the shadows. A clawleader from a Clanrat regiment scowled in disgust and anger. All of the Elf and Dwarf things they acquired vanished within the few hours they captured them, no doubt somebody would have his head.

"Stupid-worthless worm droppings!" He slammed his fists into the cage and the slaves hissed and squealed. The clawleader knew he should've isolated the bearded and green things but in his rush to attend a meeting (and feasting), he shoved all of the slaves together in the same pit.

He pointed to his strongest pair. "Open the gate quick-quick and eat!"

The movement of the slaves intensified as the horrified and doomed rodent things struggled to gain way and flee. Even as the gate creaked open a few inches, dirt-crusted slave paws scratched at the hardened ground, many trying to somehow pull the heaving gate open faster.

The first most flexible and thinnest of their number finally pulled free, his tail ripped off by Skavenslaves tugging at his body. But a dagger cut open his jaw followed by a strike across his head, the first Clanrat grabbed at what he felt he deserved. He triumphantly dug his incisors into an arm and as soon as he gnashed what little meat there was, the still-squirming body was torn asunder by greedy brethren.

Then an explosion of slaves burst out into the tunnels. The ones struggling to move the gate were crushed underfoot by the wave of those behind them. Snapping echoed throughout the hallway as slaves desperately stepped on each other and were then pulled apart like wishbones at the joints.

The clawleader was too busy waving his sword away from two kills at his feet to control the chaos or notice that a slave remained in the back of the pit. The slave watched his previous fierce competitors for food get butchered as blood and fur splattered on his ragged body.

The clanrats finally slaughtered all the other slaves (and even a few of each other); the only sound remaining was the chattering of teeth, smacking of raw tongues, and occasional hissing. Lying as still as possible in the pile of dead heaped around him was the lone surviving slave, keeping an eye open through the feces-smeared rags draped over his face.

The clawleader began crawling into the vacant cage, sniffing about for more. His underlings began to also move into the cage but he hissed at them, long blade outstretched before him. They snarled and continued picking off of what was outside the cage.

To protect his back and the abundance of slave-food, the clawleader constantly looked over his back. The slave wove his raw-bitten tail around a blood-slick splintered bone and curled it closer to his body. That was when a stuttering moan erupted.

All of the clanrats looked up and the slave sat up, the meal he was saving for later, only because there wasn't enough room to eat, was the female man-thing he laid upon. "I save-good this one for you," he squeaked.

The clawleader's eyes widened, fangs dripping with delight as he hunched over the girl, looking at her face and skin. Rough and scratched, but very much alive. The enlarged pouch of her stomach also indicated she was bearing a litter. "Good catch-thing for Clan Moulder."

The slave remembered the only bit of combat experience he knew: witnessing of an assassin amongst his ranks kill a near-by warlord before slinking away in the ranks. As the clawleader bent over to drag her away from the lair, the slave's tail came around to the side and stabbed his outstretched neck, raking the jagged bone across his jugular and finally stabbing him hard in the side of the throat.

Unfortunately, the bone was not nearly sharp or efficient enough to draw a near-instant kill. The clawleader could hardly utter a sound, shocked, but still very much alive. The slave panicked, and he began to choke his opponent hissing quietly as he breathed, using every bit of strength to hold down the weapon-arm with his foot and tail, squishing blood all the more out of the wound.

The struggle was dying and the slave quickly tore off his reddened cape and un-clipped his helmet. He tried stabbing more viciously and finally began to gouge his teeth into him. By now, the clawleader stopped squirming. Hunger overcame him and he began eating the fresh meat as he tossed the cape over his back, not quite making it all the way off of him, and putting the helmet loosely on his head to make it not clatter on the bones and rock around him.

Before he knew it, large chunks of the clawleader were gone, and he never felt so full. He looked up, half-innocently but noticed the clanrats were still busy eating, glad their leader was leaving them alone to dine in peace.

He dragged the body of his most immediate ruler into the darkest corner, not that hiding a half-eaten body would make much a difference, but he cautioned it anyway. Picked up the sword, rotten-wood scabbard, he rose to his feet in full, pulling the young woman out into the tunnel.

The clanrats seemed to have not taken notice, the largest one turned to the side away from him. This clanrat pushed one of the scrawnier ones away, taking up the new body over his lap and feasting on it.

The slave stabbed his sword into his backside, pulled it out and then gripping the sword with both hands he stabbed him again at an angle into his neck, nearly severing the head. As final gesture, he kicked the body to the ground. The clanrats gave him their utmost attention. As a slave, he didn't have a name, but grinned wide and spoke with a bit of confidence despite.

"I am Squeak-hiss, your new clawleader. I made last leader disappear with trick from Clan Eshin!" He raised his sword and they crawled to the back of the tunnel. His fangs were broken, but his demeanor and confidence was quite reassuring. Many whispered amongst themselves, terrified at this newcomer who claimed to have the skills of an assassin. It must be true: in their understanding, he came from out of pure nothing!

"I kill-kill last clawleader for failure, and now all we have is man-thing breeder with litter. Take her to one next charge for treaty-pledge with Clan Moulder!"

Description
Squeak-hiss sunk the curved blade deep in the fleshy back of his armored target, curving around armor between his shoulder blades and hitting several major organs. As he stepped back with a graceful tide of his cape, the Warlord Snitchk gave out a gurgling, bloody gasp before collapsing to the dirt.

As he wiped the blade on a cloth, he sniffed the dry, arid air for signs of Stormvermin to march into the chamber, but he smelled nothing of the sort; only the pulsing blood-scent pooling out and staining the red-mud ground. Some kills were simply too easy, especially if you got the chance to plan them yourself as opposed to working around some special orders. In fact, he was very tempted to eat the muscle-rich body of the slain Skaven.

His whip-like tail twitched with delight as it wrapped around a note in one of his pockets.
He left a note on the body and took his symbol of power; a small, rusted curve of iron lined with spikes. He knew that the Stormvermin bodyguard could read; it was how Snitchk treaty-pledged things to them, with a special paw-mark and scent that ensured it was his orders. In this way, nobody could lie or question what it was exactly he demanded.

Squeak-hiss' concern would be if they would have the patience to read it, and more so the fear to follow its instructions. He slithered into the pit leading to what was a Rat Ogre's lair. In case the Warlord thought someone worthy of feeding his pet, the option was available in his own quarters but the giant was sleeping now.

The assassin pieced together the puzzle of his master plan. The first and most important step was done; attempting control of the small but rapidly-growing Clan Snitchk. The second was ensuring control of it, which would prove to be the most difficult.

An entourage of gutter runners crept out of the shadows as strictly ordered when he arrived, and Squeak-hiss nodded to them. Not that the caution was completely necessary; if they tried any sort of betrayal, it would be their ultimate doom. The thread of connections and requirement of near-constant reports by agents kept everyone busy and locations known.

Nobody betrays Clan Eshin and escapes, from outside sources or within; it was impossible. But Squeak-hiss grinned inside—he would prove them all wrong.

"All paths lead to Skavenblight," he whispered. And they all knew where to go. They passed through two of the slave pits owned exclusively by Clan Snitchk, and Squeak-hiss remembered his early years...

Light streamed into the caves lined with thick bars as roughly two hundred slaves in a room that barely allowed any movement came alive. The slave pits as they were called putrefied the walkways with puss, smell, and torn flesh, bones piled the floor several bodies deep and a horde of scampering rats fled into the shadows. A clawleader from a Clanrat regiment scowled in disgust and anger. All of the Elf and Dwarf things they acquired vanished within the few hours they captured them, no doubt somebody would have his head.

"Stupid-worthless worm droppings!" He slammed his fists into the cage and the slaves hissed and squealed. The clawleader knew he should've isolated the bearded and green things but in his rush to attend a meeting (and feasting), he shoved all of the slaves together in the same pit.

He pointed to his strongest pair. "Open the gate quick-quick and eat!"

The movement of the slaves intensified as the horrified and doomed rodent things struggled to gain way and flee. Even as the gate creaked open a few inches, dirt-crusted slave paws scratched at the hardened ground, many trying to somehow pull the heaving gate open faster.

The first most flexible and thinnest of their number finally pulled free, his tail ripped off by Skavenslaves tugging at his body. But a dagger cut open his jaw followed by a strike across his head, the first Clanrat grabbed at what he felt he deserved. He triumphantly dug his incisors into an arm and as soon as he gnashed what little meat there was, the still-squirming body was torn asunder by greedy brethren.

Then an explosion of slaves burst out into the tunnels. The ones struggling to move the gate were crushed underfoot by the wave of those behind them. Snapping echoed throughout the hallway as slaves desperately stepped on each other and were then pulled apart like wishbones at the joints.

The clawleader was too busy waving his sword away from two kills at his feet to control the chaos or notice that a slave remained in the back of the pit. The slave watched his previous fierce competitors for food get butchered as blood and fur splattered on his ragged body.

The clanrats finally slaughtered all the other slaves (and even a few of each other); the only sound remaining was the chattering of teeth, smacking of raw tongues, and occasional hissing. Lying as still as possible in the pile of dead heaped around him was the lone surviving slave, keeping an eye open through the feces-smeared rags draped over his face.

The clawleader began crawling into the vacant cage, sniffing about for more. His underlings began to also move into the cage but he hissed at them, long blade outstretched before him. They snarled and continued picking off of what was outside the cage.

To protect his back and the abundance of slave-food, the clawleader constantly looked over his back. The slave wove his raw-bitten tail around a blood-slick splintered bone and curled it closer to his body. That was when a stuttering moan erupted.

All of the clanrats looked up and the slave sat up, the meal he was saving for later, only because there wasn't enough room to eat, was the female man-thing he laid upon. "I save-good this one for you," he squeaked.

The clawleader's eyes widened, fangs dripping with delight as he hunched over the girl, looking at her face and skin. Rough and scratched, but very much alive. The enlarged pouch of her stomach also indicated she was bearing a litter. "Good catch-thing for Clan Moulder."

The slave remembered the only bit of combat experience he knew: witnessing of an assassin amongst his ranks kill a near-by warlord before slinking away in the ranks. As the clawleader bent over to drag her away from the lair, the slave's tail came around to the side and stabbed his outstretched neck, raking the jagged bone across his jugular and finally stabbing him hard in the side of the throat.

Unfortunately, the bone was not nearly sharp or efficient enough to draw a near-instant kill. The clawleader could hardly utter a sound, shocked, but still very much alive. The slave panicked, and he began to choke his opponent hissing quietly as he breathed, using every bit of strength to hold down the weapon-arm with his foot and tail, squishing blood all the more out of the wound.

The struggle was dying and the slave quickly tore off his reddened cape and un-clipped his helmet. He tried stabbing more viciously and finally began to gouge his teeth into him. By now, the clawleader stopped squirming. Hunger overcame him and he began eating the fresh meat as he tossed the cape over his back, not quite making it all the way off of him, and putting the helmet loosely on his head to make it not clatter on the bones and rock around him.

Before he knew it, large chunks of the clawleader were gone, and he never felt so full. He looked up, half-innocently but noticed the clanrats were still busy eating, glad their leader was leaving them alone to dine in peace.

He dragged the body of his most immediate ruler into the darkest corner, not that hiding a half-eaten body would make much a difference, but he cautioned it anyway. Picked up the sword, rotten-wood scabbard, he rose to his feet in full, pulling the young woman out into the tunnel.

The clanrats seemed to have not taken notice, the largest one turned to the side away from him. This clanrat pushed one of the scrawnier ones away, taking up the new body over his lap and feasting on it.

The slave stabbed his sword into his backside, pulled it out and then gripping the sword with both hands he stabbed him again at an angle into his neck, nearly severing the head. As final gesture, he kicked the body to the ground. The clanrats gave him their utmost attention. As a slave, he didn't have a name, but grinned wide and spoke with a bit of confidence despite.

"I am Squeak-hiss, your new clawleader. I made last leader disappear with trick from Clan Eshin!" He raised his sword and they crawled to the back of the tunnel. His fangs were broken, but his demeanor and confidence was quite reassuring. Many whispered amongst themselves, terrified at this newcomer who claimed to have the skills of an assassin. It must be true: in their understanding, he came from out of pure nothing!

"I kill-kill last clawleader for failure, and now all we have is man-thing breeder with litter. Take her to one next charge for treaty-pledge with Clan Moulder!"