Tornburgh is a border town. A lawless settlement where money can buy you happiness or a dagger to the kidneys, depending on who you flash your coin at. It straddles the coastal edge of the swamp kingdom of Drang, yet owes no allegiance to the citadel. Its streets are full of merchants flogging smuggled goods, Slaves being auctioned to the highest bidder, unrecognisable food stalls and ****** houses offering companionship for coin. None of this interested Wjolnir however as he fought his way through the midday crowds toward his destination. He pulled his hooded cloak tight to his chest as he darted into one of the many winding side alleys and made his way towards an unassuming timber building. He banged a fist against the door four times before the viewing panel was slid aside by a portly figure. "Your alive then! Who would have thought you would last this long" The large man cackled. The sound of sliding bolts was heard and the door was opened inwards and Wjolnir was beckoned in. The room he entered had a tiled floor and was lined with shelves filled with countless bottles and flasks. The most impressive thing however was the assortment of strange glass tubes and vials all connected by pipes and arranged on the rooms desk. Inside these tubes a substance was bubbling away and acrid smoke could be smelt. "This way" motioned the portly gentleman as he directed Wjolnir to a dimly lit room with a fireplace and a wooden bed. "Its spreading James, it wont stop bloody spreading" Wjolnir spat as the door was closed behind him. " Well best you take off your cloak and show me then so I know what we are dealing with." Wjolnir nodded and began to remove his cloak and shirt. Beneath his travelling shirt stained bandages were wrapped around his chest and left shoulder. As he unravelled the bandages the putrid smell of decay permeated the air, a forewarning of his supernatural ailment. The large man wrinkled his nose in disgust and clamped a perfumed rag to his mouth as he watched. Beneath the filthy bandages Wjolnir's skin was purple, mottled and strewn with boils and open sores. The wounds weeped thick pus and distorted with the rise and fall of his chest. "Gods be damned Wally, you should be 6 feet under by now!" Cursed the alchemist. " I feel like I already am" Wjolnir replied as the man began to investigate his wounds all while inhaling deeply through his sweet smelling handkerchief. " Can we quit the freak show and get to business already" Wjolnir snapped. " I don't think you understand, Salves wont help you, and magic wont help you. Your path is predetermined. The fact that you have lasted this long is the blessings of Sigmar but I fear that your luck can only last so long before you fall to this. No one survives Nurgle's Rot and even your coin cant buy you out of this one Wally. In simple terms, you are a dead man walking."

Wjolnir left the alchemists with little of the enthusiasm he had arrived with. He pulled his hood up over his balding head and headed for the nearest tavern. If his destiny was to succumb to disease he would at least get blind drunk before hand...