Deep Below the Lower Halls of Karak Eight Peaks....

Fizquik Blacktail stood brooding within his laboratory, tucked within a deep crevice below the maze of ramshackle buildings and scaffolding which was the Pillar City. A surprisingly well constructed pulley system winched skaven in and out of his loathsome abode, which was brimming wall to rocky wall with all manner of hastily constructed mechanical equipment. The lines between magic and technology blurred utterly in the mad Warlock Engineer's lair. Luminescent jars filled with all manner of strange deadly chemical concoctions shared shelf space with rows and rows of half-finished inventions. Warp-lighting produced by spinning turbines arc'd around the lab between various electrical nodes and made the fur of many a rat-kin stand on end.

Amongst this display of insane science, a great number of wretched skaven slaves worked tirelessly to fulfill their masters wishes in as speedy a manner as possible, lest they become the next unwilling test subject for the Warlock’s latest and greatest weapon. They cranked levers, excavated large amounts of rock, spun turbines, or ran like mad rats atop strange devices to power some part of the lab. Fizquik’s engineer apprentices acted like vicious task masters, extolling the slaves to greater feats of physical labor under threats of horrific violence should they halt for even a moment. Their own blinding fear of the mad Warlock being the only thing that kept their envious hearts from turning against him.

While the din around him was chaos, Fizquik himself was unperturbed, keeping his snout glued to the schematics he’d created for his latest invention. They were nearly ready, it was time for a little test run.

With a triumphant squeek, Fizquik rolled the ratskin parchment up and lifted it upwards, extolling his own genius,

“I am mighty-great Warlock! Greatest of all Skryre engineers! Moskittar is sure to reward Fizquik with many more warptokens for this invention. We must test it now yes-yes, show fruits of my labors. YOU! Slave-thing!”

Fizquik pointed a claw at one of the wretched passing slaves. The poor skaven stopped immediately in his tracks and nearly emptied his glands with fear. No-one ever wanted to catch the Warlock’s attention.

“Go now! Scurry-hurry quick and pull lever over there!” He pointed to a particularly heavy looking rusted lever which was sitting preciously amongst arcing warp energy next to a large turbine generator.

The slave didn’t move for the briefest of moments, frozen with fear and was just about to beg for the Warlock’s mercy when Fizquik pulled out his warplock pistol and fired, blasting the slave back and leaving a bloodied mass where the warp bullet had tore through fur and skin.

“Too late!” Fizquik chittered manically, “Slave-thing too slow. Never make a Warlock Engineer of mighty Clan Skryre wait. You! Other slave-thing!” He pointed to another one of the passing slaves, “Pull lever now!”

Without hesitation the next slave immediately moved to obey the Warlock’s command. Judging, wisely, that it was better to take his chances with whatever mad device Fizquik was intending to test than to face certain death if he did not. The slave ran up to the lever and threw his entire body against it, wedging it back and initializing the process. The slave spilled to the floor and was getting back up on his paws, when a bolt of warp energy erupted next to his him and nearly seared his fur off entirely. The slave gave a loud squeek of utter terror before bolting away.

Fizquik stared up in crazed glee as he traced the energy flow released by the lever from turbine to turbine, electrode to electrode until it ended at a massive contraption at the center of his lab. A strange half-formed device that was a mass of pistons and spinning gears, kick started to life by the jolt of warp current. Fizquik’s goggles reflected the great green glow the device was giving off as he grinned in surefire astonishment of his brilliance,

“Yes-yes! More power! Pull all levers! Flip all switches! More! More!”

A crazed laugh escaped him which caused slaves and apprentices alike to wince with fear. His celebrations were cut short however, when the device began to sputter.

Fizquik lowered his gaze and his snout dropped in fear. The mass of Skaven within his lab ran for cover as the device shook violently. The Warlock ducked down behind a heavy boulder and plugged his ears just in time for a great explosion to rip through the lab. Warpfire blazed a bright iridescent green all around, engulfing every skaven unfortunate enough to be too close to it, and singeing the fur of many others far enough away to escape the immediate blast.

When it was finally over, Fizquik peeked out over the rock to see part of his lab in cinders, and the charred and mutilated corpses of many slaves all around. An unfortunate slave ran past him completely engulfed in warpfire before falling to the rocky earth unable to continue his flight.

“Hmm. Too much energy. Must fix-correct for next time. Bigger capacitors! Yes! That is the answer!”

Fizquik withdrew a tattered and hastily bound journal from his satchel and cracked it open, jotted a few notes down and returned it swiftly before turning his attention to his remaining workers cowering in the corners,

“Clean up this mess Slave-things! Quickly! Before I kill-slay each of you!” As if to prove he meant business, he fired another shot from his warplock pistol at a nearby slave, missing the poor rat by only a hair. He’d actually meant to hit him, but Fizquik would let them believe that was just a warning shot.

“How am I supposed to keep creating great inventions for Clan Skryre with such incompetent fools at my disposal?” He wondered aloud, “Slave filth. Must ask Clan Moulder for better slave stock...”

Fizquik was about to return to his work when a voice from behind him dared to call his name,

“Is this the lab of Warlock Fizquik?”

Fizquik spun around, and came face to face with a rather proud looking clan-rat. Clearly not one of his rabble given the armor he wore and the sword at his side...and lack of burnt fur,

“Who asks?” He snarled back, “Speak-say quick!”

With a smug expression, the visitor pulled forth a medallion and displayed it to the Warlock. It was jet-black with twelve scratches around its circumference. At the center, was the symbol of the Great Horned Rat. Fizquik eyed it suspiciously. It immediately dawned on him what this was, and the sight of a large heavily-armored Albino Stormvermin coming up behind the visitor like a bodyguard confirmed it. Fizquik couldn’t help but release a little fear musk.

“An emissary of the Council...” The visitor said proudly, “Council says its time for Skaven to take-conquer all of mountain for glory of Horned Rat...we have work to do.”

The drake cannon was nearly finished. Drirga had been laboring over the thing since the wee hours of the morning, and now it’s Drakewarden and Zarbremm were watching as it neared completion. The carcass of the mechanical beast had been dragged here by the Zungag twins weeks ago and as soon as she arrived the Irondrakes set her on it. She hooked a final fuel line into place, closed the panel, tightened the screws, and turned around.

“It’s ready,” she huffed, tired already from the work. She wiped the sweat off her brow with a rag. “The new gas lines weren’t cheap, but the cannon should ignite faster, burn harder, and shoot farther.”

The Drakewarden examined the cannon appreciatively, scratching his singed beard. He had years of experience with the machines, having immolated his way across the Old World to here. “Aye, it’ll do.” He said simply.

Drirga offered a fatigued grin to the Drakewarden and shook his hand. A group of Irondrakes that would eventually operate the cannon entered the improvised workshop. They had traded their gromril for linens, and they were ready to move the cannon to the armory.

Zarbremm beamed, feeling a swell of pride for his wife, as well as a measure of shame. Beyond helping the manual labor and camp guards, he had been mostly idle at camp waiting for the next foray into the depths of the Hold. Meanwhile, Drirga’s expertise with war machines had been sorely needed and she had been set to work almost immediately. He met eye contact with her briefly and smiled, congratulating her before taking up a position behind the cannon.

They pushed it out of the workshop carved into the side of the mountain. The old heights of the city and eight peaks rose around them as they heaved the machine across base camp to the armory. Lord Belegar Ironhammer had spared no expense in fortifying their courtyard with all manners of defense. What was once a camp now resembled a small town, bristling with steel and gun barrels. New columns of manling mercenaries, brave Dawi, and slayers arrived everyday.

They reached their destination quickly enough. They hauled it into place with the other cannons, panting with exhaustion. The Irondrakes thanked him for his help, but didn’t dally. They had their own duties. He was sure he’d be part of the shield wall protecting them anyways, despite his junior rank as an ironbreaker. He began to make his way back to his wife, but found himself next to one of many campfires, warming his bones and musing on the grudge that brought him here. His father had been a stern man, but his uncle had always come back from a ranging with funny stories and gifts. His fondest childhood memories always involved his visits. For some reason, his uncle came here and found himself drawn in and tied up in the struggle. The poor bastard got himself killed and now here he was. It was a noble quest, but one that seemed impossible.

Before he could continue, the sound he had been waiting for came. Three rings on the ancient Angrund bell, brought here by Belegar himself, rang throughout the camp. The next incursion into the deep would begin at dawn of the next day.

(OOC: Sorry for the wait. School has been a bitch. Hope I haven't dissuaded anyone.)

Rundel was marching along with the Slayers, singing songs of old and reclaiming hearth and home. He was a stranger to Karak Eight Peaks to be frank, and he believed there were holds more urgent in reclaiming. Karak Zorn for example, if it was found and retaken would truly make the Karaz Ankor an Empire again.

But, these were no longer his problems to think about. All he needed was a good death. He had gathered quite the posse, as only a few Slayers present had a more impressive kill-tally, but this did not interest him very much either. Bootlickers often only got in the way, and thus he did his best to 'politely' brush them off.

Still, morale had to be maintained. Thus he sang with his full lungs, and made a point of clanging his axes in time with the song.

When at last he arrived, he really didn't have much to do. He drank some of the more flavourful ales rather than the strong ones, for now preferring to stay sobered. Having an ambush annihilate the force before it even descended would be tragic to say the least. No, after a mere forty mugs he declared he'd had enough, and went for a wee nap until King Belegar began the incursion. Until then, he gathered his strength and dreamt of the great foes he'd kill.

Bronr had spotted the hold two days ago at the peaks behind Karag Yar, but it was only today as the sun began to set closer to the west did the party of Dawi he had guided made it into the pass. Only once had they been assailed by Greenskins, though it left two of the stout Soldiers injured. They had hired him two fortnight's ago to find the safest trails to travel through, the relatively flat roads where the goats and mules could haul the precious cargo of Iron and Silver the merchants so greedily kept under guard. Bronr did not blame him. He felt the Gold lust even less than most Dwarfs, and he was no thief. But even his eye was drawn to the metals once or twice.

When he had made his way down the slope and had announced their arrival to the merchants, there were grumbles of cheer. The merchants, sturdy Dawi or no, were not soldiers. They merely traveled to sell their wares, and they had heard tell of the new activity at the fabled Hold of Eight Peaks and sought to exploit their wares at the old Silver Gate. With a cry in Khazalid, the mules and goats began to move once more, and the soldiers kept a watchful but less strict eye as they crested the hill and saw the settlement beneath them.

Once Bronr received his payment, counting it thrice to make sure the merchants weren't being stingy, he wandered off into the Silver Gate in search of a pint and potential work to continue his growing hoard of funds. Oh, he could survive well enough on his own out in the wilderness or beneath the mountains, hunting and foraging. But like all good Dwarfs, he valued Gold and honest work nearly as much as he valued his beard he wore proudly for all to see.

What he needed now was one other thing he truly valued. A good pint of Bugman's.

Goz - Outskirts of the Dawi Camp

A malformed stunted shape stalked the edges of the Dwarf camp, peering down the cliff side towards the tents and great billowing furnaces of industry that stretched across the exterior of Eight Peaks. The wretched goblin's name was Goz, and he twitched at the sight of just how many stunties there were. Much more than his warboss, Dimzog Rootrot, had expected.

"Ooo Da Boss is gunna be mad 'bout dis. Dem gobos said there wuz only a small group of stunties. Look at all dem down there. Humies is wit dem too...deys gettin' battle ready. Gunna be a big fight! Lotta stunties need killin'. Gunna need more boyz for dat..."

Goz squinted his eyes and saw one of the Dwarfs leaving a particularly impressive looking tent at the center of the camp. His armor was emblazoned blue and gold with a great horned helm, and his beard long and white: showing his age and experience. Even a simple minded goblin like Goz could understand who this was, the leader of the Dwarven throng: Belegar Ironhammer.

"We kill em'!" Goz shouted, below he clasped a green hand over his mouth, not wanting to give away his position with such antics.

"Gotta git back to Da Boss. Gotta tell him Ironhammer is here." He muttered to himself.

Goz scrambled up from his perch and began making his way back across the rim of the mountainside towards the hole from which he'd snuck out of. It was a precarious bit of walking, and more than once he felt himself briefly lose his grip. But he trudged onward, snickering to himself about how the stunties were gunna get clobbered by Dimzog's crew. Surely the Big Boss would reward him for his efforts once they were all dead and their loot was free for the taking.

A rock suddenly struck him aside the head, and Goz yelped a brief screech of pain before losing his grip entirely and tumbling off the cliff and down towards the Dwarf camp. He seemed to hit just about every jagged rock he could have, and by the time he reached the bottom he was well and truly dead.

A snicker emanated from the cliffside, and a cloaked shape emerged. A sling was clutched in its paws,

"Green-thing say-speak nothing."

And with that the Eshin Night Runner turned and disappeared down the hole in a flash, eager to now make his own report.