A rumble of thunder. Pitch black. Cold black. A slow rhythmic pulse. A rocking motion. A memory of arcing light. The world creaking and bending in upon itself and… he cracks open his eyes.
Not a nightmare. Not inside out. Real. And dark. And wrong. He becomes dully aware of his form, curled on the ground, a dull ache in his back. Then suddenly fiercely aware of his surroundings. The air reeks of fear, glands and glands of fear and blood. He can barely see, his senses overwhelmed with the fear and panic stench of a thousand unseen rats.
He shakes his pounding head and pulls himself backwards from the wreckage. He remembers now. Hearing the demon bellowing, seeing the glint of a terrible axe hewing skaven as if they were wheat before a scythe. He had seen it coming closer and been rooted to the deck in fear.
His thoughts were clearing, snout becoming accustomed to the stench. He thinks, eyes scanning the darkness, brain skittering between the urge to run or stay hidden. He remembers having a clear view from the deck, one of five ships Thanquol had said would help them to take untold fancies from the wretched coast dwellers. It had worked for a time, he had amassed his own private collection of shiny rocks and precious metals. That was until they had stumbled upon the demon. And now he was in the dark, surrounded by the aftermath of a terrible destruction. All trinkets lost.
“Boss knew” he thought, “knew the hateful thing. Knew not to fight. Saves his own tail.” He leaned backwards, arching his back and immediately regretting it, feeling the sickening grind of broken ribs.
“Why?” he hissed through the pain “Why me?”. He clenched his eyes shut, remembering the sound of the axe, the screams of his crew mates and the roar of the demon thing. The light reflecting off the blade as the showers of blood arched from the apex of every swing. A great pendulum of death. Left to right to left. Death upon death.
He could see that terrifying light pulse red through his closed eyelids. His eyes sprung open. Although accustomed to darkness, making sense of the torn remains of the ship was hard in his scrambled state. The flash of light again. He startled, scrambling backwards on his claws kicking out at whatever was responsible. But there was no sound, no movement. Just the gentle rocking of the ship.
A beam of moonlight punctured through a gash in the hull and reflected off the tip of a bladed helmet on the floor across from where he sat. Following the blade down to where the wearer’s face should be, he saw it crushed flat by a fallen mast, the corpse obscured by rigging.
He recognised the armour and the dark red cloak now splattered with blood and worse. His captain. He had stood on the prow of the ship, he had looked so confident. So proud to have been honoured by Thanquol to lead and pillage in the Great Horned Rat’s name.
“That hadn’t lasted long had it? Not so favoured now, eh?” he grinned, lips pulled back over crooked, yellow teeth. He drew himself to his haunches, favouring the side of his body less broken and felt the deck roll beneath him.
He had heard no screams or fresh scent since regaining consciousness. Perhaps the demon had gone, wreaking his dread havoc upon some other victims.
A thought formed. It spoke gently inside his skull. “If captain dead, then he won’t need armour, eh? Won’t be leader no more, no? Who will lead now? Eh?” The thought paused. “Who lead better than us?”
His head darted around, snuffing the air. “No one lives. We alone live.” He tears a piece of mangled ironwork to serve as a pry bar. “We are chosen, yes. We knew. We knew it! The Great One choses us.”
Above deck the devastation was brutally apparent as four hulks of mangled wood, rope and metal were all that remained of the Skaven fleet. Threaded between rigging, shredded under canon and crushed under barrels were the corpses of innumerable ratmen. Their battered armour no match for the force of nature which had torn through them.
A fire smouldered on the foredeck of the smallest wreck, the pitch soaked wood would burn for days.
Through a gash in the deck some movement. Planking pushes aside. A rat man, clad in gold armour clambers through the opening into the moonlight. He yanks a spear from a fallen crew member and takes a knee. Claws moving fast and purposefully, he ties a blood stained cloak to the spear and fixes the morbid banner to his armour.
The full moon, low and heavy in the night sky reflects a pale light across the beach, the waves gently rocking the gutted wrecks is the only sound.
The rat man draws himself up to his full height, wincing at the pain of his broken bones. He places a blood stained helmet on his head, the blade catching the moonlight and draws back his hunched shoulders.
From under his arms he awkwardly retrieves buckled gauntlets and pulls them over his skinny claws. They will need a little reworking, but the fit isn’t bad.
In the distance an orange glow can be seen slowly building in intensity. “Maybe Thanqoul stands against the demon thing” he thinks. “Means there’s glory to be won. And riches too, yes, yes!”.
He raises an outstretched finger to the horizon, breathes in the cold clean air and screams “I am Claw Lord! Glory to the horned rat!”