Vermin-tide versus Bug-tide. Two races, both infamous for their sheer, suffocating weight of numbers, collided in a spectacle of unparalleled carnage and cruelty.
Charging alongside rats the size of hounds were the Skaven Slaves—gaunt, mangy wretches whose fur had largely rotted away due to parasites and chronic malnutrition. Covered in a patchwork of weeping sores and jagged scars, they were a pathetic, hideous sight as they were driven forward.
"SQUEE-SQUEE!"
"Charge! Forward-run!"
Lashed by the whips of the Clanrats behind them, these nearly naked slaves clutched monomolecular bayonets looted from the Zavka defenders, or crude spears fashioned from hive-gang cleavers and iron bars. In their other paws, they gripped battered Warp-pistols.
The vermin surged like a foul tsunami, a chattering, manic wave that did not slow even when faced with the terrifying wall of chitin and scythes.
This defiance stemmed from the unique psychological traits of the Skaven. While a lone ratman is a snivelling coward, proverbially prone to the "Scurry Away" instinct, they are also possessed of "Strength in Numbers." In isolation, a Skaven will only steal crumbs; in a teeming mass, their collective courage swells into a delusional fervor, leading them to believe they can devour the very world.
The Tyranid Termagants fired their fleshborers while the Skaven unleashed their Warpstone-shot. Neither side bothered to aim; in such a dense press of bodies, every shot hit something. Whether it was friend or foe mattered little, only the kill-count remained.
Slave-rats and Hormagaunts slammed into one another in a spray of ichor and filth. The Gaunts used their scything talons to effortlessly bisect the vermin, while the Skaven's yellowed fangs and monomolecular blades tore into Tyranid chitin.
Once the Slaves had spent their worthless lives blunting the initial Tyranid impact, the true Skaven military made its entrance.
"FORWARD-RUN! KILL-KILL!!"
Clad in "customized" flak armor, a mosaic of scavenged carapace plates and Astra Militarum issue, the Clanrats advanced. They carried Warp-muskets, long-barreled rifles tipped with Warpstone bayonets. Like a lasgun, these weapons were semi-automatic; unlike a lasgun, many Skaven had "improved" their firearms with over-sized, unstable high-capacity magazines.
Bang-bang-bang!
Heavy-caliber Warpstone rounds whistled from the rear, punching through Tyranid carapaces and tumbling the xenos over. The Clanrats pushed forward, using the mounting piles of their fallen kin as mobile cover. They had no choice, behind them, their Chieftains watched with predatory eyes. To retreat was to be branded a traitor and "demoted" to the miserable existence of a Slave-rat.
The battlefield devolved into a chaotic meat-grinder. Sensing the stalemate, the Tyranid Hive Mind deployed its elite synapse units: Tyranid Warriors. Accompanying them were Barbgaunts, living artillery units whose parasitic weapons turned them into biological RPG launchers.
The Barbgaunts hobbled on three legs, their bodies secondary to the massive bio-cannons fused to their forms. They launched chitinous seed-pods in high arcs that fell into the Skaven ranks. Upon impact, the pods detonated into a storm of highly corrosive bone-shrapnel, liquefying rat-flesh into a soup of biomass within seconds.
A dozen Tyranid Warriors waded into the fray. With the cold precision of apex predators and psychic-attuned bone-swords, these four-armed killers reaped a red harvest.
Despair, or rather, "Rat-panic", began to take hold. As the Hive Mind realized its reclamation pools were under threat, it diverted more biomass from the Imperial front. Spore Mines drifted down, exploding in clouds of acidic vapor, followed by Biovores and their more devastating counterparts, the Pyrovores.
The Hive Mind had analyzed the foe: the vermin had numbers but lacked individual durability. It decided to apply overwhelming, localized force to erase them utterly and claim their biomass.
Under this renewed assault, the morale of the Fang-Grip Clan began to shatter.
The Fang-Grip Chieftain knew that if his lines broke, he wouldn't just lose his clan, he would lose his life. If he survived the Tyranids, he would be executed or enslaved by his rivals. Desperation bred a fleeting, frantic courage.
"Fear not! For—for the Great Horned Rat!!"
The Chieftain roared, waving a scavenged chainsword and a triangular storm-shield. He committed his final reserves: a thousand Stormvermin in heavy ceramite plate. Their task was to "encourage" the routing Clanrats back into the fight through public executions.
But the true anchor of the Skaven line were the monstrosities provided by Clan Moulder.
Throt had invested just enough capital to ensure this puppet clan didn't collapse too quickly. From the rear, a dozen Stormfiends stomped into view.
Bulky and hulking, these stitch-fleshed horrors were larger and stronger than Tyranid Warriors. Brainless but lethal, they raised their integrated weapon-limbs: Poison Wind Mortars.
Thump-thump-thump!
Glass spheres filled with emerald gas shattered among the Tyranid swarms. A thick, swirling fog of Poison Wind enveloped the xenos. For the first time, the Tyranids encountered a toxin they had no resistance against. The Warp-infused gas bypassed biological immunity, corroding both chitin and flesh with supernatural hunger.
Warpstone is the crystallized essence of the Immaterium. It does not obey the laws of physics or biology. Even the Hive Mind, for all its adaptive genius, struggled to process this "magic-filth."
The Fang-Grip Chieftain, leading his Stormvermin, charged into the breach with a manic WAAAGH! of his own. Despite his small stature, his power sword and shield allowed him to hold his own against a Tyranid Warrior. But he was only the leader of a minor clan.
Soon, the weight of the Hive Fleet's response pushed the Fang-Grip survivors back toward their tunnels. The Chieftain was already cursing as he prepared to "scurry-away" into the dark.
The Tyranids moved to finish them, sending Rippers forward to begin the grisly task of recycling the carpet of corpses.
But then, the sky turned green.
Countless more "drill-pods" began to rain down like meteors. These were not the ramshackle pods of a thrall-clan; these were the vanguard of Clan Moulder's primary host. Out of these pods poured not just rats, but a menagerie of twisted, bio-engineered nightmares.
"HA-HA-HA! Found it! Found the weak-spot of the bug-things! YES-YES! It is the meat-soup! The meat-soup pools!"
Throt the Unclean, a master of biological subversion, had deduced the Tyranid strategy simply by watching the Fang-Grip Clan die. He saw the Rippers frantically dragging biomass back to the Reclamation Pools and understood the Hive Fleet's logistical bottleneck.
This specific splinter fleet was low on resources. The arrival of the Skaven had forced it to recycle its dead prematurely.
Throt's pods, and eventually entire city-ships, slammed down directly onto the Tyranid capillary towers, shattering the delicate structures and spraying precious biomass across the dirt. It was a calculated strike against the Hive Fleet's "stomach."
The Master Mutator himself appeared, laughing manically as he rode atop a "Bonebreaker" Rat Ogre, a four-armed behemoth clad in bolted-on plasteel plating.
"When I catch these specimen-things, YES-YES! Moulder will be better-stronger than Skryre junk-clans! Ten thousand times better! HA-HA-HA!!"
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