Rare Units
Mecha-Rats: Leagues' machinery makes for a fixed presence into Deepkin military, but the special corps of the Mech-Rats bring it to an all-new level.
Selected amongst great warriors that have sustained crippling injuries or from volunteers, these bold soldiers are given mechanical augmentations, consisting into limbs and other body parts replaced with mechanical prosthesis. The replacements usually consist of a strong, over-sized arm that it's used into close combat, an in-built ranged weapon in the other arm, usually a projectile-based type, a central generator that provide energy and a super-heavy technological armor that connect everything together. Replaced legs usually accomodate spring-loaded thrusters or pistons that can be overloaded for bursts of speed. Of course, this is only the standard array. There is a bewildiring number of possible modifications, ranging across spring-loaded weapons, flame and gas-throwers, lightining coils, retractable shields, hidden instruments, additional pistons for more hitting powers or massive guns for devastating firepower.
Equipped with all this array, each Mecha-Rat is less a soldier and more a walking death machine. His strikes are strong enough to crumple steel and his armor cannot be pierced by anything less than a cannonball, while the ranged weapons he bears can punch a hole into a gallopping Chaos Knight, the projectile barely slowing down. All this power comes with a price in resource and maintenance, and each Mech-Rat is considered a true investment by the Deepkin lords, that deploy them with the utmost caution.
Still, when they are unleashed on the battlefield, the Mecha-Rats are truly a force to behold. Clad in their exotic steam-armors, they charge into loose formation, a dizzying array of clanking soldiers, their weapons crackling with power, trailing smoke from their exhaust pipes. Their chittering raises together with the whirling of gears, the puffing of steam and the chugging of pistons. They make for a strange rather than fearsome sight, but once they reach the enemies, the carnage they give out dispel any doubt about their power. Little can be said about a cyborg Skaven that can punch a Bloodletter's head straight off his neck.
All soldiers of extremely high skill, the Mecha-Rats are known for their eccentricities. Maybe it's the wounds they have suffered, maybe it's the trauma for having their body replaced with cold metal, or it's the wild power they now have at their fingertips. Whatever the reason is, Mecha-Rats are prone to introspection, sentimentality and, often, depression. Many of them cultivate at least some form of hobby, be it music or philosophy, a trait that the authorities encourage. In fact, in addiction to the small army of Engineers needed to keep maintenance, a large complement of medics and other personnel is given just to their care, so that they can learn to cope with their new existencies.
Still, whatever doubt gnaw at them, the cause they fight for remains untouched in their mind. The Mecha-Rats are all deeply pious, famously so. In defence of their Goddess, they will charge fearlessly on the battlefield, steam, metal, flesh and soul fierce into the fight against the enemies of the Under-Kingdom.
Tharrek watched the wall behind the great altar, from where the Goddess' image peered upon Her faithful with a comforting smile. A column of soft light descended from the windows, golden and pure despite the rich colours it had to traverse.
Tharrek hesitated, his metal knees scraping against the wood of the pew. He felt divine armony come from the light, an embrace just waiting for him, a blessing that would douse the fire that haunted his war-torn frame.
He wanted to run to it, to let himself be embraced, but fear kept him. On what merit could a lowly sinner like him step to divine soothing? The Mother gave her love without asking for nothing, he knew that well, and still…
The fear of being unworthy, of sullying that sublime light with his flesh corrupted by metal and fire. It contorted his guts into a hard knot and robbed his limbs of strenght. He couldn't… he just couldn't.
The sound of the door of the church being opened brought him back from his thoughts. He recognized the lithe steps of Warlord Zurak. They advanced into the antechamber, then stopped. The warlord waited for him to finish his prayers.
Tharrek thought about it, then nodded to himself.
The Warlord came to call him to war. He would anser and that would be his offering. Blood and fire and life spilt upon muddied ground.
He gave a last bow to the light, before getting up, the pew squeaking under the weight of his iron frame. As he stomped away, paying attention to not leave indents into the ornated floor, Tharrek asked for forgiveness to the Mother, for the umpteenth time. But he would return, this he woved.
Once he was purified from his unworthiness by the crucible of war, once his sinner soul was washed clean by the blood of Her enemies. Then, he would return and let Her forgiveness embrace him. Then, the haunting pain would cease, and he'd pray and cry and shout and rejoice into jubilation, nestled into the bosom of the ever-loving Mother that could forgive even an unworthy son like him.
Molerion: The Moler is the faithful companion of the Deepkin Skaven, and whoever the Under-Kingdom threads the animal is sure to be, working as a pack mule or war mount. It's a partnership that began with the first settlers of Haven and the Deepkin have learned much about this prized creature since. They learned how the Molers are born into large litters, already furred and mobile, and what types of mushrooms to feed the mothers, so that the pups suckling from them grow strong and large. They learned how, when the mating season comes, the males sing, attracting the females to become their mates. They learned much about them, almost everything, and in doing so, they learned how to change them also.
Every time a generation of Warmolers is born, trainers, Mages, priests and herders get together and examine the litters. They search for runts, but also for strong pups. From time to time, they find some that are extremely large and powerful, and bear the signs of the Goddess. These pups are isolated and subjected to rituals, the blessing of the Goddess is called upon them, uninterruptedly. Without fail, the pup start to grow, quickly surpassing every other Moler for size, so much that squads of herders and an entire herd of nursing females are to be given for its care.
When its growth stops, the once-small pup has become a Molerion. A Molerion is large as a building, with paws wide enough to flatten bears under it and claws as long and thick as a spears, so fat and mighty that it can wrestle a Giant to the ground. Thick armor plates, worthy of an armored ships, are fitted to its bulk, making it into a terrifying engine of war. An unleashed Molerion makes for a terrible sight, a ponderous, enormous monster that explode into a frenzy of claws and fangs, moving with a speed that belies its vast size even as it crush everything around it with its massive bulk. In battle, the Molerion are used as extremely efficent shock weapon, shrugging off blows that could pierce a fortress gate even as they smash their way through the enemy ranks, sending broken bodies flying everywhere. Warlords, Ur-Shaskar and Great Fathers are known to use them as mounts, as, to its friends, the Molerion still offers the same placidity of its smaller cousins.
To its enemies, instead, its a true terror, a monster risen from the deep to swallow anything that walks under the sun.
Turgon knew many things.
He knew of love, learned when he was small and young and nestled into the box full of hay, the Little Mothers' beating hearts and warmth close to him.
He knew of strenght, learned when he had grown too big for the barn to contain him, and had to go around hunched to not scrape his back against the ceiling.
He knew of restlesness, learned when he had to stay still while the Small Friends scurried all around him, cutting his fur and nails so that they didn't grow too much.
He knew of faith, learned when the Radiant One came into his sleep, singing to him with Her pretty voice.
Now, with the noises and the small figures around him, he understands that he knows other things. He feels the Small Friend on his back, shouting his fierceness as he waves his long stick around, and understands bravery. He watches the Red Anger before him, sees the bloodied axe and long whip he wields. The Red in him licks his skin like flame, making his fur stand up, and he understands that he knows of fear.
But, he knows other things also, and they are greater than fear. He knows of enemy and of things that cannot be forgiven, no matter what.
And so, mighty Turgon rages alongside the Little Friend, and their wraths and spirits are as one. And as one they fight the Monster, for the Little Mothers, for the Small Friends, for the Radiant One that comes when you sleep.
Gargant: The iron pinnacle of the Leagues' technology, the Gargant is a marvel like none other, mixing magic and technology on a scale unprecedented.
Long has gone the rivarly between the Leagues of the Mage-Engineers and the dreaded Warlocks of Skyre. Seeking to outdo their twisted counterparts once and for all and to provide their King with a weapon of unsurpassing power, the Leagues pooled all their resources into a single, colossal project. Their works lasted decades and drained enormous resources, but the the result was a stunning success, the Gargant.
Tall as a Giant, the Gargant is a gargantuan metal construct in a vague humanoid form. It stumbles forward on three legs, steam jetting out of dozens of pipes together with the sounds of pistons, gears and clanking engines. Inside, a small army of Engineers and their assistants scurry across tight tunnels carved amidst the whirling mechanisms, never stopping in their labor to keep the machine under control. As levers are pulled and cranks frantically turned, the iron monstrosity raises its arms, bringing its weapons to bear. The Tesla Conductor on an arm shoot crackling gouts of power that incinerate everything they touch, leaving naught but scorched earth in their wake. On the other arm, an oversized flamethrower spit out liquid death, roasting into ruin all those unfornate enough to get caught by the flames. A series of cannons stand on rotating platforms on the shoulders, while dozens of slits allow for soldiers to fire with muskets and crossbow, effectively making the Gargant a walking fortress.
Such a monster doesn't come cheap and so only a handful of Gargant exist today, but this is only a minor incovenience, as even one of these monstrous constructs is enough to lay waste to armies.
Mage-Engineer Rrrikit hummed as she peered into the spyglass. Her hands danced on the commands around her like they were possessed by their own life, pulling levers, pushing buttons, rotating dials, never stopping for more than an instant.
"Ma'am?" Said a startled voice from a megaphone studded into a wall of the cabine. "Tertiary conductor is starting to splinter!
"It's okay, it's okay." She replied.
"Ma'am?" Said another voice from another megaphone. "Second central boiler is starting to lose pressure!"
"It's fine, it's fine."
"Ma'am?" Third voice, third megaphone. "Cracks into the articulation of the left leg!"
"It's fine, it's fine."
Rrrikit let out a satisfied chittering, then she grabbed a long microphone and barked into it: "Fire!"
Half a second later, the Greater Daemon of Nurgle she had had the displeasure of watching was bombarded by a dozen of cannonballs and exploded with a satisfied squelch, sending guts and tainted flash raining down like an especially gruesome living volcano.
Rrrkit conceded herself a moment of stop, laying back against her seat with a relieved sigh.
"Well, that was a good work. Good job everyone!" She said, then with a cheerful tone: "Now let's bail before this grinder explode!"
"You said that it was fine!" Was the simultaneous, startled answer from all three the megaphones.
Rrrikit laughed. Well, it was going to be fine as long as they managed to make repairs, well, quickly enough, so she hadn't totally lied. And then, just the satisfaction of seeing all those stinkies from up there, and being able to stomp them underfoot, was worthy the danger, as much as she was concerned.
Ah, young'uns needed to learn to enjoy things more.
The Chosen: Divine influences wars inside the Deepkin soul, twisting and merging like currents of waters under the surface of the sea. The Horned Rat's mark cannot be escaped completely and each generation sees it rise to the surface. The Oathsworn are its fruits, but they aren't the only ones. Sometimes, the powers of the Mother and the Fallen Father emerge into a far more unstable form, one that not even life-long training and divine magic can put under fetters. Its scions are the Chosen.
From birth, they are different, not in body, but in soul. The Mother and the Horned Rat's influences war inside of them, twisting them with conflicting impulses. As they grow, the Chosen are wracked with peaks of love and hatred for their kin, of thrust unconditioned and unreasonable paranoia. Many go crazy, others survive by isolating themselves, their hearts tearing apart for their forced exile. Only the strongest of will and mind manage to remain close to their families and only these unlock their potential. As years fo by, the energies of the souls around them conflict with their tattered spirits, making the divine influnces surge in growing conflict. By the time they reach adulthood, the Chosen's bodies start to break apart under the strain. Lightnings of power explode from spontaneous wounds, red light comes out from eyes and mouths, fur falls and skin breaks, bleeding wrathful light instead of blood. The Chosen cannot even search for comfort from his kin, as his condition makes dangerous for others to stand around him.
No Shaskar, medic or mage can help them, the warring energies out of the league of any mortal practioner. Only indications for a journey can be given, and these instructions the unfortunate feel resonate deeply with a call they find inside of their souls.
And it is so that the Chosen leave home and family and embark into a pilgrimage. It is a long, hard road, made harder by wracking visions and failing bodies. But no pilgrim accept help or comfort, the call roaring inside of them a sireen call that they don't want to share.
Eventually, they reach an old realm, deep into the earth where light never shone. There, they find a lonely castle, its great doors already opened into welcome. The Demigod Lord Shadow makes its residence there and all pilgrims that come he takes as his own sons and daughters.
Artifices of divine and dark might are wrought inside that black court and when the castle doors swings open once again, the Chosen marches forth, changed in mind, soul and body. The failing wretch is gone, it's place taken by a massive Skaven bound into a ferrous shell of plates and gears and pistons that strides forward. The energies that treatened to rip him apart are tamed into iron certainty, their powers filling his eyes with wrathful light, sparkles dancing around his fists. The very air around him thrums with his power.
With no need for indications, the Chosen makes his way to a battlefield. He appears to the Deepkin camp and, amongst the fear and confusion of his kin, strides to where the Warlord is. To him, he kneels before, wordlessly offering his assistance. That help is never refused, as a Chosen wields power fitting for a demigod. He can single-handedly destroy enemy formations, his blows backed by supernatural might as he crumples armor and bone with hammer-like fists. Enemies foolish enough to attack him finds their weapons breaks uselessly against his armor, or are vaporized by the storm of energies raging around him. Those same energies the Chosen wield to deadly effect, unleashing bolts of pure power that strike with the strenght of the comet even as they explode into tremendous discharges that sizzles flesh and melt metal.
On the battlefield, the Chosen strides like a true god of war, his might such that only the most powerful beings can stand before him.
No Warlord refuse the help from these titans, but much distrust is given their way. More than fear for that terrible power, the Warlords and the Shaskar distrust the demigod that send them to war. Lord Shadow is a mysterious figure in the Under-Kingdom, a divine spirit associated with darkness, hubrys and murder. Little is known about him, but the power of his children makes any magically-attuned skaven shiver, the darkness in it unmistakable. Still, the Goddess speaks for him and the Chosen are too powerful to be passed out, and so that distrust is kept at bay in favor of more practical matters. Many noticed how none of the Chosen has ever even tried to find his way back to his family and home, but none dared to approach the topic until now.
Ripchik pushed himself up another step and stopped to catch her breath.
There was not a single point of her body that wasn't aflame with pain. Every breath was an intake of agony and an expulsion of agony. Pain wasn't only a costant companion. It had become the center of her existence. It had defined her anew, molded her into something feral and dark. Should she return home, she had no doubt, none would recognize her.
Ripchik swallowed, her body contorting even to manage that simple gesture, the glob of spit and blob making its presence known all the way back.
She leaned against her staff, panting heavily. A stray thought went to her conditions and she repressed a shudder that would wrack her with more pain with practiced ease.
She had stopped taking care of herself a long time ago. She hadn't ever replaced the bandages that covered her body from head to toes from that time she had found that her flesh sloughed out with them. Ripchik wondered if they were the only things still keeping her together. Or maybe it was her curse, or the blessing of the Mother. She couldn't bring herself to care anymore.
Only the pain and the path mattered. Nothing else had importance.
Materially, it wasn't a problem. She seemed to have ascended from the limitations of the flesh. Thirst, sleep, hunger, she had almost forgotten what they felt like. Only the pain and the path. Nothing else.
With a stuttered breath, she brought herself up another step. It was enough to sap all her strenght, and she had to stop again.
Her vision swam, her thoughts mizing with memories of a blurred past and things that she wasn't supposed to know.
The Time before the Unification. A would-be King. Thirst, so much thirst. Eternal hunger.
She pushed herself up again. Only the pain, and the path. She had to see its end, no matter what. It had started as a promise of deliverance from agony. Now, she barely remembered why she walked, only that she had.
She had seen things in her journey in the dark, murals etched where nothing lived, secret meanings hidden into the blood of the earth and the dust of ghosts. And the story it had told her.
Thirst that brought more thirst. More than a God. A Kingdom hidden from the light, rejecting light. A King forgotten by history. Songs. Terrible things wrought into the dark and sanctified by blood. Never done before. Blasphemy upon blasphemy. Raising dark, snatching at those that would befoul the world. And then…
The stairs were finished. Ripchik found herself on a large landing, cut from stone. A massive set of doors stood before her, opened in welcome, bleeding darkness. And before them a tall figure, darker than dark.
"Lord Shadow." She murmured, words coming to her lips without no prompt from her.
The voice of Lord Shadow was the flowing of river in the darkness of the earth. "Daughter, lost, forgotten, broken. Why have you come?"
Ripchik didn't remember, but still words came to her. "Father, i have come home."
Lord Shadow watched her in silence, the moment like the endless istant of the buried. He spread his arms wide, and it was like the night covering the world. "Into darkness wrought into darkness and blossomed into hearts, welcome home, my daughter. Your family awaits."
Ripchik bowed her head. Letting go of the staff of the pilgrim, she went into the arms of his new father, and into the darkness of the castle.
The doors closed, and only silence remained into the ruined Kingdom, waiting for a new prince to come.