Vermintide: Final Job P1
Story by HomeTome on SoFurry
Imported from SF2 with no description.
I’ve encountered many things in my travels, but this is undoubtedly the most disturbing turn of events. I’ve steeled myself for what’s to come, but the unknown frightens me. Glancing over at Skiteek, I can tell he’s just as anxious, but we can’t turn back now; doing so would only ensure our death on the battlefield.
Drawing a long breath, I take the first step into the settlement, Skiteek at my heels. This town is bustling with humans as they go about their lives, but despite the familiarity, I feel like we’re in a wolf’s den. Our supplies have been reduced to nothing more than a few crumbs, and my gear has become a patchwork of frayed threads, weathered leather, and chinked armor... This was far beyond a simple mending. This kind of wear and tear required the experienced hands of a blacksmith.
With each step Skiteek and I took, the more people would look our way. Each one would do a double take as their eyes locked on Skiteek. So many emotions play across their faces in moments: confusion, fear, anger, disgust. We’re treading a fine line, and all it’ll take is a single mistake to break the tension, then fear will quickly turn to hostility.
“H-How long we here for?” Skiteek asks, clearly knowing the danger we’re in.
“Probably at least a week,” I respond, my eyes scanning our surroundings for anything unusual. “The last fight took a toll on my armor.”
His eyes mirror mine, darting around, as he asks, “I’ll be safe yes-yes?”
“No one will lay a hand on you while I’m around,” I assert.
While navigating the crowd, I spot the forge coming into view up ahead. While I know word of Skiteek will spread quickly, I pull him into the blacksmith’s forge to get him out of the public’s eyes. But entering inside was like getting punched by the fierce heat from within. My body is already reacting as beads of sweat begin to form all over my body, but I note Skiteek is panting heavily.
This is close to the realm of chaos for him, so I pull out my waterskin and drench him with the cooling water.
“Thank you,” he mutters, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing.
“Let’s get this over with.” I turn my focus over to the smith, who’s absorbed in the glow of a blade in progress, the rhythmic clang of his hammer resonating through the forge. “Excuse me! I require urgent repairs!” I announce, expecting to get his attention.
“Who doesn’t in these times,” he returns, his focus undeterred from the blade under his skilled hands. “Make your order; I’ll get to it when I get to it.”
“I’m a scout.” I clarify, injecting an urgency in my tone.
His arm freezes mid-air at my words, and he turns to look at me for the first time, his gaze falling instantly on Skiteek before returning to me.
“So, the fabled one with the pet rat has entered my store?” He sets his hammer down, dousing the glowing blade in a nearby bucket of water, steam hissing up around his burly hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, and that’s an achievement given your line of work. You people don’t live long; it’s even more of a surprise that rat hasn’t slit your throat yet.”
“He knows his place.” I cut straight to the chase. “Can you repair my gear with haste or not?”
“Ey, I can repair it. But keep that thing out of my store. My reputation means more than your armor.”
With a nod, I unburden myself of my damaged gear, depositing my armor and sword with a clatter onto the floor. “When should I return?”
The blacksmith barely spares the gear a glance, pulling the sword from the water before setting it back into the forge to heat up. “About nine days ought to do it.”
“Very well.”
Exiting back into the town, I stand there momentarily and take in my surroundings. Despite being a hub of human civilization, offering a welcome respite from our exhausting journey, I’ve never felt more on edge. The faces in the crowd blur together into a mass of potential threats. Fear and worry gnaw at my resolve, as I know anyone could pose a danger to Skiteek.
It’s a dreadful realization that I might have to kill one of my own to protect him. A decision I will not hesitate to make, but one that will leave a lasting burden on my conscience.
“Daven... We go-go?”
Shaking myself from the unsettling thoughts, I nod. “Yeah, let’s grab a quick meal and some supplies before we set up camp.”
Even in his state of unease, Skiteek manages a faint smile. All I can do is stay focused, ensuring we survive and navigate out of this human den.
Entering the crowded inn, every eye turns toward Skiteek and me as we make our way to a secluded table in the corner. Money greases many wheels, and today, it gains us entry into a place where we would otherwise have been unwelcome. Subtly, I draw my dagger, positioning it out of sight but within easy reach, just in case. Our plan is simple: eat, get what we need, and then quickly retreat to our camp on the outskirts of town.
The glances thrown our way mirror the many we’ve been seeing. The fear and anger worries me the most. The men in this room are no disciplined soldiers; they’re volatile and unpredictable, a dangerous combination. Despite their disdain for Skiteek, soldiers at least show me some respect, which helps maintain a semblance of peace.
The tension in the inn is like a bowstring drawn tight, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. The serving girl’s haste to leave our table after depositing our food underscores the growing unease. Skiteek too, feels it, his eyes nervously flitting about. However, seeing the plate of melted cheese sandwiches I ordered for him lightens his mood.
“Daven, what these?” He asks, pointing at the sandwiches.
“We’ll speak of it later. Eat it quickly.”
He nods, picking up a sandwich and taking a big bite. The delight in his eyes mirrors when he first tasted jam months ago. As much as I’d love to pat him on the head or return his smile, I know better. Any show of affection could ignite a spark in this powder keg. So, I concentrate on finishing my meal. But my peace is short-lived as I notice a group of men pointing towards Skiteek and heading outside.
That isn’t good... It seems we might be facing some resistance on our way out. But at least we can savor our meal before confronting that problem. My attention is drawn back to the present when Skiteek offers me a half-eaten sandwich.
“You like?” Skiteek offers.
I shake my head. “It’s for you. I’ve got my meal.”
He picks up on my subdued demeanor as he nods a few times, focusing on his meal with newfound determination. We finish our food in minutes, the quiet but intense atmosphere turning each bite into a silent countdown. I finish my meal first, and not seeing any potential threats in the room; I place my dagger up my sleeve for quick access.
I gesture for Skiteek to follow me, and we rise from our corner, leaving the hushed murmurs and pointed stares behind. Stepping outside, I take in the surroundings, seeing if I spot those men who left. None in sight, but they’re here; I can feel it. Grabbing Skiteek by the paw, I usher him to various stalls and buy what we’ll need to hold out until my armor is done, as well as a few surprises for him.
I wanted us to spend the night at a proper inn, but that plan went out the window as soon as we stepped foot in town. It doesn’t matter; we can relax once we’re out of this place. Despite the looming uncertainty, we managed to secure our supplies without much incident—food, water, and basic tools, all essential for our upcoming days in the wild. The market vendors seem too preoccupied with their worries to give us more than a second glance.
However, as we make our way back toward the settlement’s exit, I notice the group from the inn leaning against a nearby building; their sneers starkly contrast with the rest of the oblivious townsfolk.
“There might be trouble ahead,” I mutter to Skiteek. “Stay close.”
His grip tightens on the supplies he’s carrying, but his posture doesn’t falter. We press forward, our path lit by the dying embers of daylight. With every step towards the outskirts of the town, the group matches as they begin to move in a way to cut us off from the exit. I pray they come to their senses before we meet, but that hope is dashed away once they’re a few feet away.
“You there! Rat man and his keeper!” One of the men shouts as he and his cronies block the town gate. The sneer on his face is evident even in the waning light, their malicious intent clear.
Despite the surge of adrenaline, I remain outwardly calm. “What do you want?” I ask, my voice steady.
“Just want to teach that creature a lesson, and maybe you too,” the man retorts.
“Don’t help me unless you have to,” I warn Skiteek with a whisper, never turning my gaze from the men. “I suggest you reconsider,” I reply, matching their hostility with defiance. “We’ve no quarrel with you.”
The man snorts, evidently finding my statement amusing. His grip tightens on a crude club in his hand, the sinister grin on his face belying any humor.
“No quarrel, eh? That’s where you’re wrong, friend. That vermin you’re with is our quarrel.”
The atmosphere feels brittle, like a frozen lake that could crack under pressure. I position myself protectively in front of Skiteek.
“He’s under the blessing of a Warrior Priest of Sigmar,” I insist, my voice steady despite the throbbing tension that fills the air. “I won’t be held responsible for what befalls you.”
His scoff is the only answer I get before he lunges, his cohorts quick to follow. It’s a dance I’ve done a thousand times on the battlefield, but this time, the stakes feel much higher. Even so, there’s a strange silence in my mind. Every parry, every counter strike is driven by a singular objective - protect Skiteek.
My blade seems to find its own path, embedding itself into flesh with a gruesome efficiency. These men are amateurs; subduing them becomes an exercise in restraint. Instead of deadly blows, I opt for incapacitation—severing a tendon here, targeting a nerve cluster there. Soon enough, they’re heaps of groaning regret on the cobblestone.
“Halt!” A guard calls as he looks at the scene. “What’s going on here?!”
Sheathing my blade, I flash a sigil I haven’t used in a long time, an emblem of the Order of the Silver Hammer. “These men are the instigators. They ought to thank Sigmar for showing restraint.”
The guard salutes hastily, visibly relieved. “We’ll handle this, sir. My apologies for the inconvenience.”
I nod a curt acknowledgment and guide Skiteek into the thickening woods beyond. Once we’re past the treeline and out of sight, I stop and look down at Skiteek, who looks worried. I kneel low so we’re eye to eye before leaning in for a kiss. That cheers him up as I pat him on the head.
“Let’s move a little further in and set up camp.”
With a cheerful nod, he follows closely. This was just day one, nine more to go.
Tucked away in a dense thicket of evergreens, our camp feels like a well-guarded secret. Concealment has been my art in choosing this location and masking our tracks. Trips to the town will be few and far between; the surroundings are rich with game, perfect for my hunting expeditions and for Skiteek to fine-tune his crossbow skills. While he already possesses an uncanny sense for aiming, he’s still perfecting the finesse needed to hit vital spots on elusive prey.
The knot in my shoulders has loosened since we’ve made camp. The roaring fire brings a sense of peace to the coming darkness. This is a sanctuary for Skiteek and me—so secluded that the likelihood of someone discovering us is about as likely as finding a needle in a haystack. I find my gaze settling on Skiteek as he lays his crossbow on a fallen log, meticulously checking it for any wear and applying grease to keep the gears running smoothly.
Skiteek’s craftiness is one of those pleasant surprises that I’ve grown to appreciate. He’s adapted his weapon to become a hybrid, allowing for automatic firing of standard bolts while also accommodating specialized bolts that he makes, however dubious they may look, but those require manual loading.
Given our limited resources, his ingenuity is downright awe-inspiring. Intrigued, I kneel next to him.
“What new trick are you cooking up now?”
He pauses, glancing skyward, searching for the right words. “Hard to aim long-far. Add sight, maybe?”
“Interesting. How did you find your first experience in a human settlement?”
Eyes still on his work, he chitters, “Scary. Not know who enemy.”
Wrapping my arms warmly around his waist, I offer some comfort. “Yeah, definitely scary.”
He briefly pauses, nestling his nose against me. “I like those sand-things.”
“Good to hear. I want to share plenty of other things with you, but you’ll have to settle for me cooking them.” I joke.
“You cook-cook good!” He says with excitement. “Clan only burn rat. You make... mm...” He stumbles, searching for the phrase. “How you say mouth happy?”
“Taste good?”
He nods vigorously. “Yes-yes. Very-very taste good!”
Caught up in the moment, I lift him off the ground, his eyes meeting mine in a spark of shared joy. “You’re quite the flatterer. Are you trying to butter me up for tonight?”
A playful grin unfurls across his furry snout. “If butter make you more eager, Skiteek use lots.”
Gently setting him back down, I pat his head, affectionate yet teasing. “Then you better hurry up with your tinkering. I want to take you on a real hunt. Bag an elk with a single shot in the dark, and I promise you’ll be walking funny for a few days.” I notice the mischievous glimmer in his eyes. “And no special arrows. That’d be cheating.”
Skiteek sighs a touch of endearment in his groan. “Fine-fine. You know me too well. Give thirty.”
“Thirty minutes it is.”
I leave him to his project, grabbing my scouting gear to map out the network of animal trails threading through the surrounding wilderness. Considering this area is well known for its variety of animals, it should be easy under the cover of darkness.
Something feels amiss in this patch of forest. Animal trails weave through the underbrush like well-traveled highways, yet I can’t help but notice a pattern: these trails deliberately avoid a specific area. The consistency is striking, almost as if an invisible border’s been drawn between the paths. It’s so overt I can predict that someone—or something—has set up shop here.
Home is too permanent a word; this disturbance appears relatively recent. My mind automatically conjures images of predators, though bears are a rare sight around here. There are no tracks to confirm a bear’s passage either. But the animals’ collective avoidance screams instinct to me, an alarm bell ringing in a primitive part of their brains.
Instinct like that is often provoked by one thing: Chaos. The thought chills me to the bone too. A scout, perhaps? Or something far worse? I may not be on duty, but ignoring this could endanger the town. They may not have treated Skiteek and me kindly, but I can’t let that cloud my judgment. So I move cautiously toward this mystery spot, feet treading lightly to avoid the telltale snap of a twig.
I consider doubling back for Skiteek; his keen nose could be invaluable in this darkness. But as the seconds tick by, I realize time is one luxury I can’t spare. With the faintest sound of steel against cloth, I draw my dagger. A prickle of unease runs up my arms, like spiders skittering over my skin.
Nearing a clump of low-lying shrubs, I carefully nudge the branches aside with the flat of my blade, peering through the veil of leaves. My first scan of the area yields nothing in the speckled light of the moon that shines past the canopy above, but as I squint, I catch a silhouette that doesn’t mesh with the surroundings. A sack lies on the ground, its contents bound tightly by a knot keeping it in place.
Curious but focused, my eyes wander, and once more, instinct screams at me that something is strange about a nearby bush. A smaller, furred shape is nestled among the undergrowth. I think it’s Skiteek for a split second, as I’m accustomed to his shadowy figure, but the sense of unease that fills my body tells me otherwise. A memory clicks into place. Could this be a sackrat? I’ve only heard tales about these strange little rats from other scouts. Battlefield scavengers, mostly harmless; they prefer to tuck tail and run rather than confront humans.
So, what’s this one doing out here, so far removed from the frontlines? Certain that nothing else lurks in the shadows, I cautiously make my way closer, dagger poised for any sudden movement. Getting a better look, I see he’s in a rough state—his fur is matted with blood, but bizarrely, I can’t find any wounds on him. His breathing is shallow and ragged. And then I see it. His eyes, half-open, lock onto mine for a fleeting moment before they close, almost in resignation.
Nothing adds up here, and I’m left with few choices. Do I leave him to his fate or keep him alive for questioning? The thoughts of so many things run through my mind. I’ve got more questions than answers and just this one rat who might have them. Cursing under my breath, I sheath my dagger, grab the rat by the paw and his sack of goods, and drag him back to camp.
“Daven, I finally complete m--” Skiteek’s voice cuts off as he lays eyes on the sackrat I’m dragging. He sneers, revealing sharp incisors, and utters a guttural phrase in Queekish before shaking himself as if to clear his thoughts. “Why this filth-thing here?”
Dropping my unwilling guest and his sack onto the ground, I walk over to my pack and fish out my first-aid kit. There was no sense in squandering a perfectly good potion on him. Plus, as I began to examine him, I could tell my instincts were right. There’s not a single scratch on him. So, where did all this blood come from?
“I intend to find out,” I answer, returning to my bag to look for a rope instead.
Skiteek picks up on my vibe, switching into investigative mode. His beady red eyes bore into the sackrat.
“Bag mean Looter-rat, yes-yes? Why it here?”
“Exactly my question. Could they be using him for reconnaissance?” I muse, distracted by my search for the elusive rope.
Skiteek dismisses the idea with a shake of his head. “No-no. Scout not carry bag. Make too much noise, clumsy-clumsy.” He then crouches, delving into the sack with an unsettling eagerness, only for his eyes to widen in shock. “By the Horned One, Daven! Look!”
Forgetting the elusive rope, my boots crunch over fallen leaves as I hustle to his side. I peer into the sack, and the weight of the revelation hits me like a gutter runner’s ambush. It’s warpstone, loads of it. Glowing with an eerie, malevolent light, it fills the sack almost to the brim. We’re not just dealing with small-time skaven mischief anymore. We’re talking apocalyptic consequences.
“Skiteek, lower the bag—gently, for Sigmar’s sake,” I caution, my voice barely above a whisper. Sweat starts forming on my brow as he complies, setting the volatile bag on the ground with the utmost care. That it hasn’t exploded is a mystery that could best be described as divine luck—or an omen of something much worse. “What the fuck is this rat doing with that much warpstone?”
Skiteek hesitates, his nose twitching, whiskers quivering as he sniffs the air around the captive rat. “Strange musk, this one has. I know-not his clan. Should not have this. Covered in fear-sweat, yes-yes. But also... something different.”
“Now I’m seriously intrigued. Who is this rat, and what kind of a suicidal mission is he on? There’s no way he could’ve stolen that much warpstone unnoticed.” My hand wraps around the hilt of my dagger as I crouch beside the rat. “Get ready. If he twitches toward that sack, put a bolt between his eyes. We can’t risk that thing going off.”
Skiteek nods gravely, sitting on the log he was working on and pulling out his crossbow, double-checking it’s loaded before resting his gaze on the newcomer. The gravity of the situation hangs thick in the air: We need to know why this rat is here and the story behind this doomsday sack of warpstone.
The rat stirs as if waking from a troubled dream. His beady, crimson eyes scan the surroundings before settling on me. His gaze is empty, unreadable. Is it exhaustion or something more sinister?
My eyes narrow as I lean in closer. “I have some questions. Answer them, and maybe you get to keep breathing. Why are you here?”
“M-Mine?” His voice is even softer this time, almost drowned out by the wind.
My head turns toward Skiteek, who’s been silently observing. “Mind translating? His Common is lacking, to say the least.”
When the rat’s eyes meet Skiteek’s, he recoils in unfiltered terror, frantically attempting to drag himself closer to me despite his weakened state. He’s spewing frantic Queekish like a broken dam. Instinctively, my hand rests on his shoulder, offering a semblance of solace. Skiteek’s face remains unreadable, but the iciness in his gaze intensifies.
“What did he say?” I ask.
“He...” Skiteek looks disgusted. “Say sorry-sorry for fleeing. Begs we not strip his flesh, again.”
My eyes widened. “Did you just say “again”?”
He nods grimly. “Heard story-tales, I did. Some clans... they meat-farm from slave-rats. Snippet here, sliver there, to sustain-feed clan. Keep them breathing for fresher meat,” Skiteek explains.
I eye the trembling rat skeptically. “But I don’t see any cuts or scars.”
Skiteek doesn’t say anything but merely looks toward that bag. Warpstone—raw chaos magic. It could very well be they used the stuff to magically mend him so they could continue their grim harvest. But how deeply has the chaotic force embedded itself within him? He appears no different from Skiteek; he has no glaring mutations like the hulking rat ogres I’ve fought before.
“Was the warpstone only for healing?” I add.
Skiteek scrutinizes the sackrat before speaking in clipped Queekish. Though still trembling, the rat risks a glance at me while he replies. After almost a year with Skiteek, I recognize a few words—nothing definitive, but ‘tinker’ and ‘experiment’ stand out.
“Clan force-swallow him warp-elixir. Speedy heal-heal. He only slave who not die. So they keep him as meat farm.” Skiteek clarifies.
That’s a new level of evil, even by Skaven standards. And believe me, their cruelty is immeasurable. Yet every encounter brings fresh, nauseating horrors. I snap out of it. There’s too much to consider right now to linger on that thought.
“Is he lying?” I press Skiteek.
Skiteek shakes his head. “No trickery. His musk screams with fear. Thinks I’m still clan-loyal.”
“Explain our situation. Maybe if he stops viewing us as a threat, he’ll be more forthcoming.”
Skiteek takes a measured breath before speaking. As he talks, the trembling in the rat lessens, and his eyes meet mine, filled with a newfound mixture of skepticism and wonder.
“M-Mine?” he squeaks.
“Is he asking me something?”
“He want know if true. If you, man-thing, are mated with a Skaven.”
I glance at Skiteek, baffled momentarily before a tired chuckle leaves me. “When I said to explain our situation, that wasn’t the angle I thought you’d take. I meant us being a team, not mates.”
“I think ‘mates’ more trustworthy than ‘team,’” Skiteek retorts.
I exhale deeply before looking back at the sackrat and nodding, acknowledging my complicated relationship with Skiteek. His features slacken into a look of ‘oh'-like realization, a brief glimpse of comprehension breaking through his fear. But I can’t forget caution; even a cornered, desperate rat could still bite or, in this case, betray us.
“So, just to get this straight— you can heal from any injury?” I ask, skepticism lining my voice.
The sackrat nods cautiously, his eyes locked on mine. This is verging on the unbelievable. In theory, his healing abilities could make him nearly immortal. Well, unless he can’t regenerate blood fast enough, but if that were the case, they wouldn’t have been slicing him up for Skaven feasts. To test this miraculous claim, I unsheathe my dagger and point it toward his arm.
“I want to see you heal myself. Just a small cut, nothing more.”
His fur bristles, a living landscape of dread, but he maintains eye contact, finally giving a hesitant nod of consent. My dagger flicks across his arm, swift and precise—a fine mist of blood dots the blade. But when my eyes dart to the wound, I’m astonished. Save for a bald strip where his fur once was; it’s as if the blade never touched him.
“Alright, so he’s not lying. That’s a point in his favor,” I say, my eyes shifting toward Skiteek. “How loyal is he to his clan?”
Skiteek mutters something in Queekish to the sackrat. The rat hesitates, his mouth opening and closing before he finally says something in response.
“No one else he can turn to. That why he will erase them.”
“Explain.” I press.
Skiteek continues to listen before glancing at the bag of warpstone. “That why he have. Know secret tunnel, going to bring and boom. Will collapse entire nest.”
I furrow my brows. “That’s a suicide mission. No matter how fast he heals, there’s no surviving an explosion that large.”
Skiteek’s eyes darken. “He knows.”
Gazing down at the sackrat, I see that tired look of resignation he wore when we first encountered him—an acceptance of his miserable fate. A jumble of questions dance in my mind: Do I even have the right to care? I barely managed to give Skiteek a new fate; trying to extend that kindness again seems as likely as this war ending.
My thoughts are a mess of caution and impulse. This sackrat is an enigma, a riddle within a mystery. He could be bait in a carefully laid trap, the fuse of a scheme meant to ruin us. He could also be what he seems—a broken creature, pieced together by scars we can’t see, seeking the destruction of those who twisted him so. Which is it? And do I have the right to gamble with my fate and Skiteek’s too?
At this critical juncture, Skiteek’s paw finds my shoulder, grounding me. He meets my gaze and offers a sad smile that’s heavy with unspoken understanding.
“Your call, Daven. We’re mates, no matter what you decide,” he reassures.
I take a deep, steadying breath, letting the forest air fill my lungs and clarify my thoughts. I need to approach this anew, stripping away the conflicting emotions to see the situation for what it is. And what it is is an opportunity. An opportunity that, despite its glaring risks, offers prospects for both tactical gains and something rarer: a chance at doing something unequivocally good.
Still, I can’t bear the thought of letting this rat die without having a chance to taste life. To fear his kind so much that the mere sight of Skiteek has him seeking safety beside me... I would be no better than the Skaven if I let him continue his plan. Negotiating the safety of another rat is a long shot, yet so is taking down a rat’s nest with just the three of us. High stakes, but the reward? Potentially life-changing if we survive.
Still, the sackrat has offered us a potential ace in the hole: warpstone. If we could place it in the hidden tunnel he mentioned and set it off from a safe distance; then perhaps we can avoid his needless death. But that’s a big ‘if’ because this all hinges on whether or not the sackrat is telling the truth.
“We’re going to keep this rat for a few days. Test the waters, so to speak. If we’re convinced this isn’t a trap, I have a plan in mind,” I announce.
“Mine?” The sackrat queries, tilting his head.
“Plan for what?” Skiteek interprets.
“Simple. We’ll eliminate that nest and win this guy his freedom.” Standing, I sheathe my blade. “Watch him for me, Skit. I need to get a rush order on that armor.”
“Will keep eye. Bring sand-things.”
My serious demeanor cracks, replaced by a chuckle. “Alright, will do.”
Skiteek watches Daven disappear into the undergrowth of the forest.
“That human’s an odd one,” the sackrat muses. “Why didn’t he just kill me?”
“Skaven are unpredictable, man-things hateful. Daven is neither,” Skiteek replies in queekish, sniffing the air. “He despises what the clan did to you but fears you’re not like me, that you’ll betray us.”
“But my musk—”
“He can’t smell that. To win his trust, you must show you’re different, too.”
“Why bother? I’m as good as dead anyway.”
Skiteek locks eyes with the sackrat, a gravity settling between them. “Your name?”
“Anleesh.”
“Commit my mate’s name to memory. Daven. Say it in man-tongue.”
“D-Daven?” He speaks.
“It’ll make sense later. Daven won’t abandon you if he trusts you. But earn it genuinely, not through Skaven scheming.”
“...Why did you choose him? Why did he accept?”
Skiteek grins, ears twitching. “Because we love each other.”
“Love? What is that?”
“You’ll find out tonight. Daven’s stressed, and I know the remedy to unwind him.”
Still perplexed, Anleesh decides it’s best to ponder later and rest for now. He lies down, gazing at the twinkling stars in the sky until his eyes grow heavy.
“Not now.”
Stirring awake, Anleesh catches fragments of distant chatter. His mind, still foggy from sleep, wrestles with a disorienting thought: Where is he?
“It fine. He not care.” Skiteek says, his voice closer now.
Is this the nest? Why isn’t his flesh being torn from him yet?
“Dammit, Skit, those cheese sandwiches are going to get cold,” Daven argues.
“Just relax, Daven.”
Anleesh's eyes flutter open, and immediate confusion engulfs him. He's not in his nest but immediately he gets a full blown side view of Skiteek with the human’s cock in his throat. Skiteek shoots him a smirking glance before pulling away, stroking the human as he licks his cock.
“I want inside, but I keep promise-hunt elk.” Skiteek adds.
“Couldn't we have saved this for when we were alone?” Daven suggests, casting a sidelong glance at the wide-eyed Anleesh.
“Skaven need-not privacy,” Skiteek remarks, unapologetic.
“Still, can we really trust hi—” Daven's sentence cuts short as Skiteek takes his length into his throat once more. “Why the sudden neediness?”
Skiteek pulls off with an audible pop. “You bring another male, I get jealous.”
Daven exhales deeply. “He’s not like us, Skit.”
“Mmm. Wouldn’t be so sure.”
Skiteek’s gaze shifts down towards Anleesh, prompting Daven to follow suit. His eyes meet the rat’s hard-on, and Anleesh averts his gaze in embarrassment.
“I still Skaven deep-inside, Daven. I greedy. You are mine.”
With nothing more to add, Skiteek once again downs Daven’s cock. Anleesh isn’t sure what to think about all of this but it does indeed confirm the strange relationship these two have. Sensing how awkward this is and not wanting to get on the bad side of Daven, Anleesh faces his back to them and tries his best to give them privacy.
“Dammit, Skiteek,” Daven grunts as he grabs the back of his head and starts throat fucking him. “Fine! Let’s get this over with.”
It doesn’t take long as Aleesh is subject to hearing both of their moans before Daven cums inside Skiteek. Pulling away with a satisfied sigh, Skiteek licks his lips.
“Mmm, thank for dessert-treat,” he chitters.
All Daven can do is shake his head. “Hurry up and eat. We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”
“Will join sleep-sleep soon.”
Skiteek walks over to Anleesh and sets down the sandwiches.
“Eat. My mate got these for you.”
Anleesh sniffs the sandwiches cautiously before taking a tentative bite. His eyes instantly brighten. It's unlike anything he's ever tasted.
"Good," Skiteek answers, watching Anleesh’s reaction. "In man-tongue, that mouth-tingling sensation is called 'good.'"
“Good,” Anleesh repeats, experimenting with the unfamiliar human word.
“Get rest, at first light is when you start working on gaining my mates trust. Again, no tricks. If you betray us, your corpse will rot in these woods.”
Nodding, Anleesh watches Skiteek disappear into the tent Daven set up. Left alone with his sandwiches and a mind teeming with conflicting thoughts, Anleesh realizes he has much to consider but time is not a luxury he has.
Skiteek and I awaken simultaneously, our internal rhythms harmonizing as the first rays of dawn pierce the forest canopy. Exiting our tent, my gaze is drawn to the Skaven sprawled on the woodland floor, deep in slumber. A primal unease sends a shiver down my spine, reminding me of the potential danger he represents. But as Skiteek's fingers lightly tap my side, I mentally shift gears, centering my thoughts on the day's mission.
My first order of business is to scout the vicinity for any unusual signs. As I survey the area, I notice that the local animals have distanced themselves, likely repelled by the unmistakable stench of our Skaven visitor. Memories of my first encounter with Skiteek flood back—how I've since ensured he maintains some semblance of hygiene. Yet, the overpowering scent of a normal Skaven, especially this close, is a stark reminder of just how... aromatic they can be.
Provided there's no indication of other Skaven lurking nearby, I'm not overly concerned. Yet, as I continue my survey, a whirlwind of doubts consumes my thoughts. If this rat is genuinely sincere, there are still numerous implications to ponder. A sigh escapes my lips as I sense Skiteek's concerned gaze.
“You still worried?” He asks.
I give a slight nod. "Trusting him isn't as straightforward for me."
“Trust? Not sound-word for Skaven,” Skiteek shuffles closer, whiskers twitching. "With you, I learn trust. But kin? Always trick-trap, always betray." He hesitates for a moment, searching Daven's face. "This one... he different-other. Still Skaven in heart, but... not all bad."
I massage my neck, processing his words. "Who'd have thought I'd meet the few Skaven without a thirst for blood?"
Skiteek grins, a playful glint in his eye. “Thirsty I am-am... Not for blood though.”
It's challenging to maintain a straight face around Skiteek. He has this uncanny ability to lighten the mood with just a few words. Despite my efforts, a smile breaks through.
"There's just so much to think about," I admit.
“I made promise-pact for elk,” Skiteek's tail flicks, "We take him with?"
I find myself nodding, perhaps that’s the quickest way to gauge this rat's intent. Seeing him, how he acts, his possible combat experience. All of these things will paint a clear picture for me to fall back on.
“I want you to take the lead, Skits.” I pat him on the head. “I’ll keep some distance to watch carefully. After the hunt, I’ll be able to collect my thoughts.”
Skiteek nuzzles into my hand. “We go.”