When the Skitarii of Clan Resilience made planetfall, Queek Headtaker erupted in a fury of protests. He immediately dispatched envoys to declare that this world was the sovereign territory of Clan Mors, sanctioned by the Council of Thirteen in Skavenblight.
However, Lucukasque, the Archmagos of the Dark Mechanicum, replied through a discordant burst of vox-static and binary screeching: "We answer only to the Omnissiah Great Horned Rat. The Great Horned Rat has granted us the divine right to mine and exploit all lost technologies within the galaxy. Therefore, this world is ours by right of conquest."
As the legendary "Warlord of the Skaven," how could Queek tolerate such a blatant provocation? With a shrill, chattering war cry, he ordered the vast hosts of Mors to open fire upon the interlopers of Clan Resilience.
Within the Arks of Omen commanded by Clan Resilience lay countless incubation vats. These facilities churned out cloned Skaven slaves in such staggering numbers that the clan no longer relied on traditional broodmothers to bolster their ranks.
More crucially, the Dark Mechanicum, who had previously been forced to serve as wretched indentured laborers for treacherous Chaos Space Marine lords, often receiving nothing but betrayal for their toil, had finally found a worthy master. The Great Horned Rat did not merely share the forgotten technologies scavenged from the Realm of Ruin; He shielded them with the raw power of the Warp. Consequently, the expansion of Clan Resilience was so explosive that even Supreme Klaw-Marshal Whitesick, the self-proclaimed "Only Chosen of the Great Horned Rat," felt compelled to offer them gestures of diplomatic goodwill.
"WAAAGH!!"
Confronted by these cybernetically augmented Skaven Skitarii, wielding high-frequency blades and galvanic rifles powered by warpstone back-reactors, the Orks felt no fear. To the Greenskins, these new enemies were simply a refreshing change of pace. They had grown bored of slaughtering ordinary ratmen; a fresh foe meant a fresh fight. With a deafening collective roar, the Orks surged forward into the fray.
These modified Skaven Skitarii lacked the typical cowardice of their species, yet they retained their supernatural feline reflexes. From the rear lines, the Dark Magos orchestrated their movements like master puppeteers guiding remote-controlled automata, precisely managing every advance and tactical withdrawal.
Suddenly, a sharp crack echoed across the battlefield. A Dark Magos and an Ork Nob were both struck dead in the same breath. As the Magos's mechanical frame collapsed, a second shot detonated his power pack, turning the corpse into a localized supernova.
"Oh—come one, come all! One to fight, two to die-die!" A Skaven scout, clad in gear far superior to that of a common Clanrat, complete with multi-lens goggles and a specialized survival kit, wiped the breach of his rifle.
He was a Clan Ratling sniper, a member of the elite Bigby Quickfinger squad.
Leveraging their superlative marksmanship, these new disciples of the Great Horned Rat had rapidly carved out a niche within the Under-Empire's war machine: hiding amidst the infinite swarms to deliver the killing blow. For the snipers of Clan Ratling, this provided a sense of security they had never known before; after all, there was no better meatshield than ten thousand expendable Skaven bodies.
"Sniper detected, triangulate target immediately!"
The sudden execution of front-line Magos and Tech-Priests immediately drew the ire of higher-ranking Skaven Skitarii Marshals. Against a faction like the Dark Mechanicum, decapitation strikes were devastatingly effective. For every priest slain, entire cohorts of Skaven Skitarii regressed into mindless, rampaging beasts.
"Hahaha! It seems Father did not… did not waste-throw his Warp-tokens!"
Seeing the success of Bigby's squad, Queek grew ecstatic, though he maintained his public disdain for such "cowardly long-distance shooters."
"Come! Follow me! I shall slaughter-kill them personally… be they Green-things, Bug-things, or Resilience-things!"
The combination of the Bigby squad's assassinations and the disciplined yet savage assault of Clan Mors produced immediate results. Not even the Tyranids were immune; as their synapse creatures and node-beasts were picked off one by one, the swarm began to falter and recoil.
Perhaps this was the Great Horned Rat's design. As Queek led a thousand Ironclaw Warriors and millions of Mors infantry in a bloody charge, a streak of light flashed across the sky above.
"Wait... by Ynnead, what is that?!"
The pilot within the "meteor" gasped in disbelief.
This was no falling star. It was a Nightwing fighter of the Craftworld Aeldari.
"Worry not. It is recorded. We shall not miss this," the co-pilot replied, his voice possessing that quintessential Aeldari blend of elegance and suppressed excitement.
As one of the fastest aircraft in the galaxy, the Nightwing circled the planet in a heartbeat. It was through this peerless reconnaissance that the Eldar were able to identify their prize.
Below, on the Leagues of Votann Hold-world, a chaotic three-way war raged. The Necrons and the Dark Mechanicum were locked in a bitter stalemate; the Necrons, viewing the tech-priests as "clumsy mimics," showed them no quarter. This mutual animosity inadvertently relieved the pressure on the Eldar and the Kin.
When the Nightwing finally touched down, the pilots hurried toward Yvraine.
"What is it, Phloe? Agar?" Yvraine asked. Despite the blood spattered across her face, her expression remained composed and motherly toward her subordinates.
"Look at this, My Lady." Phloe handed Yvraine the pict-captures from the Nightwing's sensors.
"This looks like—" Yvraine began, her eyes widening as she focused on the image of a massive, Astartes-sized red ratman wielding a slender, unmistakably Aeldari blade.
Before she could finish, Eldrad Ulthran interjected: "It is the final Cronesword. Forged from the pinky finger of Morai-Heg. The sacred blade, Pale Wound! Yvraine, we have found it. The fifth Cronesword!"
Even Yvraine, who had pursued this quest through countless tragedies, could scarcely believe it. The final sword, a relic they feared was lost to a temporal paradox, was suddenly within reach.
"Oh... thank Isha. And thank you, Eldrad," Yvraine said, exhaling a long-held breath.
"Me? For what?" Eldrad asked, puzzled.
"For your prophecy. Had the Fifth Chaos God not manifested, our path would never have been this clear," Yvraine explained.
"That had nothing to do with me. All is destiny," Eldrad replied, shaking his head. "What is our move?"
"I recall a hidden Webway gate nearby. We shall depart through the gate first, then regroup for a lightning strike to seize the Cronesword!" Yvraine declared, conveniently locating a Webway entrance as if pulling it from thin air.
"Is that so? And what of your 'new friends'?" Lelith Hesperax, the Queen of Knives, asked with a cruel, mocking smile as she traced a finger along Yvraine's cheek.
As the savior of Roboute Guilliman, Yvraine's ultimate goal was merely to delay the death of the Imperium, using humanity as a shield against Chaos. Her "devotion" to helping the Kin had been nothing more than a means to find the sword. Now that the objective was sighted, she would offer her "new friends" nothing but her absence.
"I shall leave them the blessings of Ynnead and Isha. Beyond that, they have nothing. Order our forces to withdraw in secret, immediately!" Yvraine whispered.
The warriors of the Ynnari began to "sell" their allies, a maneuver at which no one in the galaxy was more proficient. The Skaven were currently too young, too naive to match the treachery of the Eldar.
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