Location
Large hollow cavern named Ashen Depths, it spans almost the entire province
Objective
Continue the offence against the remaining survivors
Week
7
In the dim depths of Pestilence Hollow, the Eshkin's vile engineers and warlocks set about their most ambitious creation yet—a monstrosity born from the corpse of the ancient hydra and fueled by the raw power of warpstone. The hydra’s lifeless body was dragged into the heart of a Eshkin laboratory, a cavernous workshop filled with the clattering of machinery and the stench of toxic fumes. Here, beneath the watchful eyes of Krathor the Wicked, the engineers began their grotesque work.
Unlike their other creations, this abomination was to be something unique. The engineers and flesh-sculptors fused rat ogre flesh to the hydra’s massive frame, reattaching severed heads with crude stitches of sinew and iron. Warpstone shards were embedded deep into its body, infusing the dead flesh with volatile energy. The warlocks chanted over the creature, channelling foul prayers as they bound its many heads to one will, shaping the hydra into something far more horrifying than the original beast that had once terrorized the Ashen Lake.
The result was a rat hydra an ungodly fusion of vermin and ancient monster. Its many heads twitched and snarled in confusion, dripping with corrosive bile. Its fur was patchy, revealing grotesque scales and warps in its flesh. Unlike the crude rat hydras of previous experiments, this one was kept alive through the sheer force of doomstone coursing through its veins. The beast's every movement was fueled by the dangerous doomstone, and its body emitted a faint green glow, pulsing in rhythm with its breathing.
But this creation came at a terrible cost. The hydra's body was unstable, on the verge of tearing itself apart without the constant infusion of doomstone to sustain it. It was an abomination barely held together, yet its ferocity and power were unmatched. With this creature under his control, Krathor knew the final assault on the dwarves would begin soon. The rat hydra, a fusion of madness and cunning, would be their greatest weapon in the war to come.
Location
A Large hollow cavern named Ashen Depths, it spans almost the entire province.
Objective
Kill the remaining survivors
Week
7
Deep within the labyrinthine tunnels of Pestilence Hollow, the last bastion of the dwarves stood resolute, a fortress of stone carved into the mountainside. It was a stronghold of ancient craftsmanship, reinforced with iron gates and enchanted runes. Yet, the air inside was thick with dread, and the spirits of those who remained had long since begun to wither. Nearly all the survivors of the Eshkin onslaught had gathered here dwarves, tribesmen, even the families who had fled from the ravaged settlements. The stone halls echoed with murmurs of despair, while the howls and chittering of the rats beyond grew louder with every passing night.
Inside the bastion’s walls, the air was filled with a suffocating tension. Those who had escaped the vermin's wrath shared stories of the horrors they had witnessed: entire villages reduced to ash, friends and kin torn apart or dragged away into the darkness, never to be seen again. The tribesmen, once fierce in their resolve, now struggled to keep hope alive, their weary faces etched with grief and loss. Many had lost loved ones; some had seen their children butchered by the ratmen, others had watched their homes fall to ruin. The memories haunted them like ghosts, and the darkness seemed to press in from all sides.
In some corners of the bastion, quiet sobs could be heard, dwarven and human alike, mourning those who were lost or trembling at the fate that awaited them. Some, unable to endure the torment any longer, took their own lives, seeking a final release from the suffering. The dwarven healers and priests did what they could to comfort the grieving, but even they could not deny the grim truth: there was little hope left, and all knew it. The howls of the Eshkin, growing more numerous and more frenzied, were a constant reminder that death lurked just beyond the walls.
The leaders, with iron-clad stoicism, tried to project strength. The dwarven commanders spoke of the unyielding resolve of their ancestors and swore to make their last stand worthy of legend. Chieftains of the tribes tried to rekindle the old fire of defiance, urging their people to fight with all they had left. Yet the hollow look in their eyes betrayed the truth; even the strongest of them knew this was a war they could not win.
Still, despite the despair, the warriors readied themselves. Axes and hammers were gripped tightly, and the archers took their places atop the walls. If the last bastion was to fall, then they would meet their fate with steel in hand, buying what time they could for those still sheltering within. In the darkness, the ratmen's maddened screams grew ever closer. The end was near, and the defenders braced themselves for the final assault that would determine the fate of Pestilence Hollow.
Location
A Large hollow cavern named Ashen Depths, it spans almost the entire province.
Objective
Kill the remaining survivors
Week
7
The arrival of the Eshkin army at the gates of the last bastion was heralded by a cacophony of screeches, clangs, and the rumbling of crude war machines. The ratmen came in droves, their ranks a chaotic mass of filth-covered bodies, waving jagged blades and rusted spears. rat slaves, frail and trembling, were driven forward by the snarling overseers, while ramshackle ratapults were hauled into position, the war machines creaking and groaning as they prepared for the siege.
From the walls of the bastion, the defenders watched as the Eshkin army spread out, slowly surrounding the city like a tightening noose. But something was wrong. Though the ratmen numbered in the hundreds, they were mostly the weaker, low-caste units Eshkin slaves, packblades, and a scattering of underfed war beasts gnawing at their chains. These creatures did not strike fear into the hearts of the battle-hardened dwarves and tribesmen; the defenders had faced far worse in the brutal weeks of the vermin invasion.
Yet, an uneasy tension hung over the air like a dark shroud. The commanders on the walls exchanged wary glances, their unease growing as they surveyed the enemy ranks. Where were the hulking rat ogres that had ripped through their lines before? Where was the dreaded rat hydra that the scouts had whispered of, its glowing eyes seen lurking in the cavernous dark? There were no signs of the larger, more dangerous beasts that had wreaked havoc on their forces in previous battles. It was as if this army had been deliberately stripped of its strongest warriors.
The bastion’s defenders sensed it there was a larger force lying in wait, hidden somewhere beyond sight. Strange sounds echoed occasionally from the darkness muffled growls, the distant clatter of heavy armour, and the faint scurrying of many feet. It was as if the cavern itself held its breath, anticipating a horror yet unseen. The dwarven leaders and chieftains tightened their grips on their weapons, suspecting a trap but unsure of its nature.
Yet despite these fears, the weak composition of the visible ratmen forces lulled many into a dangerous complacency. For now, the ratmen made no move to assault the walls. Instead, they set about building earthenworks, constructing crude siege towers, and positioning catapults. Their preparations were methodical, with a focus on a longer siege rather than a sudden attack. It seemed they had no interest in rushing this final battle, content to tighten their stranglehold on the bastion with a slow, grinding siege.
But within the shadows, hidden from the sight of the defenders, the true strength of the vermin army lay coiled, waiting to strike.
Location
A Large hollow cavern named Ashen Depths, it spans almost the entire province.
Objective
Kill the remaining survivors
Week
8
Nearly a week had passed since the beginning of the siege, and the weight of the Eshkin's cruelty pressed ever harder upon the bastion. The ratmen had begun to use their catapults to hurl the rotting corpses of fallen dwarves and tribesmen over the walls, letting them crash into the streets with sickening thuds. These bodies, mutilated beyond recognition, were bloated with disease and decay, carrying with them the stench of death. The gruesome sight of once-familiar faces twisted in horror and agony traumatized the survivors, while the foulness they carried seeped into the very air, bringing sickness to all who breathed it.
The healers struggled to stem the spread of disease, but the symptoms were relentless: fever, coughing, and oozing sores began to appear among the people. Those too weak to fight, the elderly, the children, succumbed first, while the few remaining warriors desperately fought to keep their strength up. Supplies dwindled as the siege dragged on, and the defenders could feel their hope slipping away with each passing day.
The vermin's main force, however, remained elusive, its true numbers hidden in the darkness. Each night, the sounds from beyond the walls grew more terrifying: the shrieks of unseen creatures, the grinding of bone against stone, and the unsettling chittering of countless ratmen. The defenders knew the ratmen were toying with them, slowly wearing down their spirits with every gruesome display.
In the heart of the bastion, desperation clawed at the dwarven king. He was an old and weary ruler, and the burden of his people's suffering weighed heavily upon him. Starvation and disease threatened to claim the bastion before the rats even launched a proper assault. In his desperation, he devised a last, desperate gambit. He called a war council and declared that the time had come to sally forth and break the siege in one decisive charge. It was better to die in battle than to waste away behind the walls.
But when the time came, the king himself did not don his armour. Instead, he chose a trusted champion, one of his most loyal warriors, and dressed him in the royal regalia, the shining armour that symbolized dwarven courage and strength. The king, unwilling to face his own doom, hid behind his deception while the warrior rode out to face the enemy, bearing the weight of the lie.
The gates opened, and the dwarves and tribesmen rushed forth, a desperate tide of steel and fury. They crashed into the Eshkin's ranks, cutting down the weaker warriors in a storm of blood and metal. For a brief moment, it seemed that the plan was working. But then, from the shadows, came a sound that froze their hearts: the roars of the true vermin army, as the concealed forces surged out from hiding.
Rat ogres barreled forward, the rat hydra emerged from the dark with a bone-chilling screech, and the more elite Eshkin units poured in from every direction, surrounding the defenders in a tide of death. The dwarves fought with desperate valour, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. One by one, they fell, crushed beneath the sheer weight of the swarm. The last defenders of the bastion were slaughtered to the last, their cries for vengeance swallowed by the chittering masses.
As the last warrior fell, the bastion stood defenceless. Only the children, the elderly, and a few protectors remained within the walls, and the king, hidden in his chambers, trembled as he realized the full measure of his mistake. The last hope of Pestilence Hollow had died on the battlefield, and the Eshkin had claimed victory. The city lay open, awaiting its inevitable fate.
Location
A Large hollow cavern named Ashen Depths, it spans almost the entire province.
Objective
Kill the remaining survivors
Week
8
The gates of the bastion shuddered and groaned as the rat hydra smashed into them, its many heads thrashing and snapping. With a final splintering crash, the ancient iron gave way, and the gates were torn from their hinges. The Eshkin poured through the breach in a black tide, surging into the streets with bloodthirsty howls.
Inside, the handful of defenders, already weakened and demoralized, tried to form a line to hold back the swarm. Axes rose and fell, arrows flew, and a few rats were struck down, but the resistance was futile. Within moments, the ratmen overwhelmed them, dragging the warriors to the ground, biting and clawing as they tore them apart. The defenders' blood stained the cobblestones, pooling beneath the scrambling feet of the invaders.
With the last of the warriors fallen, the ratmen spread through the bastion, hunting the defenceless who had taken shelter in the stone halls. The elderly, too frail to flee, were cut down where they stood, their cries cut short by rusted blades. The children, huddled in corners and cellars, were seized by the swarming vermin, their small bodies disappearing into the chittering darkness. Screams echoed through the corridors, but there was no mercy. The ratmen gorged themselves on the flesh of the slain, tearing into limbs and devouring entrails with savage hunger.
The tribesmen who had taken refuge in the deeper halls were dragged out by their hair, kicking and screaming as they were pulled into the shadows. Their deaths were slow and cruel, as the ratmen took their time, savouring the taste of fear. Some victims were hauled away alive, bound and gagged, to face a fate worse than death in the Eshkin's warren pits.
The bastion, once a symbol of dwarven endurance, was reduced to a slaughterhouse, its halls running red with the blood of its inhabitants. The ratmen claimed every chamber, every corridor until only one remained unbreached. The king's chambers—his final refuge—lay at the heart of the fortress, where the last stand would be made. The ratmen closed in, eager to tear down the last symbol of resistance and drag the ruler of the dwarves into the darkness. But they waited, for Krathor would claim this kill himself.
Location
A Large hollow cavern named Ashen Depths, it spans almost the entire province.
Objective
Kill the remaining survivors
Week
8
Krathor the Wicked strutted into the king's chambers, his eyes gleaming with malice as he faced the dwarven king. “Fight me, yes-yes, one-on-one!” he chittered, brandishing his serrated blade. The king, resolute even in his final hour, stepped forward, raising his axe with a steady hand. “Then come, rat. Let’s see if you can stand on your own.” The other ratmen gathered in a circle, their yellowed eyes glittering in anticipation.
The duel began with a furious clash, the king’s axe slicing through the air with the force of a thunderclap. Krathor ducked and weaved, but his movements were frantic and sloppy, his counters weak. The king’s strikes hammered down upon him with relentless precision, forcing Krathor back, blow by blow. The warlord’s breath came in ragged gasps as he realized he was outmatched. The dwarven king was stronger, faster, more skilled than he could have imagined.
Desperation gripped Krathor’s heart. Each time the axe came crashing down, he saw his own death, felt the cold steel nearing his throat. A wild fear flared in his eyes as he stumbled back, narrowly evading a swing that would have decapitated him. In that moment, his bravado crumbled, and he squealed, “Help-help, now-now! Kill the dwarf-thing!”
At his command, the ratmen swarmed forward, their clawed hands tearing at the king’s armour, their teeth sinking into his flesh. The king bellowed in rage and pain, swinging his axe in desperate arcs, cleaving through fur and bone. But there were too many. They overwhelmed him, dragging him to the floor as Krathor skittered forward, driven by spite and cowardice.
Krathor did not grant the king a swift death. Instead, he drove his blade slowly into the king’s throat, twisting it to draw out the agony as the king's struggles weakened, his life seeping away in a crimson flood. The king summoned the last of his strength. His voice was strained and hoarse, but it did not waver. “You will... never know honour, rat,” he spat, his bloodied lips curling into a bitter smile. “You crawl... in the darkness... like the filth you are... while we die standing.”
Krathor’s blade pierced his throat, and the king’s words choked into a gurgle. But still, he tried to speak, his eyes locked onto the Eshkin warlords as he struggled to form one final curse. “You may kill us all... but know this, rat… your kind... will never rise… from the dirt...” With that, his voice faded, and the last breath left his body. The ratmen watched with a mix of approval and disgust, noting their warlord's reliance on them to secure the victory. In Krathor’s eyes, they saw not just cruelty, but fear a weakness that could not be easily hidden behind his screeching boasts.
As the king’s lifeless body slumped to the floor, the ratmen shared glances, their loyalty tainted by the scent of Krathor’s cowardice. The warlord’s triumph was stained by the shame of his dishonourable victory, and the dark whispers began to spread among the ranks.
Location
A Large hollow cavern named Ashen Depths, it spans almost the entire province.
Objective
Establish dominance over Pestilence Hollow
Week
9
With the last remnants of resistance extinguished and the dwarven bastion reduced to ash, Pestilence Hollow now belonged entirely to the Eshkin. The once-proud province had become a realm of decay and darkness, twisted to reflect its new masters. Krathor the Wicked, now draped in triumph, stood as the architect of the victory, and all of Eshkindom was poised to recognize his achievement.
The Council of Thirteen, the shadowy overlords who guided the fate of the ratmen, decreed that a grand celebration would mark the conquest. The preparations spread like a fever throughout the Hollow. Eshkin of all ranks scurried about, working frantically to ready the province for the council's arrival. Tattered banners bearing the ratmen sigil and depicting the gruesome defeat of the dwarves were hung from the stalactites that loomed over the Ashen Lake. Corpses of the fallen were collected and piled high, set ablaze to bathe the darkened cavern in flickering, hellish light. The noxious scent of burning flesh and doomstone taint filled the air, thickening the ever-present mist.
Krathor made his preparations as well. He took to wearing the head of the slain dwarven king as a gruesome trophy, the skull fastened to his belt by its own beard, which still dripped with dried blood. He paraded the grisly prize proudly, letting all who saw it understand the price of defying the vermin.
The day of the council's arrival arrived, and with it, the entire warren became a spectacle of rot and splendour. The twelve members of the Council of Thirteen descended into the Hollow, their palanquins carried by legions of groaning slaves. As they reached their thrones tall, ornate structures set along the shores of the Ashen Lake one seat was left conspicuously vacant, a reminder of the Thirteenth's divine presence. The empty throne symbolized their god, the great Rat, whose influence loomed over all. The air buzzed with the chattering and squeaking of countless ratmen, bowing and scraping before their overlords.
The festivities began in earnest. Rat ogres, driven mad with hunger, were released into the arena to tear each other apart for the crowd’s delight. Doomstone bullets were hurled into the sky, painting the caverns in a sickly green glow. Mutant beasts were paraded past the thrones, their twisted forms a testament to the ratmen's dark arts. It was a celebration of debauchery and power, of cruelty and domination.
As the night wore on, Krathor was summoned to join the council at their banquet. “Come-come, Krathor,” the Head Seer rasped, his voice like rusted iron scraping on stone. “Sit with us, yes-yes. You have earned this place your victory brings glory to the great One.”
Krathor approached the table, the dwarven king’s skull swaying at his side, and took his seat beside the council members. The long table was laden with grotesque dishes roasted flesh of the slain, slabs of meat pulsating with doomstone corruption, and bubbling brews of foul concoctions. The council dined in vile indulgence, with Krathor at their side, basking in his newfound status. But even as he revelled in the moment, the empty seat at the table cast a shadow over the celebration, a silent reminder of the god whose favour was as fickle as it was deadly.
Location
A Large hollow cavern named Ashen Depths, it spans almost the entire province.
Objective
Establish dominance over Pestilence Hollow
Week
9
The fires of the celebration dwindled to embers, and the echoes of the Eshkin's screeches faded into the depths of Pestilence Hollow. With the festivities at an end, the Council of Thirteen gathered for a more solemn purpose. Seated on their thrones along the shores of Ashen Lake, twelve council members waited, their gaze fixed on the empty throne reserved for the Horned Rat. Krathor the Wicked was summoned to join them, still revelling in the glory of his victory. He approached with a self-assured swagger, the dwarven king’s skull bouncing at his side, convinced that he was now more than just a warlord he was the true master of Pestilence Hollow.
Krathor began to speak, laying out his grand vision for the future of the province. In his mind, he would reshape the Hollow as its new war-king, moulding it into a breeding ground for the most vile and potent creations of the vermin. He spoke warping the land further, tainting every inch with doomstone filth, and turning Ashen Lake into a cesspool of corruption. “I shall oversee-oversee this transformation myself,” Krathor declared, his eyes gleaming with ambition. “Pestilence Hollow will be ruled under my claw, to serve-serve the Hegemony’s most twisted purposes.”
His words were bold too bold. The council exchanged glances, and their gazes turned cold. Krathor seemed to truly believe he would retain ownership over the conquered province, claiming it as his rightful prize. His confidence bordered on hubris, and the council members’ disdain grew with every word he spoke.
“War-king, you say?” one of the council members hissed. “It is the God Rat One who decides, not you-you.”
His confidence bordered on arrogance, and as he continued, the council’s expressions shifted subtly from interest to disdain. Though Krathor's victory was significant, his tone suggested that he saw himself as more than just a tool of the Hegemony, more than just a warlord. The members began to speak with carefully chosen words, dropping subtle hints and veiled threats. “Know your place, Krathor,” one member chittered, his tone sharp. “You serve-serve the will of the God Rat, not your own.”
“Be wary of seeking too much, yes-yes,” the Head Seer added, his voice laced with a sinister tone.“The Hollow belongs to the Hegemony, not to any one rat.” Their words were laced with a warning, but Krathor did not hear the subtle mockery. He mistook their rebuke for envy, unable to see that his ambition had already signed his death warrant. The council had no need for another ratmen who thought too highly of himself.
Location
A Large hollow cavern named Ashen Depths, it spans almost the entire province.
Objective
Establish dominance over Pestilence Hollow
Week
9
I step into the council chambers, and all voices fall to whispers, then to silence. Twelve pairs of eyes, beady and bloodshot, flicker nervously in my direction. The thrones loom above the Ashen Lake’s black waters, and the stench of rot hangs thick in the air. I can feel the council’s fear—it radiates from them like heat, though they try to mask it behind twitching whiskers and faintly bared teeth. They do not know what I am, not entirely. They only know what they have been told: that I was chosen by the Horned One.
The seat reserved for the Thirteenth, the Great Rat's sacred throne, stands empty before me. The rats dare not occupy it, knowing that to do so would be heresy, defiance of their god. But I am no Eshkin, and their laws are not mine. I climb the steps slowly, letting each clawed footfall echo throughout the chamber. When I reach the top, I settle myself into the throne, my black robes flowing around me like shadows given form. I do not ask for their permission; I simply sit, and their eyes widen in horror.
The council squirms, their gazes darting to one another, seeking silent consensus on what must be done, but none dare speak first. Not even the Head Seer, who hides his trembling hands beneath his cloak. Fear has always been an easy thing to harvest from these creatures. I watch as their cowardice consumes them, and I feel the power swell in my chest. They have accepted my presence without a word, without a protest.
But then, one voice shatters the silence. “Who are you-you?” It is Krathor who speaks, his tone laced with aggression and ignorance. He does not understand the significance of my sitting here, does not understand the eyes of the council as they widen even further at his insolence. “This seat is sacred-sacred!” he dares shout as if he believes that his defiance might shame me into retreat.
I do not answer him. Instead, I lift my hand, and the air around me darkens. From the void between worlds, I draw forth a shard of concentrated darkness matter compressed to the edge of reality, a needle of pure annihilation. It forms with a faint whispering hiss, barely perceptible before I let it fly.
His body drops to the stone floor and his words die with him. As the wet sound of blood gushing begins filling the halls the council does nothing, they dare not breathe.
I lower my hand, allowing the stillness to linger, to sink into the bones of every rat in the chamber. Then, with a voice that rumbles like distant thunder, I break the silence. “Now, we can begin,” I say, my tone laced with amusement and menace. “There will be no more interruptions, yes?”
A faint ripple of uneasy laughter echoes among the council members. They nod quickly, eagerly. I can see the terror etched into their eyes, their forced smiles trembling.
Location
A Large hollow cavern named Ashen Depths, it spans almost the entire province.
Objective
Establish dominance over Pestilence Hollow
Week
9
The air is thick with the stench of rot and victory. I sit atop the Thirteenth throne, my gaze sweeping over the council as they scramble to find their voices. They are still rattled by Krathor’s death, good. Fear is the most reliable motivator for creatures such as these. The chamber is suffused with an oppressive darkness, and the waters of Ashen Lake shimmer with the faint glow of warpstone beneath its murky surface.
The chatter among the council is a dissonant chorus of hisses and whispers. They speak of what must come next, but they do so with caution, their eyes darting in my direction, waiting for my approval. They understand, at least, that my word is final. This province is no longer just land to be fought over; it is a vessel for our true purpose a place where darkness will bloom and the very roots of the earth will writhe with decay.
"Yes" I speak, letting the words slither from my tongue and wind their way through the room like smoke. "Pestilence Hollow belongs to us now. The last breaths of the old world are gone. The tribesmen, the dwarves, their bones sink into the mud, forgotten, forsaken." I feel the power coursing through me as I continue, each word dripping with intent. "Their land shall serve as ours now, our breeding ground. The corruption we sow here will spread outward, and the Great One's will shall be done."
I see them nodding, some eagerly, others still wary. The Head Seer lifts his head, the glint of understanding dawning in his eyes. "Doomstone shall fuel it all, yes-yes," he chimes in. "The lake shall be our wellspring of taint. We-we shall unleash what festers here upon all who live above."
"Indeed," I reply, my voice carrying the weight of certainty. "Pestilence Hollow will add to our host of unending decay, where the roots drink deep of corruption, and the waters run black with our power." I pause, letting the weight of the promise sink into their minds. "From this blighted province, we shall launch our next conquests. The Hollow shall not be the end. No, it is only the beginning."
The council grows bolder as the vision I have laid out becomes clear to them. They murmur among themselves, each plotting, scheming, as their twisted ambitions align. But they do not see as I do they cannot fathom the full depths of what is coming. That knowledge is mine alone.
I rise from the throne, and the room falls silent once more. "Prepare yourselves," I say, my voice echoing like the toll of a death knell. "For our victory is not just over the flesh and stone of this place. We shall bury hope itself in the Hollow’s soil. Now go, sow the blight, and let the darkness consume."
I watch as the council disperses, the rats skittering off to carry out their foul duties. The lake below groans, its depths churning, a faint glow of warpstone pulsing beneath the surface. Even now, new horrors awaken in the blackened waters, birthed from the decay and the foul magic that I have unleashed here.
And as the last of them scurries out, I allow myself a smile a thin, cruel curve of satisfaction. For I know that Pestilence Hollow is merely the first step, and soon, the rot will spread far beyond these darkened shores.
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