The Skaven are a loathsome race, devoid of any noble sentiment. Without the lash of the Great Horned Rat, they would do nothing but butcher one another in the shadows of the Under-Empire, forever squabbling over scraps of power.
Indeed, since Lucius shifted his focus toward the divine games of the Warp, obsessing over how to mold the Aeldari into his second "Great Sack" of pawns, the Skaven had descended into a frenzy of internecine strife.
The galaxy now held two distinct Skaven hubs. To Lucius, the conflict between Clan Mors and the Kin over the Shattered Stars was little more than a trivial diversion, a minor skirmish on a corner of the grand chessboard.
Yet, his need for agents was real. This was not a question of raw power, but of depth; he lacked a sufficient cadre of usable pieces to enact his will. While a god might possess infinite reach, he cannot oversee every errand. A god does not patrol the mountain path; that is the task of the lesser imps. To do otherwise would be beneath his station.
Deep within the Skavenblight City, around the circular table that symbolized the supposed equality of the Council of Thirteen, the remaining members, such as Warlock Lord Morskittar of Clan Skryre and Lord Verminkin of Clan Moulder, were engaged in their perpetual, meaningless vitriol.
"NO! NO! You-you take too many worlds! For fairness—YES, for fairness, this planet belongs to Clan Graytail!"
"Lies! Filth-talk! Everyone knows… everyone knows you took bribes-kickbacks from the gray-things!"
"By the Great Horned Rat, I demand justice! Scab-things lured the man-things' armies into my warren! Killed hundreds of my brood-mothers!!"
These Councilors, figures of god-like terror to the trillions of Skaven below, chirped and shrieked accusations at one another. Their claims were factual, yet every crime they charged was one they had committed themselves ten times over.
Without the iron hand of the Great Horned Rat to intervene, the Skaven did more than just bicker. Betraying a rival's position to the forces of the Imperium or the Orks to see their clan uprooted was common practice.
As for those few who stubbornly pursued expansion, like Gnawdwell of Clan Mors, their reports of victory reached Skavenblight City via the Gnawholes only to be met with derision.
"Gnawdwell is a fool-idiot, grown old and soft. Skavenblight City is the heart-pulse of the Under-Empire! To scurry away to the surface... ridiculous! Stupid-brave!"
Suddenly, in the very center of the chamber, atop the empty thirteenth throne reserved for the Great Horned Rat, a flicker of eerie, viridian balefire ignited.
A cold dread seized the souls of every ratman present.
An intangible presence began to coalesce upon the chair, taking form until it manifested as a towering, monstrous figure: a Verminlord of immense proportions, crowned with thirteen twisted horns and covered in mangy, ash-white fur.
"Squeak-squeak!"
The Councilors shrieked in terror. They recognized this entity. This was no mere daemon; this was Skreech Verminking, the King of Verminlords.
As the herald of the Great Horned Rat, Skreech's word was the will of the God of Ruin himself.
"Sniff... sniff... ah~ what a delightful-exquisite stench!" Skreech Verminking let out a horrific, rasping chuckle, his blood-red eyes sweeping over the Council of Thirteen.
The Councilors, who moments ago were posturing with arrogance, now prostrated themselves like lowly slave-rats, their bodies trembling uncontrollably.
"Great... mighty, treacherous, ruthless Skreech Verminking! Your descent-appearance makes even the filth of Skavenblight City smell... more foul-sweet!"
The speaker was Minikovar, the Chief Grey Seer who had succeeded Kritislik following the latter's ascension to daemonhood.
The position had not fallen to Thanquol; despite his undeniable talent, Thanquol was widely viewed as a harbinger of doom, a "jinx" whom no Skaven trusted. Thanquol himself was currently wandering the galaxy, desperately trying to prove his worth by helping the Skaven cause, only to inadvertently trigger one catastrophe after another.
How long Minikovar would hold his post was anyone's guess. He was already the third to take the mantle; the horned skull of his predecessor now served as a warpstone-encrusted ornament atop his staff.
"Yes... my Master offers a boon-blessing to you... you useless wretches," Skreech Verminking hissed. "But first, there must be offerings… offerings of everything! Souls, rarities, riches! In the Realm of Ruin, the Great Horned Rat waits to fill-stuff every gutter!"
The Skaven's eyes gleamed with avarice.
The boon of the Great Horned Rat was the ultimate prize: Daemonic Ascension, the promise of eternal, undying power craved by all followers of Chaos.
"YES-YES, the Master's favor! The Horned One's gift!!"
Skavenblight City erupted into a fever of activity. Warlords who had been at each other's throats seconds ago were already plotting how to seize enough plunder to sate the God of Ruin's bottomless hunger.
…
"Hehe... do you see? These are my children. They are but playthings, dancing to the rhythm of my hand," Lucius remarked with a chuckle, glancing at Isha.
He had no desire to manifest in the mortal realm personally; there was little sport in it. He wrapped an arm around Isha's slender waist and added, "Now, let my servants embark on a journey for your daughter's sake."
By now, Isha had grown accustomed to these domestic familiarities and offered no resistance.
As Lucius tore open a rift in the Immaterium, Chrot, overseer of the Forge of Souls, led forth a legion of daemons and the grotesque, terrifying Daemon Engines born of that hellish smithy. They stepped through the veil, bound for an era where the Primarchs and the Emperor still walked the stars.
Chrot's primary objective was set: Erda, the mother of the Primarchs.
Attacking Terra during the height of the Great Crusade was a bold move, but drawing the Imperium's gaze was part of the design.
"Let us see if the Skaven can become a new 'Rangdan' for them."
Aside from the daemons of the Forge, Lucius granted Chrot no Skaven clans. He dropped the simple-hearted Warlock Engineer into an obscure "pocket empire" of humanity currently being bypassed by the Imperial advance.
Watching Chrot struggle to fulfill his task would be entertainment enough.
Chrot and his mechanical horrors manifested in the capital of this lost human realm, known as the Orbit Empire. It was a localized autocracy ruled by a technological tyrant. The moment Chrot appeared, he was surrounded by human soldiers clad in light power armor and wielding plasma rifles.
Chrot didn't even look at them. He raised a staff-like contraption of blasphemous machinery, and a surge of horrific green lightning erupted from its core.
The unknown energy instantly crippled the humans' technology. Chrot snatched up a soldier; countless tentacle-like cables, resembling blood-sucking leeches, burrowed into every crevice of the man's power armor to analyze its secrets.
"Interesting data... precious-valuable test subjects," Chrot muttered, nodding as he absorbed the technological blueprints into his mind in a heartbeat.
Then, using his power as a Greater Daemon, he began to call out to the local vermin to rise for the Great Horned Rat. From the depths of the tyrant's slums, a rhythmic, terrifying cacophony of scratching and squeaking began to rise.
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