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This is a short story I wrote a while ago about my skaven Walord. Thinking of writing more to the story.

Arlot the Grey

The stench of the warren-lair felt welcoming to his senses. A reminder of his younger days. Days of treachery and murderous intent. He had slain and feasted on Kratch who had starved into the Hunger. To think of those days reminded him of the Hunger; its terrible power flowing from his bloated stomach. Pure instinct taken hold. His full potential to kill-murder.

His lair he reveled with a gnarled and toothy grin. Forgoing his helmet in the comfort of his own chambers he began searching for any form of sustenance he could find. Scrounging in the corner opposite the door he left his back to the round portal to his inner domain, a surge of fear rushed through his gut to his limbs, forcing his grip to the dagger on his belt.

He quickly spun about, down-faced blade in hand. Before him the door was empty. Where was he? Were his senses failing him now? Making him unable to catch a whiff to his old whiskers?

A scutter to his left was the first sign of the black-clad assailant that lunge out of the shadows towards him. With a honed skill to back-stabbing, the old warlord knew another assassin waited behind him if this one should fail. This was no challenge. One does not deal with Eshin idly. Someone wanted him dead. As swiftly as his old haunches would spring he lunged back spinning to face runner behind him. A sharp gurgling emitted from its throat, the warlords blade hilt-deep in his neck. On his landing the old skaven seized the runners blade in one hand and retched his blade from the throat. Still exposing his back to the original attacker, the old warlord knew he needed to act quick

As the second runner was upon him, a flash of movement was the only evidence of the warlords move as he plunged the longer blade backwards up into the runner's gut. With blood pouring from the wound, the wretch muttered hushed curses as his life fled him. The old warlord let out a tense breath as the body slumped to the floor.

Arlot would need to talk to his chieftains in the morning; Plague Priest Nurglich and Chief Kravenclaw would have to answer to his clawed fist. For now he need not search for a meal.