In the Under-Empire, no two Doom-Wheels are ever truly identical. Unlike smaller contraptions like the Flay-Engine, a Doom-Wheel is the magnum opus of a Warp-lock Engineer, a canvas upon which they lavish their idiosyncratic "artistry."
Take, for instance, this shrieking engine of destruction. Its creator, having grown weary of traditional rat-power, had replaced the standard warp-generator, usually powered by a lone rat frantically pulling levers, with a massive, roaring jet nozzle spewing trails of warp-fire.
The great wheels had been refitted with bladed tracks, transforming the machine into a widened, reinforced juggernaut of grinding flesh and iron. Like an autonomous steamroller of carnage, it accelerated with violent force, pulverizing the armored transports of the Genestealer Cults into scrap.
The Genestealers shrieked, calling upon their "Brood-kin" to fight for hearth and home. But the Skaven offered no quarter. These emaciated ratmen swarmed in a tide of fur, trampling their own kin underfoot in their desperate scramble to be the first to taste fresh meat.
A Slave Rat rarely knows the comfort of a full belly. Due to the Skaven's hyper-accelerated metabolism, these famished vermin easily succumb to the frenzy known as the Black Hunger. In this state, a Skaven will mindlessly devour anything in its path.
Shrewd Skaven Chieftains and Warlords keep their slaves in a perpetual state of semi-starvation, ensuring that when they reach the battlefield, they are teetering on the edge of the Black Hunger, rendering them both utterly fearless and just coherent enough to direct.
Within the labyrinthine streets of the Hive, every alleyway became a slaughterhouse where Skaven and Genestealer Cultists traded lives. Their corpses were piled in heaps, discarded with the same callousness as the clans they served.
It was not merely within Greigan Hollow; across the entirety of Vigilus, a sequence of green mushroom clouds signaled a descent into a chaos far more terrifying than what had come before. These Skaven of the Under-Empire launched indiscriminate assaults against Cultists, the Imperium, Chaos, and Orks alike.
The iron fortress of the Iron Warriors warlord, Vengas, built by the toil of countless human and greenskin slaves, was instantly overrun. Great rats gnawed through power conduits and fouled logistics hubs with filth and carcasses, seeding the Rust-Iron Plague within. The supposedly impregnable bastions of the IV Legion suddenly faced the nightmare of internal collapse.
The Iron Warriors, braced behind slab-shields as thick as bulkhead doors, maintained a Phalanx-like defensive line. Their bolters barked with clinical precision, executing every ratman that dared draw near. Yet the Skaven numbers exceeded even their vast stockpiles of ammunition. Within days, Vengas's Legionnaires were forced into a desperate, grinding melee.
Amidst the carnage, Clan Ratling and Clan Eshin reaped a fortune. These mercenary and assassin clans played all sides, leaping between contracts with fickle loyalty. One moment they were taking bounties to slay the Skaven's foes; the next, they were assassinating a careless Skaven Warlord for a rival's gold.
While minor clans still harbored delusions of grandeur, the Great Clans understood the truth: the gaze of the Great Horned Rat was limited. Only the strongest few could hope to seize his favor. As the scale of the war escalated, the tally of vermin souls returning to the Realm of Ruin grew by the hour.
Lucius, however, was not particularly concerned. He was no longer merely a racial deity dependent on the faith and souls of his own kind to bolster his divinity. Instead, as the Great Horned Rat, his attention was consumed by "parenting" his daughter and overseeing, as well as forcibly inducing, the "purging" of Slaanesh.
Bound by six hundred and sixty-six chains within the Realm of Twilight, the Dark Prince had initially been consumed by incandescent rage. Now, however, Slaanesh had begun to find a perverse sort of pleasure in the sensation of being forced to disgorge.
"You certainly have a vast 'collection,' Slaanesh," Lucius remarked. "You may be the youngest of the powers, but you did devour a pan-galactic empire at its zenith. If the Emperor were like you, and added your divinity to His own office, that would be a true headache."
Lucius reached into Slaanesh's maw and hauled out a handful of glowing orbs – shimmering souls. These were the spirits of the Aeldari, swallowed by the Prince of Pleasure in ages past.
"Hehehe~ darling," Slaanesh purred. The Dark Prince had assumed the form of a silver-haired, purple-eyed maiden, looking deceptively fragile and alluring despite the heavy chains. Slaanesh continued to offer ancient, forbidden insights with tireless charm. "In the Great Octogram of Chaos, only deities in direct opposition can truly negate one another. To erase the ruin of the Dark King, one must pit the god of Ravenous Dissolution against him."
"I see. No wonder you all get along so poorly."
"Oh, naturally~ Which is why I am fated never to truly fall by your hand. For now, I shall simply enjoy myself. Though," Slaanesh added, a hint of genuine envy creeping into the melodic voice, "You sister is quite jealous. You have already seized half the domain of your nemesis, Malevolent Artifice. Even Tzeentch, who once held two positions, never occupied opposing seats. I am most curious to see what happens when you do~"
There was a chilling threat buried within Slaanesh's honeyed words, but Lucius dismissed it as white noise.
"The Great Prince of Darkness calling themselves 'Sister'... I suppose that's one of the perks of victory."
Upon hearing this, Slaanesh's serpent-like tongue flicked out, licking Lucius's cheek. The viscous saliva acted like a potent, addictive narcotic, capable of driving any mortal to the heights of madness.
The Prince writhed, showcasing a flawless, alabaster physique. "If you were a bit more... gentle... you could use this body however you pleased~"
Lucius burst into laughter. "I'm not planning on checking 'Slaaneshi Brothel Patron' off my achievement list just yet. Between the two of us, who would be 'playing' whom?"
"I am but your humble, loyal captive, darling~"
Lucius didn't waste further breath on Slaanesh. Having secured the day's "harvest" of souls, he departed for the Realm of Ruin. He handed the corrupted spirits to Isha to be cleansed; these would form the core of Lileath's future legions to unify the Aeldari.
"I told you, you will not use my daughter as a pawn for your cosmic games!"
Erda was furious. She held the young Lileath, who appeared to be about nine years old, protectively, glaring at Lucius. Erda harbored no prejudice against her Aeldari daughter; in fact, she often felt she should have surreptitiously crafted the Primarchs into daughters like her from the start.
"Is that so? I'm merely saving her brothers and sisters," Lucius smiled, waving Lileath over. "Come here, Lileath. Papa wants to show you something interesting."
Though she appeared a child, Lileath's wisdom was maturing rapidly as more of her memory fragments were unsealed. Her intellect was already approaching the manipulative heights of her past self. Recognizing where the true power lay, she stood and bowed gracefully to Lucius.
"Father," she said, her voice a picture of innocent sweetness.
"Lileath, would you like to go to the mortal realm to save your brothers and sisters? If you're unwilling, it's no matter. The Great Horned Rat is most generous and would never force you," Lucius said, patting her golden head with feigned magnanimity.
Lileath's gemstone-like eyes darted momentarily before a spark of cunning lit them. "Of course, Father. It is my destiny. I shall rescue my kin from their decline and ignorance, and rebuild an Aeldari Empire that meets your expectations."
"No, I don't care about you building an empire," Lucius laughed, casting a triumphant glance at Erda. "I just want to see the galaxy become a bit more... lively."
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