It was with curiosity, boredom and alarm that Sangala Rhea watched the fracturing vessel careen out of the atmosphere into the far edges of the mountains she had made her home. From what she could tell, the design was distinctly Orkish in nature. It had huge, towering spires on the top of it Gothic in nature, weapon batteries large enough to house one's entire bloodline in, and a gigantic golden statue of the God Emperor of Mankind adorning what she assumed was the bridge.

It was also covered in scrap, what little paint that had yet to burn off during entry was red and green, and from what little she knew of Mankind's chief religion she didn't think he wore a mask that looked quite so…Orky.

'Is this a problem?' She mused. It wasn't care for the inhabitants of Fall that concerned her. They were largely just there for amusement as far as she cared, and some Orks may well bring some proper entertainment to her life. Better than endless Holovid watching, at any rate.

'But Orks are hardly what I'd call "good neighbors." Muses only know if the inhabitants of this planet could even fend them off, primitive as they were even by Mon'Keigh standards.' Perhaps it'd be best if she went to investigate? It wasn't like it'd be difficult - the mountain range large, sure, but that'd make it easy to avoid being detected, and picking off Orks from atop the mountains would be easy. It was likely a majority of the Orks would perish in the crash, robust as their biology was. All she'd have to do then was burn the corpses and Fall would be free from the Green Menace.

But it was quite a far walk to the crash site…

A week went by. No Orks emerged. Sangala debated going out further. Humans visited, pleading her for guidance and signs that the world was not, in fact, ending. Sangala weaved them mystical tales of gods fighting, the Heavens themselves breaking, and assurances that amounted to "don't worry about it."

A month went by. No Orks emerged. Sangala debated going out further. Humans visited, pleading her for guidance and signs that the world was not, in fact, ending. Sangala weaved them mystical tales of gods fighting, the Heavens themselves breaking, and assurances that amounted to "don't worry about it."

Two months went by. No Orks emerged. Sangala debated going out further. Humans visited pleading her for guidance and signs that the world was not, in fact, ending. Sangala weaved them mystical tales of gods fighting, the Heav-

"BY KHAINE, FUCK OFF!"

The latest band of pilgrims scurried back down the mountainside, fearing for their lives and their village's safety at having incurred the wrath of the Seer. They knew not who this Khaine was, but if their mythical Seer was swearing by him his wrath must surely be great and not to be brought down upon them.

"Fine. Going to the damn crash site. I guess I'll just deal with all the human's problems for them! No one can do a damned thing around this planet." Bitter at having her precious and limited free-time constantly interrupted by the people of this planet daring to ask what they thought was an elder and wise mystic on whether or not the Apocalypse was upon them, Sangala prepared to do what she hadn't done in over four years.

Literally anything that wasn't smokeleaf and binge watching Holovid programs.

It was a weeklong trek to the crash site of the ship, now dubbed The PIMA by Sangala. For what else could appropriately describe the pain in her ass this thing was turning out to be? One week of trekking through the wilderness, without the comforts of the home she had made for herself. All she had was her endless grab bag of snacks and literature, weapons beyond the knowledge of any human alive, and a damn near perfect map of the surroundings she had managed to 'borrow' from one of the visiting humans. No one had roughed it as hard as she ever had.

Nearing the edge of the crater in which the PIMA lay, she found very little to indicate any life forms were awaiting her. No tracks leading in and out of the impact site, no disturbed vegetation. Animals were even coming and going, a surer sign than any that no great horde of Orks lay in wait. Descending towards the crash site, it was much the same. She had put off coming here for so long that even the fires that no doubt raged upon impact had died down, and nature was slowly but surely beginning to reclaim what it had lost.

With some amount of hesitation, Sangala began creeping her way inside the PIMA. Though at this point certain nothing here was alive to threaten her - even Orks needed to eat, surely - a damaged starship was not the sort of thing that one wanted to step into without a sense of caution. Cables spread out in front of her like veins, any electricity running through them long since depleted. Piles of ash occasionally littered the hallways and rooms she entered, and the telltale signs of bolter rounds on the walls told of a ferocious battle at some point prior to the crash.

"Waste of my time, I knew it. Shouldn't have even bothered. I should've just hid inside for a month and came out later. I'm sure the humans would've gotten some idea in their heads that I was gone battling daemons or some shit. At least I'd save myself the effort. If the rest of the Kabal saw me now, they would've-

"Ello."

Sangala Rhea did not let out a shriek of terror. She did not trip over herself several times trying to escape the PIMA in a mad panic. She did not bang her head on the caved-in ceiling and machinery multiple times on her way out. And she most certainly did not make the weeklong journey home in a non-stop mad dash over the course of a single day. That would be preposterous, a horribly inaccurate account of what happened to her and a dismissive account of a being from a race renowned for being one the most cruel, capricious and terrifying in the entire galaxy. And to say she also cried for her parents and locked herself in a pillow fort for at least three days upon reaching home?

Why, that would be nothing but slander of the highest sort.

As she was reaching the top of the impact crater before this series of events that did NOT happen took place, however, a singular being exited the ship just in time to watch her dignified departure. It saw the first being it had met in weeks dash home, leaving a dusty trail in her wake to escape. Calmly it looked around, taking in the surroundings for the first time in months and deciding on what to do. It was alone once more, nothing but wreckage and ruin to keep it company. Its comrades hadn't even been able to turn into more boyz - the fires that claimed them ensured no spores would spread. And as infrequently as its kind needed to eat, especially one as unique as itself, it still needed to eventually.

It was with these thoughts in mind that the being settled on a new course of action. And as it began to climb the crater itself, it was filled with cheer on finally having something else to do."

"Time to find da pointy-eared git."

It had been a week since Sangala returned home. Four days since she theoretically would have removed herself from her pillow fort, and three days since she stopped checking every corner for creatures that lurk in the dark. She had even ventured out into the outside world once, initially to inform another Pilgrim that all their problems could be solved by venturing East and afterwards to enjoy another smokeleaf-filled night gazing at the stars above. By sunrise she had her fill of nature and returned home.

"No sense dipping into the snack reserves." She thought aloud. Despite the tesseract labyrinth having apparently infinite storage and nearly endless snacks, there was no telling how long she'd be here. Waiting until the humans of this planet invented trans fats to gorge themselves on wasn't something she was going to rely on, either. Best display some modicum of restraint and grab something from the fridge. A reward for going to check out the starship, she told herself. She could treat herself to a nice meal she had to earn herself the hard way, by hunting creatures with the supernatural senses all Eldar had and killing it with weaponry closer to magic than technology.

She grabbed all the spices she had to hand - some gathered herself, others from the infinite snack dimension - and laid them out on the counter. Now all she had to do was grab some food from the fridge. She descended down the stairs into her basement, opened the door that led to the storage room and the fridge where her coveted meal in waiting sat, and sighed.

The rats had gotten into the fridge again. It would seem her weeklong absence had caused them to grow bolder, as she managed to catch them in the act unlike most of the times they visited.

Sangala stared at the three of them raiding her fridge.

The rats stared back.

Sangala stared.

The rats stared.

Sangala opened her mouth to say something.

"Elf-thing has found us! Quick, retreat-scurry home!"

The rats vanished through the giant hole in the basement. Sangala briefly entertained following, then even more briefly entertained boarding up the wall so they couldn't enter again in the future. Much like any form of entertainment, these thoughts passed and Sangala decided that was too much work.

"Which damned Mon'keigh scientist decided giant rats needed to talk?"

Mon'keigh scientist?

Mon'keighentist?

'Heh.'

Of course those weren't Skaven at the end there. There is no such thing as a Skaven. Any evidence you may have to the contrary should be delivered directly to your local Witch Hunter, so he may cleanse you in Sigmar's holy name.

Pardon, cleanse the evidence. That's what I meant.