The thrums of stormvermin training awoke the large, muscular rat sitting in his throne, his dark red armor void of any shine, and of dirt. His personal guard, a rat in bright red armor, the legendary Queek Headtaker, servant of Gnawdwell of Clan Mors. Gnawdwell let loose a tremendous sigh, letting his eyes drift to his apprentice. Queek merely stared at the large, rotten doors that led into the throne room, with several pillars devoid of any personalization, with a long, dark red carpet leading to his throne, like any normal human castle. Gnawdwell couldn't help but compare Queek to him, they were nothing alike, yet he considered the black furred, genocidal maniac his son, most likely to a fill a void that was formed years ago. Of course, how could he forget that gruesome day? One of the few people that made him care about anything other than his own skin, taken away before he could fully enjoy their company.

"Gnawdwell! Gnawdwell!"

A rat in pitch black, wearing a mask of the same color. The marks on the rats left ear told him everything that he needed to know about him.

"What is it you want, Eshin?" Gnawdwell had dealt with Clan Eshin before, on numerous occasions, luckily he always had Queek by his side at all times.

"Speak quickly, before I decide you are food for the ogres!" Gnawdwell was not known for his patience, but he always tried to restrain his outbursts, his troops always silently thanked him, even if they didn't know it.

"A skaven-fool had gotten himself captured-taken by man-things! The Council Of Thirteen demands you send several battalions of your best-good clanrats, or stormvermin to deal-kill the rat-idiot!" As the rat chattered incessantly about the rat-fool, he passed the parchment to Queek, who came this close to chopping off the Eshin's head.

"But why me, why not another smaller clan?" Queek expressed Gnawdwell's frustration by tearing apart one of the many skavenslaves working as his servants into many pieces, with his weapon Dwarf Gouger, a pickaxe made of gromril that could wreak havoc on his foe's armor.

"You are the closest-near to the rat, he hides in Altdorf with the man-thing called Balthasar, you must make haste-scurry, for their man-thing leaders have discovered him-him!"

"Very well, run along Eshin, Queek is getting hungry…" Not wanting to be devoured by the Headtaker, the Eshin promptly left the throne room. Gnawdwell slumped in his ornately decorated throne, the only thing that he bothered to even paint and make it look somewhat bearable to look at.

"Master Warlord, must-must we heed coward's command? He stinks of musk-fear!" Queek made sure to emphasize his point by impaling a skavenslave in the skull with Dwarf Gouger.

"An order from the Council must not be taken lightly, Queek, even I have to listen to them." Queek merely sulked beside Gnawdwell, not wanting to anger his master by speaking back. Gnawdwell could see what was gnawing at his ever loyal companion, so he quickly sent him away to gorge himself on the finest of meats, well, he wouldn't call eating his own kind the finest meat available. Growing tired of his obnoxious looking throne, he quickly settled onto the stone cold floor, and walked over to the end of the room, revealing a wooden door with a golden doorknob. He twisted the doorknob and walked into the small, cramped room, but it exuded an aura of homeliness to him, a sense of belonging, something that he barely felt.

He let out an enormous sigh, taking in the beauty of the room, it had brought back memories of what used to be his life, but not all of the memories were exactly full of joy. The room itself contained a lone bed, sized for a large man, several candles placed upon the nightstand next to it, and a table with a large candle in the middle, presumably the dining table. There were no windows, of course, this was underground, but yet he could feel the warmth of the sun on him, unlike other skaven, he didn't mind the sun, in fact, he loved it more than inhaling the dangerous gasses that flew around the warrens.

But something else caught his beady red eye, a thin photo encased in glass, with the edges being covered in the purest of gold. The picture displayed him, without his ominous armor on, and two others, a small brown ratling, and an elven maid, with bright purple eyes, and blonde hair, and like other elves, she had elongated ears with sharp points at the end of them. He couldn't bear the pain, even after a few months, which to skaven was a couple of years, he still hurt whenever he saw that dreaded picture, always reminding him of the day they died. He picked up the near weightless picture, and stared at it, longingly.

Don't tell me you miss them Gnawdwell, you knew this was going to happen, Orion was never kind to skaven even before the marriage.

"That doesn't make it hurt any less, Carnage." The voice in his head tried to make some points, but Gnawdwell didn't care, why should he? He just wanted his family back, nothing more, if he could, he'd kill his entire clan, even his loyal bodyguard just to see them again, even if it was for a tiny moment.

You are the reason they died Gnawdwell, you lost control, you lost your temper, and in your failure, they died.

"Be quiet, you never loved them, not as I did."

Me? Falling in love? Ha, you're quite a good jokester Gnawdwell! Like all emotions, love makes us weak, it makes us soft, it makes us vulnerable, I did only what was needed to survive.

Gnawdwell felt tears rise to his eyes, wetting his pitch black fur, making a tiny sound as they hit the wooden floorboards that had been rotted away by the passage of time.

Even now you feel guilt, remorse, but why? You knew what would happen if you used me, everything comes with a price, out of all the people in the world, I expect you to know that the best.

"Quiet, please…"

Why don't we go back to that day, Gnawdwell? Why don't we see what your actions had done to help them?

He wiped away the tears from his eyes, but then he found himself in a grassland, trees abundant with life, with the leaves and branches swaying both in the air and in the wind. A small little cottage, covered in green vines, tiny tree saplings, and bright colored flowers. A place that Gnawdwell would've loved to go to, a place where he wanted to go to pay his respects, but he couldn't bring himself to it, always making an excuse why he shouldn't go, but now that he saw it, he was only filled with a sense of regret and dread.

You're not the only one who can access the Winds, Gnawdwell. With just a little stream of magic, you can basically do anything you want, well, except end the world.

"Why?" Despite his persistent thought process of avoiding the cottage, he just ignored them, tossed them aside as he got closer to the small little house.

Why? Is that it? That's the only question you have? Well, I don't need to answer it, you're almost there.

He saw a small brown ratling, and the blonde elven maid, at this he was elated, but upon closer inspection, he saw they were only illusions. Gnawdwell could hear the screaming, the shouting in the house, he knew who was in there, and what was about to happen. He looked away from the illusions, ignoring them as he walked into the house, but deep down, he knew this was all of his fault.

"I won't let you take them! Even if I have to burn down Athel Loren!" Gnawdwell gazed upon himself, wearing the same dark red armor, but he seemed slightly shorter than before.

"The Gods forbid this, Gnawdwell, species should not intermingle, much less elf and skaven!" The man had legs of a bull, curved horns, and he was approximately nine feet tall, overshadowing Gnawdwell's height, who was seven feet tall, a common height for black furred skaven, or more commonly known as Mighty Ones.

"I don't care about the Gods! Much less yours!" The illusion spat on the floor in front of the shimmering Orion.

"You've crossed the line this time, Gnawdwell, and for that, you must pay in blood!" Orion seemingly materialized a spear in his hand and threw it straight into the rat's chest. Even the real Gnawdwell could feel the pain as if it had just happened. He found it weird to stare at his dead body, knowingly that just in a few moments, the tragedy would commence. The elven maid peeked into the cottage, only to see a shimmering Orion over a near dead Gnawdwell, tearing out the spear embedded in his chest.

"You should have listened, Gnawdwell, now your son will live without a father."

Lies. All of them were lies, the same murky red sludge that had covered his body all of those months back were right in front of him, the same thing he always hated with fiery compassion. It was supposed to be a blessing, but instead it became a curse, he never wanted Carnage, but he came all the same.

"And you should have run when you had the chance!" Carnage grabbed a hold of Orion's neck, strangling him into submission, his head nearly broke through the roof, but fortunately like him, he was able to hunch back his full size. Orion desperately clawed at the giant red hands, but it was all in vain, as Carnage threw him around like he was nothing but a ragdoll.

"You will die elf, just like I have killed your kind before, and I won't stop, even if I have been shot, skewered, stabbed, or doused in flames, I will bring Carnage to this world, even if it means slaughtering my own family." Carnage threw down the limpless body of his foe, his fangs agonizingly waiting to eat.

"You can't do this, even if he wants to take me away, I still have to listen to him!" Carnage turned his bulky, muscular head to set his eyes upon his prey.

"Then you shall take his place."

Gnawdwell sat in a corner, watching himself tear apart his wife, devouring her corpse greedily, tossing organs and limbs away as if they meant nothing to him. He saw his son in the far distance, running as far as his tiny legs could take him. Once the illusion was done, the murky red sludge receded back into Gnawdwell, who realized what he had done.

"No! No! No! This can't be happening, you promised me you would handle it!"

"You wanted him gone, you never specified how." This was all an illusion, but why did it felt so real? He wanted to leave, he wanted to stop this, but he couldn't bring himself to do it, he had to see what he did at the end. The illusion of Gnawdwell, instead of grieving, rummaged in a closet, pulling out a musket with a bayonet at the end of the barrel. He tossed it away and continued searching for the item in the closet for a good solid minute when at last he found what he needed in order to repent for his crimes. A small warplock pistol, stronger than most imperial firearms. Skaven runes were etched onto the pistol, but the illusion didn't care, he merely pointed the gun at one of the sides of his head, with his finger twitching on the trigger. Gnawdwell looked away, he knew what was going to happen, he was too much of a coward to do it, his survival instincts wouldn't let him pull the trigger, this feeling he knew all too well.

The illusion tossed the gun into a wall, shattering it into pieces, as he fell onto his knees, and howled cries of agony, pain, but the one cry that was louder than the rest was his guilt, he was supposed to protect his family, not end them. In the end, Gnawdwell walked out of the house with his broken illusion, eyes void of any emotion, except his shame and remorse of course. The illusion wasn't going to leave her lifeless body there, but he knew he couldn't take her back to the clan warrens, so he did what he thought was close enough to a burial. With a snap of his finger, a tree was lit on fire, the fire voraciously eating away at the tree, and spreading throughout the entire grassland. He walked away, meeting one the many skaven tunnels leading back into Clan Mor's headquarters, and with one final glance he said goodbye to the burning cottage, and delved deep into the tunnel, making sure to leave no trace that he was ever there.

Gnawdwell was hungry for air on the bed, realizing that he had come back to reality, he rushed out of the cramped little room, and dug into a box behind his throne, grabbing a hold of a large bottle, and chugged it all down, spilling all of its contents on his armor.

Stop it! That can make fire!

"Whoop-de-do, like I care." Gnawdwell tossed away the bottle, only to ran face first into Queek.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Master? You smell-musk weird, have you been stealing-drink man-thing ale?"

"Preposterous, as if I'-" Gnawdwell let out a burp, and started giggling at his little accident.

"It is forbidden to drink-steal ale from man-things! It makes skaven lose focus-kill power in battle, and in planning-coordination!" Queek found Gnawdwell's box of goodies, and promptly tried to dump them away.

"No, wait! I mean, ahem, as your master, I demand you to give me that box!" Queek turned his head and stared into his master's red eyes, which were unfocused, his attention was all over the place, the scent of his breath exuding an odor of ale.

"The Council can screw-send themselves to hell!" Queek grabbed a bottle from the box in his grasp and chugged it all down, just like Gnawdwell had.

"Now we're talking, how about he go down and remind the lads who are the bosses of this warren?"

"Sounds grea-" Queek hiccuped, which sent the two into a flurry of laughter, and placed one of their arms over each other, and walked out of the throne room.

A few hours later, Gnawdwell awoke on a pile of unconscious rat bodies, along with the Headtaker, who had just barely begun to wake up. Reluctantly, Gnawdwell groggily stood up from the mound, but it was hard to get a footing on top dozens of rats.

"What happened last night? Or was it the day? Ugh, I can't remember right now…" Gnawdwell made sure to mind where he placed his footing, he didn't want to lose a foot to a weakling. Once he got to Queek, he grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him violently, causing his armor to make several clangs.

"Huh? I swear I no drink man-thing ale Grey Seer-lord!" Gnawdwell looked at the Mighty One strangely but proceeded to jump off the mound of bodies, with Queek not far behind.

"What are we-we doing master-kill the man-things, eat rat-fool?"

"I'll think about it."

The two walked down the street if Gnawdwell could even call it a street. The so-called buildings of skaven ingenuity produced horrifying sights that could kill an engineer, buildings were tilted, the sidewalks were shambled together with mud, dirt, stone, whatever was on hand was used. But then there was the buildings plagued by skaven, the buildings they never really bothered to tear down, buildings made by dwarfs, elves, even humans. The two walked in silence to a part of the Clan Mors Headquarters, a place with a certain reputation.

"So-so, we no speak of party-thing?"

"What party?"

Queek didn't understand what he meant, but he went along with it. Gnawdwell let out a sigh at his incompetent bodyguard, but he did have a certain murderous charm. There was one thing that Gnawdwell knew for certain that his kind liked, and that was keeping trophies of their successes, but he thought Queek took it a bit too far. Whenever his loyal companion would chop off a enemies head off, he would impale it on a spike on his back, proudly displaying it to his comrades.

"Hurry up, the Council is getting impatient."

"Council is here-here? Queek will display trophies for all to admire-fear!"

Gnawdwell smiled, not for Queek's interest to show off his trophies, but the fact he could send fear through the Council. Once they had arrived at the headquarters, they didn't such a warm welcome. Immediately, Gnawdwell wished it wasn't heresy to kill a Grey Seer.

"Fool-fool! You are late, you are always like this, do you not care for what the Horned rat says?" Gnawdwell grunted in frustration, whenever the Grey Seers could, they always played the religion card, it always gained their favor, and might cause the other to be humiliated in public if he declines his offer.

"I have pledged myself to the Horned Rat, I will never break my vow, and I will spread Ruin and Decay in his name." Gnawdwell didn't really care much for spreading Ruin and Decay for the Horned Rat, but again, Grey Seers are the messengers, and they cannot be ignored. Though his fingers did itch on the hilt of his sword.

"We must make plan to kill man-things, bring the rat fool here and execute him promptly, he brings heresy to our race!"

"'O yes, most intelligent and cunning Grey Seer." One of the greatest weapons an underling could use to calm down his superior whenever he goes into a fit of rage, flattery always made skaven bask in the glow of the who said that even if he was being sarcastic. Luckily for him, the Grey Seer took this as a sign of submission and invited the rest of the rats who the council sent to plan out the execution. A rat in a dark hood, completely black eyes entered the room along with a rat who looks like he spent a bit too long near the plague, several of his fingers had fallen off, and one of his eyes was rotted to the point where it looked like mush replaced it. Finally, a rat completely covered in metal, along with a gas tank at the back entered last, probably the most submissive one.

"This is Meek, Death Runner of Clan Eshin, Rawat, Plague Priest of Clan Pestilens, and Ratata, Warlock Engineer of Clan Skryre, these three will aid you in the capture of the rat."

"Thank you, the most generous and intelligent prophet of the Horned Rat."

Gnawdwell looked over at his "allies", who most likely would stab him in the back at the best chance they could.

"I will now leave you four to settle this, the Council demands this to be done with precision! Do not come back if you reek the stench of failure!" With that, the Grey Seer vanished in an explosion of smoke. Gnawdwell looked over at his new companions, who were already trying to kill each other at the moment. If only stares could kill people with enough murderous intent.

"Welp, I'll leave you three alone for a few hours, while you do that, I'll muster up my clanrats and stormvermin, and then I'll fill you in the plan." Gnawdwell didn't care about their answer, nor did he give them enough time to say anything, as he came sprinting out of the headquarters just to get away from the horrible stench of the Plague Priest. Queek, who prevented anyone from going in by standing in front of the door, was barely able to react in time to get out of his warlord's way, as he bursted out the door, several rats casted curious glances seeing the fearsome Headtaker desperately trying to catch his master. Gnawdwell didn't dare stop until he arrived at his throne room, with Queek stumbling near him, gasping for air. Gnawdwell didn't break a single sweat.

"M-master, why the sprinting? I am good-good in combat, not running-sneaking!"

"I apologize..? Anyway, I need you to guard the entrance to the throne room, I must grab something from my personal quarters." Without uttering a single world, Queek obeyed his warlord, as Gnawdwell went back into his own personal hell. Yet someone was waiting for him, it wasn't hard to notice since he was sitting on his throne, with two hammers gently leaning on one side of the throne, he exuded an aura of fascination, but it didn't really affect Gnawdwell, probably because he didn't care. The man was clad in armor, with several brands of Sigmar printed on each plate, the symbol looked like an orange hammer with orange wings sprouting from the sides, a god praised by the men of the Empire, but that was all Gnawdwell knew about him. He didn't take interest in learning about cultures that he was going to make go extinct soon.

"We meet again, Gnawdwell." The man shifted in the throne, trying his best to make it comfortable for himself, despite his armor being covered entirely in armor, he wore the helm of knights.

"What do you want? Do you want my soul, or to destroy my clan? Well? What is it!?" Gnawdwell despised this man, having met him before in different circumstances, and it didn't really end well for Gnawdwell, his underlings say the gods favor him, but he thinks they have a certain level of hatred for him.

"What more can you take from me? You introduced me to Him, and now I lost everything," Gnawdwell spat on the ground in front of the man in absolute anger. "What else do you want from me?"

"You are nothing, but a mere revenant, a spirit that is already dead, but doesn't realize it. If you had the guts to pull the trigger all of your suffering would end, but you didn't, because you knew it was wrong, even if it was the wrong choice." The man rose from the throne, barely any taller than Gnawdwell.

"Believe it or not, you have morals, just like your son."

"Don't you DARE bring him into this!" At this point, Gnawdwell wanted to rip off the man's head, he wanted to kill him, no, he didn't just want to kill him, he wanted the man to feel helpless as he strung his own guts across the floor, to see him in such agony and pain that would bring a smile to his face.

"At any point, that isn't the reason for my visit."

That seemed to calm down his murderous urges, letting his curiosity get the better of him.

"Then why are you here, if it is not to mock me?"

"I've come to deliver news, news that might bring you hope in your ever so sad existence."

Gnawdwell had wanted to interrupt the man by ripping out his throat, but he decided against it.

"I want you to pay attention closely because I will not say this again."

That perked Gnawdwell's ears, even if he was different from his kind, they always wanted to hear something they have never heard of before, even if the information is dangerous.

"Your son lives."

Gnawdwell felt several bells ringing loudly in his head, unable to process the information, as he stumbled towards the door, opening them with several years of pent up rage. As he thought more about it, the louder the bells rang, trying their best to tell him the information was false, that he shouldn't believe the man, but yet he felt what he said was true, for why would someone lie about that? Gnawdwell stumbled, and fell to the ground, showing a rage that Queek has never seen the likes of, much less seen. He could hear voices, screaming, shouting at him, no longer than did he feel anger, but guilt, the guilt of leaving his own flesh and blood to die in the wilderness, the wilderness he made into a wasteland.

"Master!"

Voices, all he could hear was ringing and voices, it was too much for him, he needed to beat the crap out of something, and he needed to do it now. He took a look at the marketplace if you could call it one. Something caught his attention, something that he could take the pleasure of slaughtering in combat. The warbeasts of Moulder had just arrived, and he was itching to kill one.

A rat ogre seemed tempting, but he had fought one bare-handed before, but something exotic caught his eye, one of the greatest creations made by the infamous Clan Moulder, the Hell-Pit Abomination.

"Master?"

"I need to go… release some pent up stress."

Queek didn't question further, for even he could see the rage welling up in his master, a rage that can only be extinguished in the heat of combat.

"Bring the abomination to the arena, I'm thirsting for blood."

'The a-abomination? Are you sure-sure?"

"Don't question me Queek, I am stronger than you know."

Queek reluctantly heeded his master's command and went out to gather the packmasters to aid him in moving the beast. Gnawdwell could smell the blood, the rage from here, he would do anything to keep his mind off of that particular subject, even if it meant death. From the cliff overlooking the market, he could see squadrons of packmasters being led by Queek, clamping their thing catchers around the beast's various limbs, dragging it screaming towards the giant dome building. Out of curiosity, rats started gathering behind the roaring abomination, even stormvermin came, even if they were disobeying orders. Gnawdwell made his way to the arena, a place where criminals, slaves, or warbeasts prove their worth. The horde of rats gathered into the makeshift bleachers, which didn't look at all reliable, after all, they looked rotten and decayed, just like how the ratmen liked it. Of course, the squadrons that were dragging the abomination didn't leave unscathed, several were murdered when one had released the thing catcher on one of its arms, luckily one had accidentally run into the arena, and promptly devoured the small rat, with the gate closing behind it. Gnawdwell walked past the maimed bodies, not really caring for them, as Queek joined the other stormvermin in the bleachers. The stadium itself was comprised of large walls made of steel, with several supports and staircases leading up to the seats on the sides.

One of Queek's most elite stormvermin, a Red Guard, turned to him.

"Who is fighting-die today?"

Queek remained silent, not wanting to indulge even his most trusted troops on the information. Peace before the storm, as people say, as when Gnawdwell walked into the arena, it became silent for a few seconds. Queek may have been not as bright as most other rats, but he knew when it was getting extremely tense, so he screamed out a random war chant repeatedly, which led to another repeating, then another, and then another, until the entire crowd started screaming, "FOR THE HORNED RAT!"

"Fools, all of them fools, mere children waiting to be praised." He'll slaughter them, he'll kill them all, shred them into tiny bits until there is nothing left, but him standing upon the mounds that their bodies made. Then he felt himself tremble, but not in fear of the monster in front of him, nor did he tremble in fear for anything. Could it be guilt, remorse, or something else? Gnawdwell didn't know, nor did he want to, maybe it was the bells in his head deterring his mind from his main goal, but he started to enjoy them, even if they made him ear deaf.

He glanced at the abomination, he could feel it's pain, suffering, it's primitive mind gasping for death, the reason why it did so great in combat, is because it wanted to feel the sweet release of death. Its existence causes it agonizing pain, so what could it do, then fight in a hopeless battle? But yet it all felt wrong, all of the feelings that the abomination made, felt like a masquerade, a mere lure to a trap.

Move it!

Gnawdwell was fast, even for a Mighty One, but the monster was faster, it turned its immense bulk around, reared back its head, and spewed forth rivers of flame from its maw. Gnawdwell could barely dodge the flames, but he had fallen into the trap of the beast, as he ended up impaled to the wall, with its solid steel blade, which replaced its hand.

"Dammit!"

The abominations jaws opened up, the heat was slowly rising, driving Carnage into a panic. The monster only drove the steel blade deeper into Gnawdwell's chest, who was taking this fairly well, for a giant blade being forcefully driven into his body.

Why did we even do this!?

I'll be honest with you, even I don't know.

So you don't know why you decided to fight a creature that breathes fire when our weakness is fire?!

Berate me how you want, but even this won't stop me.

Say that to the beast breathing fire in front of us.

How was I supposed to know these things breathe fire?

You were there when it was made!

Well, unless they added some new features, no Carnage, I didn't know.

The abomination poked Gnawdwell's head, but with no success, he got no response, he was too busy having an inner war with himself to even react to it.

Again, why are we doing this?

I don't know!

But why?

Thought you wanted to bring carnage upon the world, how are you going to do it if you're scared of fire?

Well, I- Shut up!

Exactly, even you can't commit to your goal, you're too afraid of facing something that is your weakness, something that could kill you, so you refuse to take it head-on.

But then why do you fight?

Because I also refuse to take my weakness head-on, for I am too afraid to face it.

You'd rather face a monster, then face… Him?

Guilt and regret are immeasurable, Carnage, sometimes even worse than pain, something you've never felt in your entire existence.

You don't know that…

Then tell me, Carnage! What do you regret, what weighs heavy upon you that makes you want to rip apart the world, that makes you want to tear it into tiny shreds?

The same thing that made you hate the world.

What?

The abomination was growing tired of the limpless ragdoll on its blade, so he did what every sane monster does, throwing the said body away like a pile of trash.

Oh crap, I forgot we were fighting a monster.

Gnawdwell finally returned back to reality, finally acknowledging the burning pain that was the hole in his chest, immediately coughing spurts of blood onto the yellow sand that covered the entire arena floor. He looked up to see the monster slowly moving towards him, gradually, he felt fear seeping into his mind.

This might seem desperate, but I think I need your help.

Alright.

What?

I already said alright, let's get this over with.

I thought you were scared of fire.

It is worse to die fearing something than to overcome it with death.

Gnawdwell felt the same strength he felt on that day, but this time, it was not overpowering, not thirsting for control, it merely wanted to help.

"About damn time."

The abominations steel blade and spiked iron ball erupted in flames, its tongue was wrapped in flames, idly dangling out of its maw, which Gnawdwell knew could end this fight if he took the full brunt of it head-on. As Gnawdwell became covered in the red sludge that painfully reminded of the slaughter he had done, but he did not have time to reminisce, nor did he have the time to feel.

The two beasts circled around each other, waiting for an opportunity to rip each other into shreds, a wrong move could mean either one of their deaths. Carnage, however, was never good at waiting games, growing ever more impatient as Gnawdwell just stared at the abomination. The abomination opened its gaping maw, and readied itself, as it let loose torrents of hot flame toward Gnawdwell, but he was able to react quickly, and tear apart of the ground below him, and use it as a shield against the flames.

KILL IT QUICKER!

Don't you go insane on me now.

As the volley of flames died down, he threw the hunk of earth at the monster's head, stunning it for a couple of seconds, as both of his monstrous hands turned into axes.

What happened to my arms?

Just a little something I cooked up.

Was that a joke I heard, coming from you right now?

Carnage stayed silent, while Gnawdwell threw one of the axes straight into the abominations head, getting stuck in its bony exterior. It only made the beast even more furious. The beast charged towards Gnawdwell, who was able to dodge it easily, except the fact he got whipped in the face with its flaming tail. The abomination only seemed to get faster, stronger, and tougher as Gnawdwell dodged each of its attacks, each time the beast attacked, it only seemed to get more frenzied with each blow it missed.

"Enough!"

Gnawdwell turned around on a dime, narrowly dodging the beasts charge, and hacked away at the beast's bulk, which seemed to repair itself in front of his very eyes. The abomination did the most sensible thing a monster could do if its side was being hacked away by anything really, which is rolling over on its side. Gnawdwell tried to make his escape, but a tiny rat head bit his arm and held on with a ferocious grip. Swiftly, his ax sang through the air as it met his own arm, cutting it off. Finally being able to escape being made a pancake, he rolled out of the abominations attempt of flattening him.

"Alright, I'll be honest with you, how do we kill it?"

Carnage stayed silent, which seemed to infuriate Gnawdwell, as the abomination once again began prepared its infernal breath. The ax stuck in the skull of the beast shifted ever deeper where it struck, essentially making cracks all over the abominations head. While Gnawdwell and his foe were thinking about what to do, he looked over at his amputated arm and found it had regenerated. He needed something heavy, powerful enough to stagger his foe, but is able to negate its regeneration, until something caught his eye, well, to be more specific, his hand. He knew his face had been hit by the beasts flaming tail, but he found that it hadn't healed as fast as his arm.

What if fire can stop the regeneration?

Gnawdwell didn't expect a response, but he was willing to try. The beast, however, seemed to be in pristine condition, or, it looked the same as it had at the beginning of the battle

I'll take that as a yes then!

Gnawdwell, instead of facing the beastie head-on, sprinted towards the gate, and charged through it, ripping apart the walls it had been chained to. The abomination was soon in chase of him, however, as it seemed to close the gap between them soon. He grabbed a torch was embedded in the stone beneath it and ran faster than before, knowingly that the monster behind him could devour him in its flames soon. His body shivered with the torch in his hand, even if Carnage didn't make noise, or say anything, he could feel his fear of it, he couldn't help but connect with his fear, even if his fear was about someone.

Gnawdwell busted down the throne room doors, tore his throne off the stone, tossing it into the abomination's face, and grabbed the box in front of him. The beast recovered from the tossed throne, which made the red ax dig even deeper into its skull, causing the cracks around it to become even wider and deeper.

"Have some of your own medicine, beastie!"

Gnawdwell dug into the box, whipping out a bottle that smelled of ale, popped it open and chugged it all down. Unfortunately, he drank too much and swallowed all of it.

"O-oh damn, give me a second to pop open another."

The monster didn't seem very intent on being burned, crushing the pillars that blocked its way to Gnawdwell, it's rat heads eager to taste his blood. Already feeling the effects of the alcohol, Gnawdwell fumbled with the box as he clumsily pulled out another bottle, popping it open sloppily, and drank just enough for his plan to work. He held up the torch in his hand up to his mouth, with the abomination's head gnashing through the middle of the pillars, with several other smaller heads, but then it opened its maw and unleashed torrents of flame.

Gnawdwell stumbled, trying to dodge the incoming flame, but the ale he drank a few seconds earlier had affected his movement heavily, making him unable to dodge as fast as before.

Fine!

A red tentacle shot forth towards the ceiling, pulling Gnawdwell to safety before the flames left everything under him charred and roasted, and he decided to make the beast pay for ruining his throne, even though he was the one who tossed it at its skull. Gnawdwell shot out the ale that had been stored in his mouth through the torch, flames splashed against the abominations flesh, seeping into the cracks of its skull, literally burning the insides of its mind.

As the flames crackled on its flesh, it laid motionless while its, albeit small brain, was turned into ash, but even then, it still tried to mangle him, even when its entire body was covered in flames. The red tentacle let go of the ceiling, dropping Gnawdwell down, who barely landed on his two feet.

"I may be a bit dizzy, but I can still kick yer-"

With one final blow, the beasts arms wrapped around the pillars in an attempt to land a blow on Gnawdwell, but he was too fast, too quick, even when he drank an entire bottle of ale. He grabbed a hold of the ax made of the red sludge and ripped it out of the abominations head, dragging along the remains of its charred mind, and its tongue, whilst shattering the skull into pieces.

"Not so hard, was it?"

He laughed, as he fell to the ground, gasping for air as the sludge that covered his body receded back into him, leaving an out of breath Gnawdwell on the cold stone.

"Master Gnawdwell!"

"Wait, what..?"

Gnawdwell looked at Queek in confusion, why was he here? Where were his servants? He couldn't understand why his throne room was left empty, and where was Queek when he was fighting?

When he realized what was happening, It dropped like a bag of stones on his head, how could he not have noticed? His own troops, and perhaps even the Grey Seer had seen him fight the abomination as a giant, red monster for no particular reason. But he did feel like he and Carnage did make some leeway in their "friendship."

But he did not have time to celebrate their bonding session, as he looked at Queek, he knew would have to explain sooner or later, but right now he needed the quickest form of transportation to Altdorf.

"Are you sure you want to come with me?"

"Yes, it does not matter-matter to me if I become exiled, I will kill-die for you, Master."

"I'll explain everything when we get far, far away from here."

"But where are we going?"

Gnawdwell grunted, signaling Queek to follow him outside the throne room.

"Where else? Altdorf."

"But how-how?"

The cavern shook, stones and pebbles fell from the ceiling as the thrum of an engine powered by warpstone came into the warrens. A warprail was a rail made of warpstone, accompanied by huge, deformed train cars, able to carry hundreds upon hundreds of cargo.

An entire army could be deployed at a city in less than a few hours, and easily disappear in the same amount of time.

"Perfect. Just perfect."

The Grey Seer stood upon a tall wooden platform, overlooking the horde of confused stormvermin, and clanrats. The arena was in shambles, clues of the fight had still remained, even droplets of red sludge could be found.

"Listen, ratkin! Today we have seen-seen heresy before our very eyes! Gnawdwell, Warlord of Clan Mors has been seen dabbling in heretic magic, once a Mighty One to the Horned Rat, but now a horrible abomination in his eyes!"

The rats didn't really understand what the white skaven was saying, but it quickly riled them up, forgetting their "loyalty" to Gnawdwell in an instant, even the Red Guard shouted challenges to him, even if he wasn't there.

"He has disgraced the Horned Rat, and for that, he must be punished-killed! Seek-find Gnawdwell, kill-kill him and any who get in your way!"

Immediately the horde marched towards the throne room, where the fight had ended, with the intent to tear apart their former Warlord. The Grey Seer couldn't help but smile as he leisurely chased the horde, content with the fact he was condemned one of the main instigators of the Council.

By the time the horde had reached the throne room, both Queek and Gnawdwell were gone, in fact, they weren't even in the Under-City anymore.

"Do we-we have to ride on top of the rail-thing?"

"I want no one to see my face, nor when I have… him helping me."

"Alright-alright, Master…"

"Queek?"

"Yes?"

"Call me Gnawdwell."

Queek's face brightened right before the train shot forth like a bullet, it was barely able to hold onto the warprail as it sped through the Under-City in a matter of seconds, an impressive feat. Such unmatched speed, however, came at a cost. Like most machines made by skaven, it was likely to malfunction, explode, or something totally unexpected would happen.

"I feel like I'm going to fall off-off!"

"Just keep holding onto me."

Queek was uncomfortable as he tightly held onto Gnawdwell, who was covered in the red sludge from before, with both of his hands "glued" onto the roof of the train car they were on.

"Are you-you going to explain why we-we going to Altdorf?"

"Soon, my loyal friend, soon."

Queek didn't really know what to do with his compliment, he had never really been called a friend before, he didn't really know what it meant either.

I'm coming, my son.

Let us hope we get there in time.