Lord Scroltch the Deliriously Pustulent was sitting in the mud, making happy little bubbling
It was at about this time that Papa Nurgle realized he had landed facing the wrong way. He proceeded to chasten his mound of gibbering, giggling nurglings, which obliged him by turning around and actually facing his most pustulent follower.
Speaking in a deep, rich voice resonant of phlegm, catarrh and halitosis, and spraying yellowish blobs of spittle liberally about the landscape, which became nurglings where they landed and danced with joy at their great good fortune, Papa Nurgle began to speak. He spoke at length of the great service Lord Scroltch had done him, waving his great festering limbs about for emphasis with such vigor that one of his gangrenous fingers fell off1 . He spoke with deep admiration of the many interesting skin diseases Scroltch has discovered in his travels, his mighty belly rippling with a mixture of laughter and a particularly violent bout of flatulence. He rhapsodized lengthily, not to say phlegmily, on the many diseases his faithful follower had spread to Albion, pausing only to unleash a belch which shook the very heavens and killed all bird life within a six mile radius before forming a yellowish cloud which hung over Albion for years to follow, raining small frogs. Finally, he pointed his gnarled finger at Scroltch, before realizing it had fallen off earlier and switching hands. Scroltch felt great power flowing through his veins and burbled with joy as his already impressive collection of skin diseases tripled in number, and a horrible gangrenous vitality flowed through his body as he became even more a giant disease riddled and exceptionally happy octopus than ever.
With that, ten thousand of Papa Nurgle’s bloated bearers produced trumpets from unknown and most certainly insanitary hiding places, placed them between their buttocks and blew a great wet fanfare in honour of their god, and the whole squirming pustulent mass receded up the foul beam of greenish light. The fog rolled back, and all that was left to show that the great god of decay, plague, pestilence and the common cold had trod the boggy ground of Albion was an orange cloud raining frogs and a very, very happy Chaos Lord testing out his new deamonic blessings by bashing his tentacles with his filth mace and watching them grow back while making ecstatic whiffling noises.
Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the island, Kragan the Bloody Handed Destroyer of Bunnies charged on wards through the mist, bellowing his undying rage as he pursued a small rabbit in a red rage.
1This divine digit turned into a great slug where it landed, and was ever after the faithful mount of Schklooorp Pus-eye, leader of Scroltch’s faithful knights of Chaos)