The Warp-shuriken held by the Black Thirteen moved as though they were extensions of their own limbs, guided by the peerless hands of the Eshin Clan's ultimate assassins. Through the mastery of Eshin Ninjutsu, the Black Thirteen had shrouded the battlefield in an impenetrable, psychic fog of pitch-black gloom. Within this unnatural murk, they maneuvered with predatory ease, their whiskers sensitive enough to navigate by the slightest disturbances in the displaced air.
The Chosen of Slaanesh strained their many eyes, yet they could not pierce the veil. anwhile, the Black Thirteen danced through the air, their lithe forms blurring as they evaded a dizzying flurry of blows from six-ard adversaries.
The chilling killing intent of a passing blade was felt instantly by the assassins' fur. In a synchronized counter, their twin blades lunged toward the source of the ripple in the mist.
Weeping Blades sliced through the mirror-polished daemonic plate of the Slaaneshi Chosen like hot knives through butter, shearing through mutated muscle, severing superfluous limbs, and opening slender, elegant throats.
The stench of blood, foul yet cloyingly sweet as syrup, sprayed across the face of one of the Black Thirteen. The skaven could not resist a quick, frantic lick of the gore.
"No-no! Why not -? I… am the next Deathmaster!"
As this mber of the Black Thirteen stared down at the mounting corpses, a surge of overwhelming vanity and self-importance, fueled by the Dark Prince's influence, took hold. His crimson eyes darted toward Deathmaster Snikch, who was currently locked in a tumbling, frenetic duel with The Masque.
"Yes-yes, he dies... if he dies, the chance is mine-mine! It should have been mine all along!"
In a flash, mories surfaced of his life as a re squeaker, born into a single birth canal alongside thousands of litter-mates, dropped into the filth of a breeding pit.
He rembered the days spent fighting his brothers for a share of the Verminherder's milk, plentiful yet never enough, and feasting on the carcasses of those trampled or starved before an Eshin assassin selected him for training. From the mont he could stand, he had undergone the endless, grueling rites of Eshin assassination. Of the hundreds of thousands of Night Runners in his cohort, only hundreds survived to beco Gutter Runners. Through lethal cunning and superior skill, he had survived thirteen impossible missions to ascend as an Eshin Assassin, eventually killing his predecessor in the Shadow-Contests to claim a seat among the Black Thirteen.
Yet, despite his ambition to beco the Great Deathmaster of Clan Eshin, he was forced to bow before the incomprehensible, terrifying power of Snikch.
But what skaven among the Black Thirteen was not a supre predator, culled from the corpses of tens of billions? The power latent in the blood of the Slaaneshi Chosen had amplified their inherent treachery to its breaking point.
"Yes-yes, he cannot stop-halt !"
Blinded by ambition, the assassin's focus locked onto Snikch. He dropped to all fours, pouncing with exquisite stealth, his Weeping Blades trailing two streaks of toxic green light as they lunged toward Snikch's back.
The Masque flashed a triumphant, mocking grin, already preparing a victory dance over Snikch's imminent corpse.
Without even turning his head, Snikch parried the Masque's assault in one fluid motion, then executed a backflip that bypassed the traitor's ambush entirely. The third Weeping Blade, held firmly in his tail, flicked out with casual indifference across the traitor's throat.
The super-assassin, who had claid tens of thousands of lives, fell in a single strike, his head rolling from his shoulders.
"Fool."
Lucius let out a cold snort, catching the traitor's soul in his palm. Looking upon the spirit of the fallen assassin, Lucius imdiately cast it into the Realm of Ruin, binding it into the form of one of the countless rats that sward there. The fool seduced by Slaanesh would now have to endure his countless trials all over again, and this ti, they would be far more brutal.
The Masque recoiled in shock, but Snikch grew only more composed, his strikes turning sharper and more lethal. His tail whipped out like an iron chain, ensnaring the Masque's slender ankle before his twin blades flashed out, severing the daemon's legs at the knees!
The Masque's eternal, rhythmic step finally broke into a series of violent convulsions.
"HAAAAAAH—!" the Masque erupted with psychic energy, lashing out with a massive pink lash of sorcerous force.
Snikch rolled through the air to evade the strike, then unleashed a volley of shuriken in mid-descent. The daemon was instantly riddled with glowing Warp-shuriken.
As the Masque's physical form dissolved into the aether, Snikch muttered to himself, "Target... terminated." Without a mont's pause, he turned to continue the slaughter of the remaining Slaaneshi Chosen.
Six Keepers of Secrets, leading six Slaaneshi legions, swung their silver blades in a clash against thirteen Verminlords. Relying on their transcendent swordplay, the Keepers managed to cut down three of the Verminlords.
However, the tide quickly turned. The remaining Verminlords sward them; even with four arms, the Keepers of Secrets were overwheld by the sheer volu of attacks and hacked to pieces in a frenzied flurry of blades.
"Filthy rats! You win only by numbers!" Slaanesh roared in fury, though the Dark Prince was powerless to intervene.
With Snikch's execution of the Masque, the Slaaneshi host began to break. The speed that the daemons of Slaanesh so prided themselves on was neutralized by the relentless harrying of Clan Eshin. Soon, the Mors Verminherders pushed forward, crushing the daemonic army in a pincer movent. The Circle of Avidity was completely transford into a verminous nest, leaving the pests to defile and destroy the priceless artworks, gold, and jewels of the palace.
As the chittering of the rats rose in volu, the voices of the other Chaos Gods echoed through the Warp. Khorne and the others howled with mocking laughter, while the Emperor watched with cold detachnt, though perhaps, in the shadows of the Golden Throne, He too allowed a grim satisfaction.
The swarm soon reached the walls of the second circle: the Circle of Gluttony.
"Gluttony? A skaven's hunger is bottomless," Lucius mocked. If the Skaven were permitted to breach the Circle of Gluttony, Slaanesh's entire domain would be lost, destined to beco nothing more than a sprawling rat-warren.
As expected, Slaanesh could no longer remain idle.
A crushing wave of pink and purple energy descended, instantly pinning the dark-green power of the Great Horned Rat, which had been aggressively eroding the Slaaneshi realm, bringing it to a dead halt.
"Finally showing yourself, Slaanesh? The Great Horned Rat is always hungry…" Lucius watched as the manifestation of Slaanesh appeared. He rotated his wrists, letting out a rumbling laugh.
Slaanesh glared venomously at the Great Horned Rat, then looked with pained longing at Isha, still clutched in the Great Horned Rat's grasp. The Dark Prince let out a final, frustrated roar, "Begone! Leave, Horned Rat! Get out of my domain and take your prizes with you! I have no desire to waste my strength fighting your filthy brood, they stain my palace with their very presence!"
"Hahaha! Surrendering already? Don't let them off so easily, Horned Rat!"
"Mmm~ the sweet scent of rotting failure."
"Everything... proceeds as planned."
The other three Gods added their voices to the cacophony. Everyone knew the truth: Slaanesh was perhaps the most potent of the Four in potential, but currently possessed the thinnest "reserves." Facing a relentless, scavenging brute like the Great Horned Rat was a losing ga.
When the Chaos Gods truly clash, the battle devolves into a primal struggle, much like when Khorne shattered Khaine into a thousand shards, or the legends of Gork and Mork locked in their eternal wrestling match.
For Slaanesh, the self-styled elegant artist, such a vulgar brawl was beneath them. Moreover, unlike the Eldar who were fading from the mortal world, the Skaven were growing in strength without end. In a war of attrition, Slaanesh refused to strike a bargain that resulted in a net loss.
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