“Vermin!” The hoarse, rasping voice spat the word as a curse that echoed across the clammy stone walls.
Grikk and the dozen or so remaining members of his claw-pack were thrust forward to the foot of the dais by their captors. Held in the iron grasp by a hulking, ogre-ish brute, Grikk fought, squirmed and even gnawed the creature’s fingers – but the rancid taste of its flesh was repulsive, and the wounds knit back together mere moments later.
“Indeed, Majesty” the brute prostrated itself in the shadow of the towering throne, ignoring Grikk’s desperate thrashing. “Caught raiding in the northern marches. We lost many soldiers on the field. The vermin attacked in great numbers.”
The pale figure perched atop throne snarled in displeasure. Grikk scented a number of the claw-pack letting free the musk of fear. Gathered about the dank recesses of the cavernous chamber were scores of hunched ghoul-fiends, the courtiers of the Ghoul king’s macabre household. They eyed the Skaven prisoners intently, malign whispers passing back and forth.
The gaunt King-creature drummed it taloned fingers impatiently upon one of the many skulls that adorned the throne. “What news of our royal cousin? Where is Prince Janos?”
“No word as yet, sire.” The brute bowed its head reverentially, averting its eyes from the glowering King-creature. “His Grace was last seen riding in pursuit of the fleeing vermin, flying Proudclaw north beyond the Splintervale.”
Grikk shuddered and lashed his tail anxiously. The dead-bat-beast that the creatures called “Proudclaw” was nothing short of a hulking colossus of tattered flesh and snapping jaws. Grikk had seen it rampage through Skreeq’s claw-pack before finally being brought down by the eldritch warp lightning of the Clan Skryre war-engines. Though, he could take little comfort in having seen the beast slain – even the lowest Clanrat knew that when the winds of Shyish blew strong the dead didn’t stay down for very long. The raids had yielded a mighty haul of warpstone but the ghoul-fiends had ambushed them as they carried off their prize. It had taken the full force of the assembled Skaven claw-packs – and cost the lives of hundreds of clanrats - to deliver the warpstone safely back to the gnaw-tunnels.
A hush fell amongst the assembled ghoul-fiends as their monarch alighted the throne to stand at the front of the dais. The captive clanrats shrank back further as the King began to rave, “We shall not suffer the vermin to plunder our lands!” Summon our Knights! Send out the heralds to every corner of the land – We declare a crusade!”
The court erupted in cheers of approval as baying sycophants sought to be the first and loudest to pledge their support to their liege’s decree. The King raised his hand in mimicry of flamboyant and courtly gesture, “Tonight, we shall feast! For tomorrow, we ride north to to avenge ourselves upon the verminous horde!”
Grikk’s blood ran cold; at the utterance of the word “feast” the ghoul-fiends fell silent, and the atavistic gaze of a hundred hungry eyes fell upon the clanrat prisoners huddled in the centre of the throne room.
The silence broke with a hiss: “Feassst!”
It quickly became a crescendo, ringing out through the cavernous hall, “Feast, feast!”
The clamorous, roaring chant was taken up by the courtiers. Grasping hands reached out to seize the screaming captives.“FEAST, FEAST, FEAST...!"
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