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I Smell A Fish.; Clan Moulder Fluff
Topic Started: 17th July 2007 - 12:27 PM (231 Views)
BlackBotanist
Clanrat
Pain seared his lungs as the ratman slowly drowned; water rushing inside his frail form and filling him up. He thrashed wildly, a struggling mass of legs, arms and tails, but his captors held him fast. Their chitters pierced the cavernous chamber.

'Die-die runt-thing!'

'Shrimplik really is a shrimp. Struggle more, die quicker!'

'Drink-drink up, litter kin! Die soon, yes!'

The chorus of crude insults and threats went unheard by Shrimplik. All he knew was water and pain and terror. The kind of terror that accompanies the knowledge that you are going to die, and there is nothing you can do to prevent it. The chamber stank of the musk of fear, and urine, and then faeces, as with a final, spasmodic shudder, the Skaven fell unconscious. His birth-kin flung his limp body back from the shallow subterranean pool, to land with a heavy slap on cold rock. Their sniggers and hisses echoed far down the corridor as they left, to find another victim to abuse.

***

He came around slowly. There was a furious thumping inside his head, as though a Rat Ogre were beating a slave inside his very skull. Shrimplik groaned and rolled over. He was quivering like a warpstone-addict, and his eyes rolled back and forth inside their sockets. A spider-web of burst blood-vessels had turned them a dark crimson. Bloody.

Suddenly he twitched, his entire frame convulsing, and the malnourished Skaven disgorged a torrent of water from his sore throat. It was dirtied red with his blood. Whimpering, his eyes watering, he rolled over again onto his back. That had been too close! They would kill him next time, he was sure of it. He was surprised that he still lived now, come to think of it. Mercy and self-restraint were not traits he assosciated with his kind. Perhaps they had left him for dead afterall.

Well, there would not be a next time, he decided with a look of resolution. He would do something. He would save himself! Shrimplik poked at his stringy muscles and lean legs. If only he were stronger, or faster. If only he were older, or had darker fur. If only he could find something to eat! He was starving!

Turning back to the pool which had been the instrument of his torture more times than he had fingers, the small Skaven peered intently in. The familiar water was grim and murky. Even his eye-sight found it hard to pierce the shallow waters.

'Come-here! Please-please, I starve soon,' he begged desperately.

Minutes passed before there was a flicker of movement, and the young ratman's emaciated claws flashed forwards. Driven by a horrid hunger they moved like lightening, closing around a small fish and sinking into its soft, smooth scales.

Shrimplik devoured the creature, barely registering the taste as the grey-white meat and silvery scales slid down his ravenous throat.

Yes, he would grow big and strong. He would teach those bullies a lesson. They would rue the day they had first picked on Shrimplik of Clan Moulder. Things were about to change.

***

For the hundredth time Shrimplik's head was pushed savagey into the cold water. His lungs felt as though they were about to explode. Stars and bright spots engulfed his vision, momentarily blinding him. His brief shrieks of panic rose into a crescendo of terror.

'Weak Shrimplik!'

'Last-born! Useless you are! Die-die now!'

With a final, brutal shove, Shrimplik was forced underwater. He couldn't fight anymore. He was too weak. They were too strong, their fur so much blacker than his! He was pathetic. Yes, he deservd to die. This was it. He stopped struggling, and gave up.

As his resistance lessened, so did the arms holding him under. A flicker of confusion flashed over his sickly face. Desperation and hope flaring up inside of him, Shrimplik kicked back with his feet. His efforts were rewarded with a satisfying crunch. In seconds he was away, kicking desperately through the dank pool. He was cold, and bleeding from numerous wounds. His head swam even as he did. His fur was matted and stank, and he appeared to all the world like a drowned rat.

But he did not care. He was away. He had fought back, and he had broken free. His assailants lingered at the shore, hurling rocks and abuse, but made no move to enter the water.

He had done it. He had proven he was not useless. Savouring his triumph, Shrimplik splashed and struggled on through the pool, untile even the threats and shrieks from the bank became distant wails, and then nothing.

***


More to come...

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SneakyRodent
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Claws of the Horned One founder member

That's a very good start BB! An aquarat hey? Reminded me of Gollum in some respects, and I felt sorry for him too :)

Well written. I look forward to reading more of Shrimplik (loving that name btw) *bsb*
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BlackBotanist
Clanrat
If you think he is an aquarat now, just wait till I develop his character and he grows up...

For the moment I just wanted to convey his vulnerability and the traumatic experiences he has with water. This is important as I develop him, because I want him to have very powerful emotional and psychological connections with water...

All will become clear, anyway. Cheers for a reply! Will just go back and edit typos now, I didn't have long to write it.

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Plagress
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Clanrat
Are you sure this is your first? Its really good.
Life is like a bolt of lightning. Short but our stories continue live on without us even when the world comes unto the end.
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BlackBotanist
Clanrat
Nooo its not my first, I started writing about two, coming up to three years ago now. Just had lots of spare time in the summer holidays, and after my imagination was sparked from a Roleplay on Warseer in which I participated (involving your army general) I began to write more and more...

...I am not the best writer out there, not by a long shot. But I am improving with time and practice.

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BlackBotanist
Clanrat
The cavern rang with bitter curses. A bony Skaven sat on its haunches in the cold shallows of a pool, head bowed, a flurry of chitters flying from his battered snout. His hands flickered back and forth into the murky water.

‘Hate-hate them! Wish they would die-die! Yes!’

He splashed his dry lips with water, the liquid soothing the cuts and scratches there. They curled back over his gums, to reveal a set of brittle, yellowing fangs.

‘Treat me like dirt-dirt. Hurt me! Fool-fools…I will show them!’ His words trailed off into a whimper as a searing pain stabbed into his left ankle. He shrieked and fell back, rolling over into the water. In a matter of seconds, he was soaked through.

The water brought him relief.

Lying there, dripping wet, his fur soaking up the water like a sponge, his thoughts drifted over a plan. He lay still, as though the slightest movement might dislodge the growing plot from his mind. Only his tail shifted, writhing like a giant pink worm from out beneath him.

‘Yes! They will know-know my pain. Stupid Slikkit! Stupid Kreeklaw! Stupid, stupid Gnawkin! Die-die, soon…’ Shrimplik’s eyes narrowed with cunning, reduced to gleaming slits in the shadowy darkness of the cavern.

Overhead, in the higher tunnels of Hell Pit, there was a momentous crash. Screams and roars filtered down to Shrimplik’s cave, distant but audible. He grinned at some private thought.

Something heavy bumped into his head. He scrabbled suddenly to his feet, furless ears pressed back, eyes wide. A panicked squeak slipped from his throat.

It was a lump of warpstone. Floating in the water.

Shrimplik approached the glowing rock warily. It ebbed and pulsed with a subtle green light, and the nearer he crept, the warmer the ratman felt. He reached tentatively out with a bone-like arm and took the precious substance in his claws. He couldn’t believe it. Here was a lump of warpstone. Warpstone. A lump of it. It was as large as his fist, and he had found it! It was his! This was the stuff the Master Moulders used. He had seen them, from his spy-holes, concealed in shadow. He had watched them at work, and knew just how powerful this stuff was. And it was all his.

But what was it doing, just floating down here? The way the powerful Moulders went on about it… He had thought it was hard to come by. Why was it even floating? It felt quite heavy in his grasp. His keen eyes picked out a trail of dust, leading away from where he had picked up the warpstone and further back across the surface of the pool. Riddled with curiosity, Shrimplik stashed his maturing plans at the back of his head and waded out in pursuit of the trail.
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BlackBotanist
Clanrat
The scrawny Skaven fled for his life down the dark passage. Three figures gave pursuit, their pitch-black fur and burly statures marking them out as soon-to-be Stormvermin. The tunnel stank with the musk of fear.

‘Run-run Shrimplik!’

‘Die-die this time! No escape!’

‘Scared-scared little runt-thing? We will devour you!’

The runt of the litter picked up his pace, his feet pattering hurriedly across the rocky ground. His breath came in ragged gasps. His eyes were wide. His tongue flashed over discoloured fangs. They had come back for more, the three of them. They had finally caught up with him and were determined to resume where they had left off. They were going to beat him to a pulp. And feast on him. He had to escape!

The passage broadened, opening up into a cavern. A forest of stalactites hung from the ceiling, like the teeth of some gigantic beast, and a familiar pool filled one side of the cavern. It was black, and still. Shrimplik scurried toward his watery refuge. It had saved him once before. His bullies had been loathe to enter the water. They had waited by the edge while he had made his escape. Yes, he would be safe there!

‘So-so close…’ he gasped, his breath raspy, his rotten fangs exposed.

Something crashed into the back of his skull. His vision exploded into stars and lights. He heard his birth-kin behind him, barely feet away, their heavy breath and overwhelming odour.

‘We’ll crack your bones! Gnaw-crunch them, yes-yes!’ Hissing furiously, Shrimplik half-ran, half-crawled the last few feet to the pool. He was bleeding from the blow to his head, warm blood matting his fur. The sound of a sword being drawn sliced through his consciousness. He no more started to swim than he did thrash wildly through the cold waters , away from his attackers. Just a little further, and he would be out of reach…

Kreeklaw, the fastest of the black-furred Skaven, took a step into the pool. His paws crashed purposefully through the water, stirring up spray. Shrimplik turned. Everything seemed to slow down. They weren’t stopping. They were coming. Kreeklaw, Gnawkin and Slikkit. They were braving the water, and they were going to murder him, and eat him. His eyes fixed firmly on the advancing Skaven, he drifted backwards, his weak arms pushing water and distance between his impending doom. They stumbled briefly, a flicker of hope flourishing inside Shrimplik, but it was a false one. They had merely reached the drop, in which the ground beneath gave way and they were forced to swim. Spluttering on a mouthful of water, Shrimplik waited for the inevitable.

The surface of the pool exploded beside Slittik. The ratman barely had time to turn before an enormous fish erupted from the depths, its cavernous jaws closing around his torso. He managed a scream before it dragged him under.

Kreeklaw shrieked and span back, to head for the bank and dry land. Gnawkin was a second behind him. Their fangs were exposed, their jaws wide open, hysterical chitters squeeking from the pair.

Shrimplik giggled, his eyes glinting.

Kreeklaw watched as Gnawkin screamed suddenly, an ominous red leaking into the surrounding waters, but he struggled defiantly on. Kreeklaw himself felt something brush his frantically paddling feet. He froze. It was smooth, and slimy. Then it clamped around him, and all he knew was water, and blackness.

Calm descended on the cavern. Shrimplik swam slowly back to the bank. He arrived just as Gnawkin did, the injured rat dragging himself onto land. He slid from the waters, neck, shoulders, body, waist…then no more. He moaned, sinking onto the dirt, something slippery and pink sliding from his dismembered body, and then died.

Shrimplik sunk down to his haunches in the shallows. The silence was deafening. A clawed hand absent-mindedly poked around inside Gnawkin, retrieving a long, fleshy organ. It was squishy, and warm to the touch.

Not far away, where the shallows crossed into deeper waters, a shadow appeared. The Skaven gnawed one end of the intestine, sharp teeth piercing the tough meat, while reaching around for more food. His inquisitive claws found a kidney, which he tossed casually into the pool. There was a ‘plop’ as the piece of meat sank. The shadow swept toward it.

Shrimplik waded out to where the enormous fish waited. He ran a hand under the surface, over its slimy scales. Rougher, warmer lumps grazed his skin, and the ratman knew he was feeling the warpstone shards which he had imbedded into its flesh, all those months ago, when it was still no larger than his arm. Of the kidney, there was no sign. It had relished the taste of Skaven, after being raised on rats for so long. He had trained it well.

A minute passed before the monster flicked its tail and vanished into the gloomy depths, leaving Shrimplik alone in the cave. This was a start, yes. But he wanted more. He would prove to all of Moulder than he was no runt. He would earn his position amongst the greatest of them. His name would be whispered in hushed tones… He would make the water a place to fear.

***
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