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The self-proclaimed Great Plaguestoker Skrapefang of Clan Feesik is the high overseer of his church’s many Plague Furnaces. It is Skrapefang who drives the clan’s army of sweating, sickly slaves to build new carriages and censers for their verminous masters, and he who rides the finest of these macabre war engines to war.[1b]

Beneath his stinking robes, the Plague Priest is as gnarled and twisted as an old root. Skrapefang’s pelt is thin and greying, lank with foetor and age. His joints are bulbous and shiny with pus, and his flesh is riddled with the scars of countless poxes and failed assassination attempts. However the hideous old monster’s mindis as sharp as a blade, and his malice and cruelty are horrifying in their intensity. Skrapefang lives to inflict suffering on all around him, if only to see the fear in their eyes as they realise that he has absolute power over their meaningless lives.[1b]


The Ruin of Mossgleam

Great Plaguestoker Skrapefang watched avidly as the last of the Rotbringers was torn limb from limb. The withered old Plague Priest chittered appreciatively at every gristly crunch and crack, sneering to himself amid the shadows of his cowl as the last of his supposed allies died. The plan had been for the Virulent Procession of Clan Feesik to surge into the tree-things’ glade of power from the marshes to the south whilst the followers of Nurgle attacked from the Jade Crags to the north.[1a]

Skrapefang, tired of taking orders from the bloated and imperious Gruptious Brelch, had instead formulated a plan ofhis own. The skaven still lurked amid the blighted fog of the marsh, and had watched with glittering red eyes as the Rotbringers battled the guardians of the glade. Sylvaneth and Stormcast Eternals had fought side by side to defend this sacred wellspring of life energy. Now, with the glade stained with foetid gore and its defenders weakened from battle, Plague Priest Skrapefang raised his rotwood staff high and shrieked the order to attack.[1a]

The swarms of Clan Feesik surged from the fringes of the marsh in a sudden, horrifying tide. Skrapefang rode his rumbling Plague Furnace at their centre, its great censer belching noxious green smoke that caused the plants and grass of the glade to blacken at its touch. Hundreds of Plague Monks and Censer Bearers scurried forwards around the Plague Furnace, their bodies crawling with the filth that would be the sacredglade’s death.[1a]

The surviving defenders of the green sanctuary turned in shock at the appearance of this new foe. Treelord Cerswyn boomed his rage and led his Dryads to meet the attackers head on, while the brave band of the Knights Excelsior formed a fortress-like shield wall with their Lord-Celestant, Amachus, as its anchor.[1a][1b]

At the very presence of the Pestilens horde, the magics of the sacred glade began to falter and die. Ancient trees of living jade and beautiful glowing vines crumbled to ash, while bubbling springs of pure life energy blackened and congealed as the chittering chant ofthe Plague Priest carried on the wind. As the charge of Plague Monks and sylvaneth collided with a terrible crash, the destruction only grew worse.[1b]

Whole Congregations of Filths crambled over one another to hack at bark-like flesh with their crusted blades. Sylvaneth branch-claws ripped through leathery skin to spill festering blood across silver grass that rotted at its touch. Corrosive smog billowed as a Plaguesmog Congregation surrounded Cerswyn, battering at the ancient Treelord with their foul weapons. Every impact blackened his wooden hide and smashed rotting chunks from his limbs. The Treelord stamped and raged, hurling broken skaven corpses through the air with every swing of his mighty fists but eventually, inevitably, Cerswyn crashed to his knees, bark skin cracking and weeping as the fumes overcame him. Another mass of Plague Monks surged forwards, and the Treelord was lost from sight.[1b]

Seeing the sylvaneth being swiftly overwhelmed by the zealous swarms of ratmen, and the sacred glade dying by the moment, Lord-Celestant Amachus ordered his Knights Excelsior to make for the Plague Furnace at the skavens warm’s heart.[1b]

Plague Priest Skrapefang saw the white armoured warriors coming and raised one claw.[1b]

Foul black-green energies shot into the churning sky. At the Great Plaguestoker’s signal his Plagueclaws,still lurking in the mists of the marsh, let fly with their foul ammunition. Diseased slop rained upon the battlefield, sizzling and putrefying wherever it spattered across the sacred flora of the glade. Where it sprayed the Stormcast Eternals, the foul substance ate through their sigmarite armour and spread bubbling, popping blisters across their skin. Mighty heroes collapsed, roaring in pain as their joints swelled and their flesh blackened.[1c]

Crackling with lightning, the surviving Stormcasts ploughed into the Clan Feesik lines. Every swing left a blinding arc of energy in its wake, Liberators and Retributors smashing diseased vermin to bloody pulp with their hammers. Skaven fangs shattered and blades broke against the white armour of the Stormcast Eternals, while plague censers rebounded from blue and gold shields. At their head fought Lord-Celestant Amachus, calling out praise to Sigmar as he hacked and hewed at the seething vermin. The last handful of sylvaneth backed towards the thin Stormcast line, fighting wildly to disentangle themselves from the horrifying consequences of Cerswyn’s impetuous attack. All around they could see their glade dying, but they were powerless to save it.[1c]

From atop his rickety wooden perch, Plague Priest Skrapefang sneered in derision and screeched to redouble the attack. Another splattering volley of Plagueclaw ordure fell from above, raining filth on friend and foe alike. With a great wrenching of levers and jangling of rusted bells, the mighty censer of Skrapefang’s Plague Furnace was released, swinging forwards to crunch through the enemy ranks. The monstrous weapon sent forth a wall of billowing green smog that engulfed the Stormcast battle-line just seconds before the Plague Furnace crashed into it at speed.[1c]

Gas-rusted white armour crumpled and smog-weakened shields cracked. Noble forms rotted by noxious fumes were crushed and mangled, and Skrapefang cackled manically as bolts of lightning leapt skyward from beneath the rumbling wheels of his pestilent shrine.[1c]

The weakened Stormcast line buckled at the sudden fury of the onslaught, losing ground against the frenzied attackers with every second, and the last few sylvaneth raised a mournful dirge as their sacred glade rotted and blackened around them. The defenders still fought, but Skrapefang could see his victorywas at hand.[1c]