Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

Kruk fell for what seemed like hours, his robes burning, his flesh peeling. He felt no pain, only rage, and when he struck an outcropping of bone and flesh, it was almost a relief. He bounced, struck something else, and tumbled into a pool of gastric juices. The burning waters carried him for what might have been days, hours or merely moments. Time passed strangely to his pain-fogged senses, and when he at last felt something solid beneath his claws, it came as a shock. Instinctively, he dug in and clawed for purchase.

The plague priest rose with a screech and floundered for shore. He hauled himself out of the bubbling liquid, and gave himself a shake. The vast gullet of the worm rose up around him, blocking out the hateful sky and shrouding everything in a pleasing, humid darkness.

Holding his maimed claw to his chest, he sniffed the air. Everything stank of worm and lightning, though that was no surprise. He heard thunder echoing down from above, and something told him that Skuralanx would not be coming for him.

The thought was not displeasing, all things considered. The daemon had used him, and abandoned him when it had achieved its goal. And it had paid for its temerity, as had the duplicitous Vretch and the treacherous Squeelch. Betrayers and fools all, they had paid the price for attempting to bar Kruk from his destiny.

Despite the pain of his wounds, he tittered in satisfaction. His survival was proof enough that his fate was already written. The Horned Rat had gouged Kruk a place in his schemes, and he was protected from the vagaries of fate.

‘Protected, yes-yes,’ he mumbled, squinting into the dark. As the pain faded, his vision improved. Even with one eye, he could see the tumbled slabs of mould-covered soil and rock that rose up around him. His robes had been burnt to shreds, and most of his body had been charred into hairlessness, but all of his limbs were working.

He heard a soft scrape and turned. Something speared towards him, razor maw spread wide. He caught it just behind its jaws with his good claw and hacked at its squirming length with the jagged remains of his censer. When its struggles had weakened sufficiently, he took a wary bite out of the worm-thing’s glistening flesh. The dark slime which coated it burned as it slid down his gullet. It tasted… odd. But Kruk was not one to turn his nose up at a meal, no-no. As he tore more flesh from his prey, he looked around.

The bones of skaven, orruks and man-things alike filled the sump, and among them squirmed a nest of black, glistening worms, all smaller than the one he held. Too, worms curled about splintered ribs and filled the burst skulls of fresher skaven corpses — Vretch’s followers, he guessed. The air was thick with the stink of disease and Kruk’s sensitive nose wrinkled as he sucked in a lungful. He dipped his broken censer into the frothy ichor that dripped from the worm-nests onto the ground and lifted it to his snout. As the liquid slopped from the ruined gauntlet, it solidified into a writhing mass of wriggling shapes. Kruk chittered in pleasure as he dumped the worms back into the ichor.

Vretch had been wrong. Worse than wrong — Vretch had been foolish. He had thought that the answer was in a book. But it wasn’t, and had never been. Whatever plague this was, whatever its name or source, it had never been written down. Not yet anyway.

Kruk looked around, examining the ruined latticework of stone and dirt and sludge with a considering eye as he chewed another chunk of worm. He knew the old stories of Geistmaw, and suspected that Vretch had as well. He had come searching for this place to find its secrets and, true to form, walked away with the wrong one. Kruk tapped his broken censer against the walls. Yes-yes, this had once been a fine warren, before the worm had swallowed it up.

And it might be so again, in time. A perfect lair, hidden in the belly of a great beast, away from the prying eyes of daemons and star-devils alike. There would be survivors above, both from among his followers and Vretch’s… enough, at least, to start with. In time, more would come. They would burrow down, seeking safety, and Kruk would be waiting for them. He looked down at the squirming shapes floating in the ichor and licked his muzzle in satisfaction. Yes-yes, more would come, and a new warren would rise, down in the dark.

The Congregation of Fumes was dead.

Long live the Congregation of the Worm.

Sylvaneth

Josh Reynolds The Resolute

The rotling roared out a challenge and Felyndael, Guardian of the Waning Light, turned to meet it. They always sought to challenge him. It was not bravery, he thought, so much as hunger. Hunger for challenge, hunger for conquest… hunger for death. They were like the roots of a blighted tree, still stretching for nourishment even though the trunk was dead. They belonged dead, but could not die. He gestured contemptuously, and the rotling lumbered towards him.