No… no, not again. Why? Why do they come? I have nothing.
They… they have taken everything. Why do they still come?
I heard him say it, as if those he spoke of were in the very room itself—hiding in the shadows, waiting for only a moment of weakness.
Whimpering filled the room. Not just from Skrull, but from Vrak, and the unnamed Skaven. Because that is what they were—rat-men that lived under every city, and in every shadow, waiting for the day they would claim all that sits under the sun.
And yet only one question remains: what is it that has them so scared?
But I was pulled from my thoughts by Skrull's voice.
"No-no! No more, more! They take-steal no more! No-no! The Council, they play-play their games, yesss!" he hissed, spittle flying. "But I—I won't be piece-pawn thing in their clawed-clawed hands!"
"I make-make music with their screams! Yes-yes!"
"I make art-art of their unworthy flesh-flesh! I bite, I gnaw, I scratch—scratch and claw—till their cities crumble-break and burn, and their thrones, thrones are mine—MINE, all MINE!"
"I will-will not stop-stop 'til all the Under-Empire hears my misic!"
Anger. Madness. And under all of it… I could still hear it. Like a child hiding from monsters. But it could not hide from me.
Fear.
Beneath all that madness and rage, I still heard it.
Fear.
The fear of the hunted.
The fear of those who flew too close to the sun—
—and had fallen.