The contemporary Deathmaster of Clan Eshin, the Deathmaster Snikch, maintained an exceedingly low profile. This was born of the Great Horned Rat's profound distrust of Clan Skryre, specifically Ikit Claw, the sole legendary hero to operate with a modicum of independence from the deity's direct shadow. Consequently, Snikch had been shadowing the Skryre host in secret.
In truth, it was less a secret and more an open presence; within the Skryre fleets, the traces of Snikch and the Black Thirteen manifested sporadically, phantom-like agents executing the will of the Horned Rat.
A classic example of their work occurred following the development of the Attack Moons. When certain Warlock Engineers suggested that Ikit might "misplace" or withhold certain tributes scavenged from the human Adeptus Mechanicus, they were found assassinated the very next morning. Despite being ensconced within sealed chambers protected by layers of Warp-tech and elite guards, every Skaven who had proposed or even failed to oppose the idea lay dead.
A single Eshin Shuriken embedded in each of their skulls served as a silent, lethal warning. This was the true reason Clan Skryre remained so "selflessly" dedicated to providing Warp-weapons and, crucially, maintaining the Brood Fleets for the other clans, much like the Mechanicus does for the Imperium. But where the Cult Mechanicus had a treaty with the Emperor, Skryre simply had no other choice.
Thus, when Snikch received the summons from his master, even a professional assassin of his caliber had to admit a surge of excitement. Life within the Skryre ranks was tedious; while their power was undeniable, justifying the Eshin Verminherders' constant surveillance, it lacked the art of the kill. Since the massive Attack Moon, Bard, had become the new flagship following the World Blight, Ikit's fleets had desolated countless worlds.
Yet, Snikch noted one crucial detail: while Skryre possessed the technology for these battle-planets, their greatest weakness remained energy. Only through the Great Horned Rat's "blessing" could they transmute a planet's molten core into a colossal Warpstone Core. In obtaining this technology, Clan Skryre had only deepened its dependence on the Horned Rat. It was a characteristic ploy of the deity, a mix of grand conspiracy, blatant extortion, and assassination used against his own children.
After a Grey Seer, trembling with effort, sacrificed the souls of over a hundred Slave Rats to weave the necessary sorcery, Snikch and the Black Thirteen were finally summoned into the Immaterium.
Upon entering the Warp, Snikch felt a moment of weightlessness. He looked up, steadying his footing, and felt a pressure that weighed upon his very soul. A colossal, horned silhouette spanned the horizon, its features obscured, yet Snikch recognized it instantly: the Great Horned Rat himself. Beside that divine magnitude, his own master, Sneek, appeared as nothing more than a trivial ornament.
"Go, Snikch. Do not fail me," the voice of the Great Horned Rat rolled like thunder. "Bring me the death you offer, and you shall receive your reward." Immediately, the surrounding Skaven-kind cast looks of burning envy toward the small, unremarkable figure draped in a tattered, ancient black cloak.
Snikch dropped to one knee, his voice steady and devoid of emotion. "The Blade of Eshin swings for You."
Thirteen Deceiver Verminlords stepped forward, bowing to Snikch as if a common Death Runner were paying homage to a Deathmaster. In truth, they were the ascended souls of Eshin assassins from eras past, hand-picked by the Great Horned Rat for his service.
…
The Masque of Slaanesh arrived on the battlefield leading six legions of the Dark Prince. This fresh reinforcement did not strike the front but tore into the Skaven flank. A tide of Hellstriders, Seeker Chariots, and Fiends of Slaanesh surged forward with such unnatural celerity that the Skryre Weapon Teams had no time to range their pieces.
The Masque stood atop a Hellflayer, performing her wicked, graceful dance. Sixty-six Human Harps, plucked by Daemonettes, transmuted screams into melodic symphonies, the magic of that agony fueling the Masque's power. Skaven daemons who caught sight of the dance found themselves dropping their weapons to dance in turn, only to be butchered. Great claws tore through rat-flesh with ease as the chariots scythed through the endless swarms, paving the earth with the gore of the vermin.
"Hahaha... such aesthetic-less filth," the Slaaneshi daemons laughed, kicking aside the wrecked scrap of Warp-weaponry with utter disdain.
Suddenly, a shuriken whistled through the air, burying itself precisely in a Daemonette's throat. She let out a shriek before withering into dust. A rustling sound followed; the Masque felt the world around her shrouded in an illusory mist. Only when they were upon them did the high-speed Slaaneshi daemons realize that four-legged shadows, clad in black, skin-tight ninja garb and tattered cloaks, had closed the distance.
The Daemonettes shrieked, attempting to use their superior speed to outmaneuver the newcomers, but they quickly found that these Eshin Verminherders were equally adept in agility and technique. These Skaven daemons wielded Weeping Blades, warp-metal sickles, and Doom-shuriken, engaging the Slaaneshi host in a blurred whirlwind of violence.
A Hellflayer lashed its whips, intending to clear both Eshin and Daemonettes alike, but a shuriken trailing a razor-thin wire snagged the chariot. Several Eshin Verminherders leaped onto the speeding vehicle, their blades flashing as they decapitated the crew. With a flick of a dagger, they slew the Steeds of Slaanesh, leaping clear just as the chariot careened out of control.
Every member of Clan Eshin was a master of stealth, and as daemons, their concealment had reached a psychic threshold. Even to the eyes of other warp-entities, they remained functionally invisible. Combined with their supernatural speed, the Slaaneshi daemons found themselves unable to shake the Eshin pursuit.
Snikch and the Black Thirteen, however, had their eyes on a different prize: The Masque, protected by a circle of Slaaneshi Chosen. These were not Astartes, but mortals drawn from various xenos races, among them the serpentine, six-armed remnants of the Laer, as well as Eldar and humans whose forms had been warped into the Dark Prince's image.
Snikch remained motionless in the shadows. He and the Black Thirteen waited for the perfect window. As the Masque's chariot passed, the supernatural influence of her dance was countered by the prayers of the Great Horned Rat. Snikch struck, launching a volley of shuriken.
The Masque sensed the threat, contorting her body in a bizarre dodge. Her Chosen guards barely reacted in time, swinging Power Swords and Hellguns held in their multiple limbs. But Snikch was a blur. The three Weeping Blades held in his hands and prehensile tail became three streaks of toxic green light. In a single pass, the Chosen were decapitated.
Simultaneously, the Black Thirteen erupted from hiding, unleashing a rain of Warp-shuriken upon the retinue before diving into the fray to support Snikch's assassination attempt.
The Masque evaded Snikch's blades with an impossible, haunting choreography, her Siren Song whispering directly into his mind.
"Throw yourself into the embrace of the Prince of Pleasure..."
"You shall attain the ultimate mastery of your craft..."
"You will be the greatest killer the realms have ever known; none shall hear your name without trembling."
These words were laden with psychic lure, designed to ensnare any soul with even a flicker of desire for glory. But Snikch remained unmoved. His red, verminous eyes stayed locked onto the Masque's throat.
"Glory..." Snikch hissed with quiet loathing. "Glory is a lethal poison."
Watching from the shadows of the Warp, his master, Sneek, nodded in approval. Snikch was his finest pupil. His true strength was not just his speed, but his singular obsession with the task. To Snikch, the terrifying legend of his own name was not a point of pride, it was merely another tool to make the next kill easier.
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