Grey Seer Typhus stood proudly at the head of his mighty army, gazing at the shield wall of chaos warriors arrayed against him. The Skaven enclave required ever greater quantities of warpstone and, tiresome though it was to keep making the long journey, the best source of the substance was still to be found in the frozen north, defended by the mortal minions of chaos. Still, at least the new airships meant that the journey could be undertaken in weeks rather spending months of risky sea voyages and lengthy overland marches through hostile empires.
Typhus puffed up his chest and cracked his hands together. He'd make short work of these meddlesome chaos lackies so they could lay their paws on the warpstone and get back home to the comforting lava fed fires of Boiling Peak. He took a snuff of warpstone powder and with an imperious wave of his hands blew up.
When the dust settled a score of slaves lay dead around the enraged Grey Seer. Someone had spiked his warpstone snuff! It was a plot to assassinate him, of that Typhus was sure. Come to think of it, his personal slave Squawl had seemed more than usually nervous and in awe of his august personage than usual before the battle. Waves of red hot rage beat through Typhus' skull like a hammer blow, the Grey Seer's already volatile temper not helped by a bad warpstone trip. Screaming threats and obscenities Typhus stormed back towards the Skaven encampment with the intention of finding that treacherous Squawl and ending his pathetic existence. His gaggle of slaves scattered before him as he flounced off oblivious to the uncertain glances of the rest of his army.
Abandoned by their supreme overlord and fearing they had been set up as sacrificial pawns in some nefarious scheme the rest of the army took the first available opportunity to run away, with their battlefield commander leading by example in best Skaven tradition.