Mump Glopspleen, Scriviner of the Festerscab Legion, gazed with encrusted eyes down onto the battlefield below. Carefully observing the pulsating waves of Grandfather’s Plaguebearers, his eyes fixated on a particular demon, who’s dull chanting had grown momentarily silent. Almost as if feeling the eyes of the strict Scriviner upon him, the demon suddenly began to count loudly from one, his rusted blade piercing through the armor of his foe. With a sudden blast of lightning, the enemy warrior disappeared, leaving naught but a scorched mark on a field of bile and blood. Mump jotted down the demon’s name for later punishment, as to miscount the glorious diseases of their benevolent Grandfather was, in his mind, more egregious than falling to enemy blows.
“You lot! Not worth your pustules, are you? Sweep left and start over!” Mump’s voice echoed over the din of battle, and within seconds, the puke-green horde shifted, forcing their stalwart foes into a defensive position. Mump grumbled to himself, making a quick note of the ineffectiveness of Ghurish Rabirot against Sigmar’s chosen. He squinted furiously at a pair of Nurglings dancing at his feet, happily swinging a bit of entrail between them. Giving one of them a sharp kick, he sent it tumbling into the chaos below. Mump despised their childish antics almost as much as he despised the diseased troops under his command.
Stepping a few feet away from his vantage point, he watched as the ground near him began to write and split like an infested wound. Cautiously, like a spider emerging from an eye socket, the first roots of a Gnarlmaw began to creep outwards. “Oh good,” Mump complained to no one, “More things to count.”
With a sudden blast of wind and storm, a group of Plaguebearers were sent flying through the air, spraying friend and foe alike with their blessed bile and blood. Mump made careful note of the demons that did not survive the attack, all but ignoring the thunderous wizard that had caused it. Failing in battle was still failing, after all, and it was his duty to record all of it.
Glancing down, the roots of the fetid tree had begun to twist upwards, forming the husk of a trunk. Several Nurglings now danced around the pustulant plant, grabbing at it’s rusted bells. Mump briefly considered kicking the lot of them off of his hill, but decided the effort would be slightly more unbearable than simply ignoring them. Besides, he had much more important things to worry about, as the final column of armored warriors seemed to crumple in front of him. Even as their armor rotted and rusted with a dozen plagues, their bodies turned to lightning.
“Fools!” Mump bellowed, though none were sure which side of the conflict he was speaking to. “Ignorance of the gifts of Grandfather is no excuse! Start counting again!”
Something crawled across his foot. Mump glanced down, shoving the Nurgling aside. “Go away you worthless…” His insult trailed off as a familiar, haunting sound wafted up the hill. As soon as he heard it, the Nurglings around him, who had grown in number to at least fourteen, began to cheer unanimously.
“Oh no. No no no. Not this idiot.”
As if in response, a single, wet, flatulent note assaulted his ears.