Hello, Squeaky here.

I don't own Warhammer. All copyrights go towards Games Workshop and/or their respective owners.

Anyway, enjoy.

"Forward- forward coward-spleens!" The imposing figure of Warlord Gnawfang snarled, watching as the sea of worthless ratmen scurried forward, not wishing to be victims of his wrath. Getting thousands to risk their lives through fear, now that was power. He allowed his lips to curl forward in a malicious smile.

The entrance to the dwarf-thing nest was narrow, with imposing rock on every side. The warlord could smell the stench of fear musk his underlings gave out as they faced warhammer and blunderbuss. The skaven returned fire, but their slings did little more than ping harmlessly of the stout dwarfern battle line. Sometimes a short warrior would stiffen, then fall the floor with a loud clang, the tale-tell sight of a green warpstone trail signifying the work of a jezial. Each time the dwarfs would just pack tighter together, refusing to give their homes to the ramen.

Like any good Skaven Warlord, Gnawfang had no plans to actually get into combat. He had placed himself as far back from the fighting as possible, ensuring that a large screen of bodies took any arrows or bullets that would have otherwise hit him. He felt no pity or remorse for them- if anything it was their fault they were so low in the rungs of Skavendom. He watched as countless Skaven shrieked and died as the dwarf-thing missiles pounded into their ranks. Yet countless more poured through the narrow tunnel, a literal sea of bodies.

Gnawfang stood a plenty of paws higher than his underlings and his fur was the jet black of a stormvermin. Just looking into his selfish, red eyes showed that he was a cruel, callous ratman, even by their standards. He had started off as a lowly (if large) clanrat, and had worked his way up the hierarchy of Skavendom in the traditional and expected manner. He had twisted words towards his favour, bullied his way to the first picks of the scavenge pile. Then there were his rivals, those who had stood in the way of his greatness. He had drowned ratmen in barrels of stolen dwarf ale, throttled them his with tail and had buried them underneath rockslides. It was, after all, hardly his fault that the rocks were too stupid to stay in place. And any Skaven asinine enough to stand and gawk at the rocks as they tumbled deserved to die anyway. Everything about him meant that he was the true warlord of Clan Scrak. He was mighty! He was powerful! He was fearsome! He was terrible! He was…

He yelped as a bullet narrowly missed his neck, pinging off a rock and hitting an unfortunate Skaven, who then fell to the floor and began to moan pathetically. He placed his paws on his head and tried to hide himself in the sea of rat bodies, the stench of fear musk clouding his snout. Bullets kept on flying around him and he pressed his body to the rock, whispering a pray to the Horned Rat to not let one a great as him be killed by some stupid-fool dwarf things. They had the gall to shoot at him! He'd personally rip out their spleens for such behaviour. He'd then slowly boil said organs and shove them the throats of their whelps.

When he was sure that those idiotic dwarf-things had decided to fire at bigger threats rather than a mere lone Skaven, he risked sticking his head up again, before rising back into a dignified position. He could see the looks in his minions eyes, testing his weakness. He snapped some commands and snarled at any underlings who would dare take advantage of his recently prone state, who quickly displaced their throats in a gesture of servitude. If he didn't have more pressing concerns, he would have torn said throats out of at least three of them to ensure that they didn't try anything funny.

"Skurn! Get your fool-hide over here now," Gnawfang snarled, watching as his prized fangleader scurried towards him, shoving lesser skaven aside with his bulk.

"Yes- yes oh most despicable of tyrants?" Skurn asked, reloading his warplock pistol and firing, dropping a rival moaning to the floor. The fangleader chittered inwardly; he would just chalk it up to the poor, noble Skib being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"How much longer will this fight-battle last-stay?"

Skurn shrugged, and then Gnawfang's glare and snarl suggested that it would be highly in the interest of his continued survival to come up with some form of an answer.

"Dwarf-things are stubborn and stupid-fools. They do not yield. They do no tremble under the might of Gnawfang," Skurn said, cringing and trying his best to look like just another weakling whelp, who wouldn't dare try to usurp the warlord.

Gnawfang brought the handle of his halberd crashing down onto Skurn's snout, who yelped and began to rub it. Tears almost sprung up into his eyes, but through sheer willpower (and healthy attention to his own survival), he kept them back, ignoring the pain.

"Everybody trembles at Warlord Gnawfang!" Gnawfang snarled at a trembling Skurn.

"Yes-yes oh most despicable of despots. Dwarf-things are packed tightly together. Weak-stupid clanrats and fool slaves can't get through their shield wall,"

Gnawfang paused. Even though he hated to admit it, he could see that the battle was going badly. Why, he could see places not occupied by ratmen. At this point in the battle he would pull time time-honoured tactic of tactically retreating in order to preserve his glory for the greater benefit of Skavendom. For the worthless dregs around him it would be an honour to lay down their lives for the continued survival of one of, no the greatest, warlord in Skavendom. He would have, except there was no hope in Hell-Pit that he'd turn his back on an underling with a gun. Only fool-meat would be so stupid as to pull something like that. Cursing the tinker-rat who decided to give the loathsome oath such a weapon, he cast his gaze around his army, hoping to spy something to carve a hole into the ranks of the dwarfs. A grin curled on his lips as he saw the grey-robed, ram-horned form of Grey Seer Kraddle. He was raising is staff high and ushering his minions forward for the glory of the Great Horned Rat.

"Kraddle! For the glory of the horned one, move-come over here-here!" Gnawfang commanded, watching as the seer picked his way over the rocks and to his side, charms dangling on his staff.

"Yes-yes Gnawfang?" Kraddle asked. Being a chosen of the Horned Rat, he saw no reason to flatter the warlord.

"Use magic-spells! Cast apart the ranks of the dwarf-things! Break apart their fool-hide shields! Show them to fear Clan Scrak!"

The grey seer nodded, then pointed his staff at the dwarfern shield wall, whispering mental prays to his god. A tingling sensation ran through Gnawfang's fur and for one terrible moment of dawning comprehension he thought that maybe Kraddle had decided to place hex on him, but he soon felt the energy wash over him. He then looked at the dwarfen line and frowned. There wasn't even a single dead dwarf Useless half-baked, half-witted, half-brained, half, prophet of the Horned One! He jabbed a claw at the seer's breast.

"Trying to make Gnawfang look-seem like a fool-fool hmm?" Gnawfang threatened, wanting to snap the horns off the seer.

"Wait!" Kraddle squealed, pointing towards the dwarfen ranks, "Look-see at dwarf-things!"

Gnawfang didn't place the seer in a chokehold, but instead glared at him and peered at the ranks of dwarfs and raised his eyebrows. He saw that the dwarfen armour was crumbling. He saw the iron rust before his eyes and flake away, near invincible plates of gromril break on the spears of his clanrats. Their shields now splintered and broke apart with ease as the otherwise cheap spears of the skaven broke their shields like a hammer upon glass. The clanrats were taking advantage of the sudden turn in the tides of battle. Vast outnumbers in addition to a vulnerable and weak foe made the skaven almost brave. They crawled over the dwarfs, stabbing the bellies of their hated foes with a mixture of glee and spite.

Kraddle then pointed his staff forward again and then an enormous bolt of green warp-lightning sprung from its tip, arcing toward the dwarfen lines. It rent smouldering holes of flesh and iron through the torsos of the dwarf ranks. Gnawfang twitched his nose and could smell the burning flesh of plenty of dead skaven and dwarfs. He looked at the now lacking dwarf formation and saw that barely a handful of dwarfs remained, outnumbered hundreds to one. He tightened his grip on his halberd and licked his fangs in glee.

Now it was time to enter the fight.