Heroes:
Shieldchief: When Warlords pass down their orders, it's the Shieldchief that makes sure that they are executed by the common soldiery. Together with Spearchiefs, Shieldchiefs are the backbone of the Deepkin army, mighty captains risen from the rank-and-file through their own abilities and devotion. Standing on the front-lines, armed with blazing weapons of power, they bellow orders and fight, while making sure that the shieldwall remain strong. They are rallying points and a source of inspiration for the Kinrats as well as a reminder of duty. Shieldchiefs's baton blows to those that exit formation are nothing to scoff at!
The Shieldchief is a veteran of many campaigns and knows the secrets of front-line battle, having began his career like any other Kinrat, holding a bloodied spear and a battered shield, waiting for the enemy charge. He's an accomplished warrior, his spearcraft refined by a hundred clashes, and can remain in combat while his soldiers swap front-line duty to rest. With tough body, tough spirit and deep faith in the Goddess, he really represents the toughness proper of the Deepkin. Tales speak of mind-boggling feats of endurance performed by one of these soldier-commanders, their shield an island in the most grinding combats.
As a commander, the Shieldchief will maneuver his soldiers, his bellowed commands bringing complex movements and change of formations into being. The relentelessy drilled Kinrats, more often than not with the same Spearchief as their trainer, will obey and woes to those that get it wrong or not move fast enough! It's latrine duty for them after battle!
Battles have been won by the intraprendence of single Shieldchiefs, their soldiers moving to seize iniziatives that would have been lost with the time that a command from the higher-ups would need to arrive. If a Warlord is the army's brain, the Shieldchiefs are its muscles, managing locale combat while their superiors keep an eye on the whole.
Shieldchiefs are distinguished by the common Kinrat by better armors and weapons, both of which usually magical in some fashion, and by a stout body that will have played a part in their choosing. They are all invariably very loyal and religious, so relics of the Goddess, maybe a tuft of fur from a Shaskar or a souvenir brought from Haven, will often appear in their outfits, together with some emblem of loyalty to the secular powers; painted images, tattoos or engravings of broken horns or the ever-present inverted triangle are some of the possibilities. They will also carry the baton of command representing their rank, often used on friends or foe alike, and a leather pouch containing the magic scrolls that, if read, will allow him to cast some minor spells.
Grizzled veterans of war, the Shieldchiefs might not be be the most noble or wondrous-looking of those walking the battlefield, but these stout, heavy-set Skaven, with the handles of their weapons smoothed by use and their armors covered with dust, mud and blood, have might, stubborness and loyalty enough to face a Wargor without a flinch, as well as a wealth of knowledge and tricks to make sure that their spears find their mark. And their tallies go long indeed.
Chief Grok
Many heroes and champions have risen from the ranks of the Kinrats, but very few can match the sheer tally of victories of Grok Straightwhiskers or, more commonly, Chief Grok the Mighty.
This Kinrat Spearchief has fought rampaging Beastmen in the torrid jungles of the south, lead his Brigade to battle into the deepest of the depths, campaigned in the north against the Greeskins tribes infesting the mountains. He has followed Matriarch Brighteye in her journey to Naggarond and fought the frozen-hearted elf kin that live there, he has taken part to the first campaigns against the Corrupted Kin, and faced the terrible Ogres of the Burned Lands to the far east. In all the campaigns he has took part of, he has always distinguished himself, both as a brave commander and an exceptional warrior. It was he that led the defence of the Burrow of Whitechurch, rallying the belegueared defenders and pushing back a horde of Greenskins. In the twentytwo days long battle of the Breached Door, it was Grok that threw Tyrant Ogdrir Mountainheart down the Ogre Lord's mountain fortress, making him plunge to his doom; Dreadlord Varanis fell before him, his skull crushed by a shiedlblow. It was he that wielded the spear that pierced the heart of the Bloodthirster Azk'hakar during the battle of the Seventh Night and it was always Grok that shielded the fallen Kinlord Truzur from Skaven ambushers, giving time to his bodyguards to bring the lord to safety.
During his long decades of service, Grok has fought against almost any race of the world and reaped a fearsome toll upon the enemies of the Under-Kingdoms, as well as training and leading countless ratmen soldiers. He's a hero, known through the entirety of the Under-Kingdom and a model for any young ratling, and has received enough commendations and medals to fill two big cabinets and then some more.
As a trainer, Grok is the nightmare of any soldier under his command, making them run and train until they feel their souls leave thei body. Still, it's only to prepare them to the dangers ahead. He is ready to give his life to protect them on the battlefield, and his soldiers reply with the same devotion, with the most veteran ready to follow him into the jaws of hell itself.
Grok is a heavy-set Skaven Deepkin, with a large paunch and flabby cheeks. His skin is leathery, made as tough as light armor by decades of campaining in all the corners of the known world. Countless scars cover him and his left ear is only half of what it used to be.
He has a jolly temper and likes to joke and laugh. In fact, he has laughted even before Azk'hakar, and the Bloodthirster still remembers it.
On the battlefield, Grok is covered by his rune-covered armor, a magnificent piece blessed seven times by a Ur-Shaskar that protects him from material and magical attacks alike. His thick shield is said to being able to take a cannonball without splintering and still bears the emblem of his Lodge, although he doesn't see it from the time he was a ratling; is covered with minutely-written oaths of loyalty and discipline. Medals, always polished to a sheen, hangs from his breastplate, but they are always the least important that Grok has received. Those he cares the most, like the one he has received by the paw of the King himself, he keeps always in his quarters, jealously under lock.
His spear is called Rageshutter, and the blood from the heart of a Bloodthirster has been used to empower it to a deadly sharp point. As a back-up weapon, Grok has no sword, but a heavy blackjack dangle from his belt. Jokingly called by his owner Tusslebreaker, it has seen use both in smashing open Ogre skulls and in motivating lazy recruits, rarely meeting failure in both uses.
Grok has no head for books and studies, and he knows it. For this reason, he has always rejected attempts from his superiors to promote him to higher roles, since it would require for him to take to school. His place is on the battlefield or in the training yards, not in class. Still, it's some years that his eye has been taken by a solidly-built female Deepkin working into a mushroom farm. Grok has met her during a leave from the front, and the two have hit off nicely. He kept visiting her any time he can and his will on the matter has built over time. Now, he's mustering the courage to ask her the fateful question. After all, except an eternal uncertainty of his return and some money, what an old soldier like him can offer? While he tries to work out his indecision, he has taken to try and learn to write poetry, hoping to impress her. The results until now have been nothing less than atrocious, but Grok keeps trying, undeterred.
What? You want to eat my soul? The souls of my soldiers? Sure, buddy, keep that talk. Dammit, i am so scared. Here, get close, i'll show your post at the table. Eat this!
Chief Grok at a unnamed Daemon
Shaskar: Priestesses, oracles, bringers of hopes, foes of darkness. The Shaskar are all of this and more. Chosen by the Goddess between her priesthood, they are endowed with divine power and sent to protect the children of their Goddess. Following their god-given missions, they hold guardianship over the Deepkin souls, repelling corruption and upholding purity both by word and deed.
The Shaskar are venerated religious figures, emboding the mission of purity followed by the Under-Kingdom. They can hear the whisper of the Silent Goddess and have art in interpreting her will. For this, their words are often regarded as coming from the Goddess herself. They are forsworn by taking command, though, and will act instead as advisors and guides to the more martially-inclined Warlords.
When time for battle comes, the Shaskar brings zeal unmatched and soul blazing with power. They are given martial training, but their true strenght lies in their ability to channel the might of the Goddess into existence through their songs. When their voice is a whispered litany, wounds mend, weapons hold even beyond the point of breaking and hearts are made stalwart once more. When it rises into a crescendo, shield splinters and stone break, blazing light is conjured to burn and consume the foe and mighty barriers raise to intercept blows.
Shaskar uphold understanding and acceptance as their code. Their empathy is mighty and, with humility, they accept the multi-fold weaknesses of mortal life. Only to true evil and the corruption of Chaos they bear no acceptance. To these forces, they offer no wrath or hatred, but just cold disdain, a wall upon which the corrupting forces cannot find purchase. This makes them anathema to Chaos in all its forms. The damned cower from the blazing light of their eyes while Daemons burn from the purity of their souls. A feat that has made them horrifying opponents for the corrupted Skaven is their ability to shatter Warpstone and dispel its influence; to see the emblem of the power of the Horned One undone throw their verminous hearts into panic unprecedented.
Whoever Chaos lurks, the Shaskar goes, their songs heralding doom to the wicked.
The Chaos Sorcerer known as Trubluk the Purstained watched with paternal glee the greenish fog advanced across the temple hall, pushing back the ratmen invaders that had dared to try and disrupt his rituals. He burbled a laugh as some of them, the slowest to back away, fell to the ground choking, his heavy rolls of rotten fat trembling with the motion.
These seemed different by the Skaven he was accostumed to; they were taller, had better armors and weapons and moved in a disciplinated manner totally at odds with the clumsy fenzy he had grown to expect. Still, it made no difference. Before the gifts blessed by the Greatfather no mortal could stand. They would make better sacrifices than the scrawny ones.
Suddenly, a contralto voice rose from behind the ratmen, speaking arcane words in song. Trubluk frowned as the magic in it brushed against his spiritual senses.
As he watched, the ratmen formation opened to let a cowled Skaven step forward. To his surprise, he realized that it was a female, something that he thought didn't exist. The female Skaven was heavily robed and held a gnarled staff aloft, the strange gem at its top pulsing with light as she sang.
Surprise turned to dismay as Trubluk saw the glorious mist of pestilence retreat and, impossibly, start to wither away.
With horror and outrage born by witnessing such a vile magic, he barked for his Rotbringers to stop her. The Chaos Warriors charged, howling thanks to the Rot Lord, but the Skaven formed a wall of shields around the witch, holding them at bay. Meanwhile, the song rose into a crescendo, the light of the witch's staff growing and growing.
Desperate, Trubluk garbled the Sixth Rhymes of Putrefaction, calling upon the might of the Grandfather. A greenish gale swept the chamber, seeking to melt flesh from bones. The Skaven witch called a name, her voice as loud as the thunder, and a storm of shining wind rose to keep the plague at bay. Then, her song reached its maximum and the light of her staff flashed as bright as the sun.
The Chaos Warriors were obliterated, the light devouring them whole. Trubluk screamed in agony as his rotted flesh burned. He fell down, rolling crazily around in the attempt to purge that fire that was devouring him. Rising his head toward the witch, he saw one of the ratmen run towards him.
The last thing he saw was a heavy mace dashing towards him, silouheted by that cursed light, then everything turned to black.
Mage-Engineer: The Leagues of the Mage-Engineers are associations that specialize into a blend of magic, alchemy and technology. Their members are mages, scientistis and builders of arcane machinery that channel the Winds, steam or the intense fires that burn deep underground to generate great feats, be it in peace or during war. From simple mechanisms to the cutting-edge of technomancy, is it they that care for it, making sure that the engines of the Under-Kingdoms always function at best output. The Leagues offer also body augmentations and arcane weapons, and manage the industrial production of arms for the Deepkin armies.
When called to war, the Mage-Engineers bring their expertise to bear on the battlefield. Covered with clanking techno-armor, generators holding the fires of the depths and other bizarre mechanisms chugging smoke and steam, the Engineers present an outlandish appearance to say the least. More often than not, they present some kind of augmentation, like binoculars in place of eyes, mechanical prosthetics replacing limbs or a iron claw at the end of the tail. Mage-Engineers, especially the most succesful ones, are considered eccentric figures and given a wide bearth from common ratmen lest one is caught in whatever crazy experiment the strange scientists are working on. Their strange get-ups don't help their popularity, Leagues have a strong sub-culture of their own and sometimes their members wear strange hats; nor does the fact that you don't succed into the Leagues without a great deal of love of your work, - jumping up and down in joy for a succesful experiment while your laboratory is a smoking wreck around you and people from the street can see you through holes in the walls it's not considered strange - but that's not to say that they are openly distrusted. Mages-Engineers provide unreplaceable help to Deepkin society, both in fixing warmachines and even in medical attentions. Many hideously wounded Deepkin have been saved by one of those Mages, replacing lungs with pistons or sewing back lost limbs.
On battle, the Mages-Engineers make for a fearsome sight. With a chittered incantation and a vigorous pumping of levers, they can throw globs of lava at their enemies, shoot fireballs or summon walls of fire that engulf entire formations. A coil-powered rifle can become a deadly weapon in the paws of a keen-eyed Mage-Engineer, sniping down a Chaos Knight from hundreds of meters away, while a flamethrower and a Mage-Engineer with no fear of minor burnings can become the bane of swarms of monsters. Even in melee, the Mages-Engineers are nothing to sneeze at. Their armors and prostethics give them strenght, with the most martial-oriented of their numbers even wielding heavy glaives that burn hot enough to cleave armor like it's butter.
Mages-Engineers can be eccentric or even bizarre, but their destructive power is undeniable and many enemies have learned to dread the coming sound of clanking and chugging.
Xktamar the Strange One
Deepkin all share a strong resistance to Chaos, this making them very unfit to become vessels for deamonic possessions. Still, there are very few amongst them that, for a reason or the other, fall short regarding this resistance. These are always the slightly unhinged that lived and worked closely with magic and that the corruption infesting Skavenkind reached with greater strenght.
Xktamar was all of this and more. The female Deepkin was a low-level clerk working at the League of Deepfall. Known for her eccentricities and her rare form of susceptibility, she was assigned jobs as harmless as possible, ranging from writing letters to cataloguing the vast amount of books and scrolls of the archives, leaving her plenty of time to indulge into her life passion: reading and study. It was so all-consuming that between the many visitors of the archives passed a joke that said that the over-zealous, ever-excited little Deepkin even slept in there, in a nest formed by books and scrolls, and that she could stun a Patriarch in submission with her blabbing about her most beloved readings if not stopped in time.
It seemed like Xktamar would pass all her life like this, but destiny had others plans.
Deepfall was subjected to the insidious aims of none other than a Verminlord. Poxamor, that was his name, sought to turn the Deepkin living in the Burrow one against the other by unleashing a wave of corrupting energy that bathed the city. The Deepkin faltered under the magical attack, but their natural resistance allowed them to resist the unnatural compulsion even while it drained them of strenght. Eventually, Paxamor was banished by the conjoined use of Shaskar magic and blunt trauma from an enraged Patriarch, but his magic had found at least one of its mark.
Taken over by frenzy, Xktamar burst out of the archives, seeking to rip apart other Skaven. Luck wanted that the first Deepkin she met was a Matriarch, and all Xktamar earned for her troubles was a smack on the head with a broom that would have felled a Carnosaur.
None is quite sure as to the reasons of what happened after. Maybe the magic of the Verminlord somehow unlocked Xktamar's inner potential, maybe the smack did something to her brain. Whatever the reason, when Xktamar woke up, she did so with a jump and a squeak of triumph that made jump all the Deepkin administering to her, as well as almost sending the lead doctor leaning over her to the Goddess via headbutt.
From that day, Xktamar was the same no more. Her brain positively boiled with ideas, her massive knowledge now mixing with volcanic geniality. She had been uncapable of magic before, owing it to her condition, but now she found the Winds as easy to control as it was breathing. Even her susceptibility had disappeared, leaving her attuned to magic as never before. Also, she was ten times more overactive and ten times madder.
Under the aghast, and a bit scared, gazes of his peers, she started an overhelming climb on the ranks of the Mage-Engineers, fuelled by insanity bouts, strokes of absolute genius and enough eccentricities to leave the most wizened skaven of the Leagues balking in disbelief. She could go on for day and day working on some of her crazy projects without taking a whiff of sleep; the moment the project ended, she crumpled into death-like slumbers that made people think multiple times that she had bit it, just to get back with a squeak and return to work like nothing had happened. One day she presented to slack-jawed audiences of her peers marvels like the Techno-Turbine or a new kind of alloy that permitted circuitry impossible before, the other she ran naked into the streets while throwing scrambled eggs in the faces of those she met, a throng of despairing assistants on her heels. Something sure is wrong with her head, but still, who can say to understand a true crazy genius?
Xktamar takes frenquently to battle, relishing the chance to test her more war-inclined inventions in first person. On the battlefield, she rides on The Great And Majestic XY20184295 Destruct1tron, a terrifying, smoking, clanking, multi-legged contraption that can shout lighting and cannonballs, trample over enemy opposition and has wings that do nothing but sure look pretty.
Xktamar is fairly small and scrawny for a Deepkin, and even for a corrupted Skaven, a problem that she remedies to by wearing a massive exoskeleton full of spinning gears and pumping pistons. The exoskeleton is a miracle of technomancy, its special alloy allowing it to shrug off even a direct hit by a Warplighting Cannon while its hydraulic-powered arms are limbs are strong enough to crush a Rat Ogre with a single blow. On one arm, it wears a magic-amplifier that Xktamar uses to channel her magic into devastating jets of scalding steam or angry fire, while in the other it wields a massive shield fitted with an oversized version of a multi-shot rifle. The bullets of this weapon are all energized monstrosities that can pierce a hole through a castle wall and keep going. A smoking Techno-Turbine whirrs over its back, sucking up the Winds and providing energy for machine and spells alike.
Anything can be said about the madness affecting Xktamar the Strange One, but her capability for destruction? That has never been in doubt.
Truffles? Truffles?! TRUFFLEEEEESSS!? I will ro-ro-ro-ro-ro… I WILL ROAST YOU ALIVE! LET'S FUCKING DO THIIIIIISSS! BLABLABLABLABLUAAAAAH!
Estimed Mage-Engineer Xktamar, seconds before crushing the prototype flying machine she was driving against a Daemon Herald of Khorne. Truffles were never mentioned. (She survived, somehow)
Scartail: Legends say that long time ago a now-forgotten Lodge was destroyed, leaving only a survivor, a female Deepkin, the last of her family. Arising from the ashes, she discarded her name and took the one of Scartail, as the only things remaining to her were her scars and her tail-affixed spear. In search of righteous vengeance, she forgot any pursuit but the research of martial strenght. She trained relentlessly, becoming a warrior, a champion, a monster. With tremendous might she took her revenge and then, the spirits of her family put to rest, she founded a school and passed on her teachings of combat and dedication.
Much time has passed from then and the original story has passed into myth, but its legacy still endures. Numerous martial schools dot the Under-Kingdom, each teaching their methods of combat and each passing on the virtue of dedication to martial pursuit. Many of them claim to descend from the school of the original Scartail but none can prove it beyond doubt and this will probably never change. Still, the title of Scartail is passed by these schools to those that can master their rigorous trials.
A Scartail is more than a simple champion; he or she is a Deepkin that has given themselves to the pursuit of physical might, leaving everything else aside. These warrior-monks can appear in a dizzying array of appearances, from female Deepkin trained in the deadly art of the Three-Pronged Death to massive brutes hacking down enemies with enormous halberds, to snipers adept in the use of the long-range musket. They all share incredible skill in their own way of battle, polished to a sharpened point by costant training and the study of martial arts passed down the centuries.
Still, a number of similarities can be found, as possible proof of a shared origin. Firstly, Scartails master the art of guardianship. Their gaze pierce shadows and illusions; assassins and those who try to stay unseen find their tasks rise to great difficulty by the presence of these unflinching guards. Secondly, all Scartails are expert of tricks of all kinds. Firecrackers, poison, hidden weapons, it doesn't matter how dishonorable the method may seem, they use it and perfect it, making it as deadly as a sharp blade. Scartails share the belief that honor finds only a limited place on the battlefield. They give themselves to martial pursuit to save the Under-Kingdom from its many enemies and see the act of limit one's chances by following too strict of a code as heresy.
Not for them the art of comand, a Scartail will fight with whatever weapon they have, be it bombs, knives, swords, halberds or the arcane machinery of the Leagues; they will fight, killing silently into the shadows, protecting commanders by assassins or taking to the field to single-handedly smash through enemy formations, acting as the sword that pierce or the shield that protect. Given body and soul to the pursuit of might, they make for fearsome opponents indeed.
The blades sang a last time, then the two opponents were away from each other.
Old Scartail Gnawtooth stalked back and forth, his long blade leaving a trail on the ground as he stared with strictness at his foe.
The massive stormvermin and his flunkies had laught at seeing him and his patchy old fur, with no armor but a long-sleeved vest, but now, with two of the original five down, they didn't laugh anymore.
"Kill-kill old rat!" Screeched the fangleader, hitting one of the remaining skavenslaves. The wretched skaven charged forward, squeaking in fear and desperation. Their numbers had been greatly whittled down but there were still a great deal of them.
Gnawtooth frowned, assessing internal and external damage. It was negligible.
The first blow, a clumsy swipe from a club, he dodged with a small movement aside, the moved air rustling his whiskers. A quick hit at the back of the head sent the skavenslave crumpling to the ground, then the others were upon him.
Gnawtooth danced among them, handing out punches, swipes and backhands, each taking out a Skavenslave.
Pain, old friend, blossomed into his side. Gnawtooth watched with a frown the blade emerging from his flesh. Turning, he saw the fangleader's toothy grin. He had used the moment Gnawtooth was distracted with the skavenslaves to stab him in the back.
Gnawtooth inspired, focusing, clenching his muscles. The grin disappeared from the fangleader's face when he found he couldn't move his weapon. He cursed, just a moment before Gnawtooth whirled around, kicking him in the head. The old scartail felt bones break, but still brought his sword around, cutting the fangleader from shoulder to waist.
The corpse fell, and Gnawtooth faced the remaining stormvermin, blade still sticking out from his flesh.
Whatever bravey they had broke in that moment, and they turned and fled.
Gnawtooth relaxed his posture, but his hand moved under the ample sleeve of his vest, procuring a small vial from a secret pocket.
Behind him, a form appeared from the shadows, launching itself at him. Gnawtooth whirled around, his arm extending. The vial hit the Skaven Assassin right in the snout. The black-clad ratman screeched in surprise and pain, paws leaving daggers to run to his face. He never had the chance. Gnawtooth hit him with a chop, right between neck and shoulder. With a sickening crunch and a choked cry, the Assassin fell to the ground and didn't move anymore.
Gnawtooth stood there for a moment, taking in the now silent battlefield.
Some of the Skavenslaves he had downed were getting back up, shaking heads and touching sore spots. He watched them, and they flinched in fear. Glances were exchanged, and the Skavenslaves bowed to him, debasing themselves into the dust.
Gnawtooth shook his head once, then turned and disappeared into the shadows.
Strong Stronger. Strong Stronger. Strong Stronger.
Scartail the First