Retuck's Return

Retuck’s body lay crumpled on the pavement, blood strewn across the rubbled ground, and pooled around his mid-drift.
The streets were uncharacteristically quiet, perhaps rumour of the rat-men had spread and fear was keeping others away, or perhaps there had been another large finding of wyrd stone which had drawn the crowds.
The body was alone. Retuck’s crimson robes moved in the slight breeze, the dusky sun was being its decent and was now obscured by the abandoned orphanage, casting the area into shadow.
Retuck’s eye opened suddenly. It squinted against the light. A groan escaped from his blood-encrusted mouth as he gained consciousness and realised his plight. Slowly and more cautiously the skaven opened his second eye.
He had no idea how long he’d been lying there.
He thought back to the battle with the humans, their swords and ferocity. They had been powerful. His mind wandered to his warband, had they been hurt too? Or worse maybe… or perhaps they had fled safely leaving him for dead?
“Those humans will pay” muttered Retuck bitterly.
He slowly slipped his right fist out of the fighting claw and moved it to feel his stomach. It was not good. The gash was large, and although blood no longer gushed from it, yellow puss and grit were already forming a crust. Infections in Mordheim almost always lead to death. He would have to get it cleaned as soon as possible if he was to stand a chance at survival. He rolled onto his back, and summoned his strength to lift his left paw, fighting claw still attached, and sliced off his robe sleeve. With his free paw he loosened his belt. He folded the sleeve, placing it on the wound and used the belt to secure it. He concentrated, yet the only movement he could muster in his legs was a slight wiggle of his toes. It was going to be a long, painful crawl to the sewer, but the other option was to accept the fate of being torn apart by rats, cats, carrion, or worse, at the hand of man. Night in Mordheim was a dangerous time, especially for the weak.
He rolled onto his stomach, and with a wince began heaving himself forward.

Defying all odds, Retuck had survived. It took him 4 hours to crawl the short distance to the sewer camp. His mob, had been tending their wounds, and squabbling over whom would take the warp stone to Rotclaw when they saw their leader. They quickly greeted Retuck, and cleaned his wounds before letting him rest. Begrudgingly Retuck ordered Hirt, a strong cunning black skaven, to take charge until he recovered and regained full health. The hunt for warp stone must continue if they were to avoid unleashing Rotclaw’s wrath.

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It was a smoggy, hot and sticky day, almost two weeks from Retucks return. The air seemed heavy and felt thick as it entered the skaven’s throats. Hirt and the mob crept between the crumpled buildings. This area of Mordheim had received a lot of damage during the shower, few buildings stood taller than Nool the ogre, forcing him to crouch.
Hirt, determined to prove both to the Mob and Rotclaw he was deserving of his new responsibilities, was determined to find warp stone. Two weeks and he’d found none. He was getting desperate.
“You sure it waz here Sakery?” Hirt snarled at a young, scrawny verminkin. The youngster had heard rumour of a building rife with warp stone in this area being protected by strange lizard beasts. Drawn to Mordheim for riches and power Sakery had travelled far to get there, only to realise on arrival the cut throat savage day to day life, something he had not bargained for. After hiding, and lurking, barely managing to scavenge enough food he had listened and gathered information, until he came across Retuck’s war band. Cautiously he’d approached Hirt, who had first assumed he was a spy and launched at his throat with his sword, but Sakery bribed his trust with promises of Warp stone. The cunning gamble had paid off, and if the rumour was right he would be allowed to join the war band, and find safety in numbers, perhaps even advance up the ranks…however, if no warp stone was found …
“Yes yes yes, Hirt…sir…I am sure. Just that building, the tallest one, the old brewery, Lizards with warp stone, that’s what I heard.” Sakery stuttered, crossing his tail for luck.

* * * * *
Retuck was woken from his slumper when the mob returned. He lifted his claw to his forehead and wiped away the sweat. “Success Retuck” sneered Hirt, as he placed two pieces of warp stone down on the damp ground. “Grabbed it and ran we did silly lizards. Silly lizards” he continued to jeer.
“They were quite scary beasties, showered us with darts sharp as teethskes and had a lizard-ogre just like Nool, fear made me, made us look like a FOOL … We ran away we did, and found the precious stones as we hid…” sang Fishnag happily, not realising the rest of the mob, including Retuck was listening. Fishnag trailed off and ducked as Hirt lobed a dagger aimed at his head. The dagger spun and bounced off the concrete sewer wall. Nool roared, moving to stand between Hirt and Fishnag.
“So, you were lucky indeed Hirt”, this time it was Retuck who was jeering. He stood up. “You were lucky you all survived, IDIOTS”, he yelled. “No longer shall I lie here, and let you risk the mobs progress, I shall lead the next hunt, and remind you how to find warp stone, striking fear into the hearts of anyone who opposes us”. With that Retuck sat back down. “Hirt, take the stone to Rotclaw, perhaps that will remind you of the cost failure.”
Hirt scowled, picked up the warp and sulked off into the shadows, one day, one day he’d be the leader, of that he was determined.