Domovoi continue raiding

The engagement had been staged as an opportunity for the Warpclaw Guild to show off its latest weaponry their allies of the Domovoi Pantheon. Neither the Elder Stribozh Daemon-tongue, nor the Chief Warlock of the Skaven army, much minded the inevitable losses that would be incurred by both sides in the demonstration. Life was brief and brutal in the far north. What better way to end it, then, than in glorious combat beneath the open sky under the watchful gaze of the gods?

Stribozh rose from his seat in which he had watched the battle unfold as his Champion of the North, Gerros the Unholy, swung down from the saddle to kneel before his master. Gerros was slick with gore and in places his armour was badly scratched or dented, but otherwise he appeared quite unharmed. Gerros offered up the battered helm of the slain Skaven warlord as a token of his victory. Stribozh accepted it and made a sign of blessing upon his triumphant champion. He turned to survey the carnage of the battlefield – though many Domovoi had been slain in the contest, the field was strewn with dead and dying clanrats. Gerros and his knights had smashed the Guild’s forces aside, cleaving and crushing the Unscurried legions beneath blade and iron-shod hoof, only to then charge down the line to scatter and smash the Skaven war engines that had performed so dismally.

The Chief Warlock had promised great things of his new “wonder weapons”, but to Stribozh’s eye the day clearly belonged to the Domovoi. The Chief Warlock twitched anxiously beside him, running claw over palm in agitation at the embarrassing failure of his war machines.
“It would seem, great Stribozh...” His whiskers twitched, and eyes darted nervously as if searching for the words, “That our machines need a little more, err, work... yes-yes?”

“Quite.” The reply was curt and taciturn. Stribozh had no liking for the stinking vermin but their ingenuity and thirst for carnage could not be denied. Though his warriors had made him proud today Stribozh was quietly disappointed that the Guild’s weapons had not proved more devastating. If the Domovoi were to march east to war it was likely that the weapons of the Skaven could give the vital advantage. The Enemy across the Sea had proved their power centuries before. The scions of ruined Storrvattenstad still told the tales of the Night of Fire, a grim legend passed down by those who had witnessed the fury of the Dragonlords.

The Warlock flinched again, but forced a yellow, pointed smile. “Yes-yes, great Stribozh. We promise-pledge to continue the work-making. You shall not be disappointed.”

Stribozh uttered a silent prayer of hope to the gods that the Warlocks could be trusted.