Nurgle Ascendant...

Festermould squeezed himself out of the still-growing portal and stretched his thick scabarous arms. It felt good to be in the world again! He chuckled when he caught sight of the broken bits of a still glittering chariot, a single eye blinking in pain. He leaned over, chuckling in satisfaction. The plan had worked! The Dark Prince's most adept spy had been 'inconvenienced' and the God of Pleasure now lost the means to scry which thread of reality contained their true goal. Father Nurgle would be pleased!

Looking up, Festermould watched his favorite Herald Spittleboil hack the wings off the youngling dragon as it spasmed in its death throes. Slightly further afield, the remnants of the screaming spearelves were being overwhelmed by the Servants of Change writhing in their flashing, lurid colors. Chortling, Festermould turned back to the portal.

Out of the nascent tear in reality, an uncountable multitude of daemons were disgorging, leaping and carvorting with delight onto the fields of Ulthuan. Festermould shuddered with pride, and nurglings popped out from his thick diseased skin. Things were as they should be!

Then, a rumbling deep in his belly interrupted Festermould's train of thought. When Father Nurgle's brief warning had become but an echo, Festermould whipped his head around and squinted into the distance. The blasted elves did indeed move fast! Already, a relief force was on its way, heading in the direction of the portal. The full host of daemons had yet to assemble and he could not afford any setbacks at this stage. Snarling, Festermould bellowed at the daemon horde and a portion of the creatures that had already arrived peeled away and begain marching in the direction of the oncoming enemy. Festermould himself hefted his weapons of war and slid ponderously down the hill towards the already-visible glitter of massed elven armor...