AEven as I spoke the words, the truth did not escape me—I was still in a cage, trapped. So I began to look around, searching for anything that would help me escape. The first thing that had my attention was the claw marks on the walls and floors. It looked like someone had tried to keep track of time, but as my eyes traveled across the wall, the claw marks became more frantic.
My eyes traveled down to the floor, and an iron smell hit my nose. I noticed the stains on the floor. I remembered how the detectives described blood on TV. If they are to be believed, those stains are blood—old blood.
I would have expected to be scared, to be disgusted, but I felt nothing. I knew that was wrong. I should feel all sorts of ways about it—but I didn't. And that left me more confused than anything else. I drew my eyes away from the blood and to the front of the cell.
Rusted bars made up the front of the cell. Rusted—time had taken its toll—yet they still stood strong. So I sat and began to think about what I could do. I looked down at my hands and saw what was merely a crude imitation of human hands. Yet they were familiar to me all the same.
Then my attention was drawn to a sound—a sound that slithered like a snake in the grass, chilling my bones like the cold grip of death. First there was one, then two, then four. I could feel my ears twitch at every footstep. Every other sound was drowned out by the echo.
And soon, four hunched figures appeared, all dressed in brown fur and rags wrapped around their waists, covering their modesty—all but one. He stood above the rest, a jagged scar covering his right eye, with scrap metal strapped to his chest like crude armor. He hissed and twitched, pulling out a ring of mismatched, rusted keys from a pouch that dangled off his belt.
"Open-open, yes-yes," he chittered, sliding one into the lock. The rusted door groaned, screeching like a hundred dying cats as it swung open.
He walked in, tail lashing. A growl escaped my mouth before I could stop it. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, I thought—so I showed my teeth.
The Skaven clan rat let out a sharp hiss, baring yellow fangs. He turned, lifting a rusted, chipped short sword with a jerky twitch.
"Flesh-thing dares—dares show fangs?! Weak-soft thing thinks it's strong? Hah! I carve-cut your skin-flesh, yes-yes, feed it to broodlings!"
He loomed over me, making it clear he was bigger. I remembered—despite my fast growth—I was literally born yesterday.
Am I a toddler?
Yet, as I had that thought, I felt a fist make contact with my face. I hit the ground with a dull thud as another voice—deep, scratchy, cruel—snapped from above:
"Flesh-thing bares teeth, yes-yes? Fool-flesh wants pain-pain? I flay-skin you alive-alive, slow-slow, squeak-squeak!"
I felt a sharp pain in my side as what could only be a foot—or paw—made contact, sending me sprawling.