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I Have to See a Man About a Rat - Ophidicus | |
The Shifty Looking FellowThis month has been fairly hectic, what with college, getting ito another band, having a most foul and virulent plague (staccato vocals!), the anti-spray English weather and getting a wee bit tipsy at various clubs and concerts, so I haven’t had much time to paint or game. Oh well, look at some shiny pictures of what I have managed. Ah, excuses, excuses.This Moon’s Buys20 more Clanrats, this time with Swords. I’m going to have loads of fun painting these, and the other 56.Another Jezzail, to put the unit up to legal strength, and to put another S6 hole in a knight’s belly. Warpstone gives knights a sore tum. 3 Stormvermin, again to bring the unit up to legal strength. Now I have 12, just enough to hide the: Battle Standard Bearer. This month’s lovable furball was made from the old Skaven warlord, a warlock’s back banner and the orc boarboy standard top, with a plastic clanrat head, a pole from the ‘evil hordes’ command sprue and a human buckler. Pretty eh? Well, seeing as I’ve been a bit ‘busy’ (yep, I spell busy L-A-Z-Y too), I’ve written you all a nice bedtime story: Fergal Wikket, Skaven ChieftainTwo dozen burly Skaven, Clan Skryre’s finest, sat along the table, revelling in the night’s great victory. Slaves scuttled across the damp flagstones, some slipping, some spilling their burdens, much to the delight of the Stormvermin, who leapt at any excuse to butcher the slave in question. Always hungry, they were, for humour as much as for meat.An ever- popular sport amongst the elite was to see which of them couldmake a slave squeal tho loudest. The competition was particularly stiff tonight, the favourite being the infamously and hilariously sadistic Grik Dellak, the regiment’s leader. The favourite as much because of his imposing stature and the disquieting gaze of his Warpstone eye as for the cries from the hapless slaves, though this was no small feat. The favourite, that was, until a piercing shriek, so tortured and penetrating as to rival the hallowed Screaming Bell itself, tore through the howls of agony and mirth. The Black-pelts turned to see a stranger’s shade against the guttering light from the doorway, fangs glinting in a wicked grin, clutching the slave by the open spine, it’s tail twitching feebly as it whimpered away it’s last moments. “Missed one you did. Escaping.” “Not invited. Go now. GO!” snapped Dellak, glaring. The newcomer strode to the foot of the table, and casually skipped atop, not looking aside as he dropped the slave’s carcass in the next rat’s platter, his eyes fixed on Dellak’s as twenty-four blades were drawn, stalked the length as Dellak rose and drew his own sword, taken along with the head of an Imperial Greatsword, sprang into the air as Dellak slashed for the legs, and stamped down hard on the hilt, trapping the paw with the right foot, neatly breaking the arm with the left. By now the others had seen sense enough to to back away, secretly enjoying their new companion’s spectacle. A nervous glance to the sides, trying desperately to keep the fear-gland from secreting his new-found cowardice, told Grik Dellak all he needed to know: he could expect no aid. Wikket needed no such glance. He snatched Dellak’s ragged tunic, and jerked him onto the points of his toes, sending his chair clattering backward. Dellak made for an innefectual swipe with his other claw, rendered so by Wikket’s teeth, clamping down in the instant, severing fingers with a sly wink, and spat blood into his face. “Who are you? Who? WHO!?” Wikket grinned again, and faster than even Skaven eyes could follow, snatched out Dellak’s before he had a chance to blink. Leering into it’s Warpstone counterpart, he whispered: “You’d like to know, eh?” As amused as he was contemptuous, Wikket rammed his fingers into the green orb, sending it into Dellak’s little-used brain, and threw him writhing to the cold stone. Spinning around, he glared into every pair of eyes in turn. “Fergal Wikket am I, personal bodyguard to His Horned Majesty Grey Seer Turttora, bearer of Lord Morskittar’s War Banner, one of the Thirteen Sacred-sacred Standards of The Horned Rat, taker of slave-scum, killer of men and green-things, and, now-now, slayer of Grik Dellak. Why, who were you expect-specting?” | |
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