Brine lean-stood on his long tail, suppressing hunger-growl in stomach. Priest droned, many-many words lost to Brine and his unit. Blessing-cursings of Horned Rat, couldn't see what good they were. Army fights on stomach, yet-yet clanrats not given enough. Man-thing city stood, high-tall walls reflect-bright in hateful morning. Fellow rats blink-squinted, slouching under armor. If siege-attack failed, would be fault of superiors, yes-yes.

Orders came after speech-mass, all charged forth. Slave infantry units first, Brine's infantry after. Man-thing arrows and cannons murder-rained. Brine skittered over slave corpses. Base of wall only safe place-place, but couldn't stop there. Claws dig-scratched into mortar, with horde he scurry-climbed up wall. Muscles burned, lungs ached, but him better than-than other infantrymen. Hunger couldn't stop him-him. Smelled fear-hate of surrounding rats, as they fell-tumbled from wall, and at top-top.

Man-things were fighting, sharp-nasty blades swinging. Three rats felled in single strike-strike, screech-clutching throats. Blood stained their fur. Disgusting man-thing stood triumphant, 'til Brine's sword found his gut-gut. To left, five Skaven jumped on same man-thing. Many rat bodies slain-dead on ramparts, but vermintide was coming, and could smell-smell fear in savages.

One soldier had nerve to attack him-him. He jump-backed out of way, hissing. Sheer-drop wall behind, many yards below. Man-thing's spear leveled at his chest, strike ready. Fellow Skaven appeared on rampart. Brine grabbed him-him, dragged in front, just before man-thing's spear struck. Unlucky Skaven screamed with spear in back. While man-thing tried to dislodge weapon, Brine stab-killed him in throat.

Already Brine's breaths ragged, and still only few man-things had begun retreat. Still sun was low in sky-sky. Shake-bracing himself, Brine ran with next Skaven pack at another wounded man-thing.

#

Brine kick-knocked over wooden crate. Sun gone after many-many hours. Cool-good evening set in, sky purple. Hunger-pangs only gotten worse-worse. Craven man-things had fled out back-ways, abandoning stone-wood buildings. Scurry-searching of other troops heard throughout city, sniffing out-out warpstone. Brine stopped at boarded-blocked door of house, kicked it down with snarl.

Fear and man-thing smelt here, yes-yes. Somewhere near. Left behind, no doubt. Through big room, down hall, behind wardrobe. Jumping off wall, Brine used weight-momentum, pushed wardrobe over. Frightened squawk, and man-thing child cowered in revealed hidey-hole.

"P-please, don't hurt me," he cried, tears stream-running down face. "Please, I'll do anything you want, I'll be your slave, just please don't hurt me."

Brine stared at blubber-begging child. He smiled at own cleverness, and dropped his weapons. Child stopped snivel-crying, looked with wide-wide eyes. Brine smiled wider, showing teeth.

Tendon-bone snapped, scream short-died, juicy-tender meat, blood spurted on tongue. Finally, a meal-meal fit for warrior.