Clan Skryre

Of the Great Clans, none has bent the under-empire's course so decisively as Clan Skryre, for it was Skryre that first learned to harness warpstone not as sacrament but as fuel. Its warlock engineers are the priesthood of the machine: half-blind savants swaddled in crackling apparatus, lungs seared by warp-vapours, sanity long since traded for the secret of a brighter spark. To such a mind there is no problem, whether a wall or a rival or a realm, that cannot be solved by pointing sufficient voltage at it.

The clan's true empire, however, is commerce. From its workshop-warrens pour warpfire throwers, poisoned-wind mortars, and lightning cannons, sold at ruinous prices to any warlord who can pay in warp-tokens or slaves. Every device is a gamble that as often detonates in its operator's paws as it obliterates the foe: a flaw the salesrats present as proof of raw power. The most apocalyptic engines never reach the market at all; those the Arch-Warlocks hoard against the day a single doomsday weapon might purchase a seat on the Council of Thirteen. For all their genius, they serve the same god of ruin as their kin, and their science is merely treachery in a brass casing: each breakthrough stolen from a murdered mentor, each grand demonstration doubling as a threat.