(This narrative will correspond with a local league's slow-grow campaign.)

Blott Moldtoe stared for a brief second at the wad of mucus, before flinging it unceremoniously into the pile of squabbling Nurglings at his feet. The diminutive demons chortled and hacked with glee, momentarily occupied with their new, lumpy plaything. Blott ignored them as best as he could, and set his one cyclopean eye to the horizon.

“Bit of a storm coming,” cackled a wet, phlegmy voice from behind where Moldtoe stood. “Looks like nasty waters. Does this creature walk on land?” There were several sharp taps on soggy wood, followed by a long, exasperated sigh that seemed to emanate from the vessel itself. Blott turned to see the plague shaman Melena Grubwarm leerily eyeing the deck of the ship they both stood on. In her hand was a long, twisted staff, made from the mutated vertebrate of a previous friend who had already joined the Garden, and decorated with the twitching entrails left behind by his ascension.

“Stop hitting the beast.” Blott’s words were dull and uninterested in the mortal’s distractions.

“He can’t feel it! Blessed be to Nurgle!” The crone cackled again, a thin stream of spittle forming a spiderweb from her lips to the front of her tattered blue robe. She clicked her heels together in mock pomp. “Of course, yes sir Blott sir, no more prodding the Festerfish.” As if to answer her, the ship shuddered, losing a few small planks of rotting wood into the ocean. She looked around, now disinterested in the bits of swollen skin pressing out from the baseboards, and focused her cataract-ridden eyes towards where the Herald stared.

In the distance, the thin strips of land signifying the new landmass broke the perfect line of the horizon.  The Nurglings began to claw and push their way over the railing, straining to see what the larger Maggotkin were peering at. As they did, part of the decrepit wood splintered, breaking off a section of the hull and scattering a handful of the disease-ridden imps into the water below. Beneath the remaining planks, a mound of sickly-yellow flesh quivered and glistened, slowly pulling what remained of the vessel forward. Melena shuffled up to where Moldtoe stood, her bent frame dwarfed by the much larger Poxbringer. “That’s it? I’m unimpressed. I thought you’d be able to see a god from here.”

“Godbeast,” Blott drolly corrected her.

The ship lurched forward, blackish filth seeping into the waves behind them.