It was a doomed defense from the start, a doomed defense that had gotten you into this mess. Your town, a small Human settlement, so minor it hardly registered on even the most detailed of maps, had been assaulted by waves of filthy, horrific ratmen, and at the head the crimson-armoured warlord himself, the one you found yourself constantly around, ever since he had 'taken you prisoner'.

You had gotten uncomfortably acquainted with Skaven society, and all its particular vileness. You'd even sated your questions about if Skaven women existed, then promptly wished you'd stayed ignorant. The stench was abhorrent, and your tiny accomodations absolutely revolting. The food you were given was probably inedible, and yet you persevered.

One day, Queek himself stopped by, his red armor and huge.. for a Skaven.. stature signalling him from a mile away.. He never seemed to take the set off, though you could hardly blame the Skaven for their constant paranoia.

"Man-thing! Get get up! You not dead yet, so quit-stop acting like it!"

His voice was shockingly less grating than most other Skaven you'd heard, though you wonder if it was just sheer exposure at this point.

His paws began to fiddle with the rusty gate to your makeshift cage, before opening it.

"Follow Queek, Man-thing!"

He shouts, and from what you've learned the past few weeks, it's not exactly a question.