It was in the late years of the age of Chaos, when Sigmar’s pantheon was spoken as but a fading tale, that a humble deckhand aboard a privateering vessel in Aqshy was going about his day-to-day tasks with no real qualms about his lot in life. The hot winds were blowing against the sail, softly clinking the steel and iron fittings against the mast. Heraldry for the “Horn of Ignax” floated gently off the peak of the galleon’s imposing mast, though it only signaled the former owner’s port of call since being “liberated” from the Navy of Sigmar.
In a moment, the waves shift, and the wind picks up speed, and in a flash the crew begins emerging from below deck and battening down the sails, steering them to port side. A whistle blows from the helm, and the captain’s door bursts open with a thump against the wall. The grizzled seafarer begins barking orders to his faithful mates, as green clouds begin to roll in from the east, bringing with them a caustic deluge. The deckhand knew of this but had only heard stories: the grand Admiral of the Plague Fleets, Gutrot Spume. His vessel careening from apex to below each wave, it seemed as though the imposing vessel had risen from the ocean itself, and standing perched on its bow was none other than the abomination of chaos himself.
When the unlucky privateers realized that fleeing was not an option and that their fate was sealed, they let off a broadside to rival the thundering of Sigmar himself, but to no avail. Still, the vessel encroached further and further into their waters, making it clear their aim was to board. As crew members began to dive overboard, and others brandished blades with intent to die on their feet, the ship maneuvered as though the tide itself turned it to be beside the galleon, sending a barrage tearing through the hull before pox-ridden monsters made impossible leaps to its starboard side., and in an instant, they began rending crew from the mortal plane with demonic power.
The clash was short, leaving a meager handful alive, bound in greasy rope and on their knees, the Bosman of the hellish vessel offered each a deal: accept their “gift”, or join their comrades. Some swore by their humanity, and died for it, but others joined. One of those who joined was the humble deckhand, who grew more curious than disgusted by the pestilent crew. He joyfully accepted Nurgle’s embrace, and since then excelled at spreading his merry gifts to other shorelines. He eventually took on a ship of his own, the Seablister, and a new name.
Captaining his own crew, Morros Plaguestorm now has gathered together the Ravenous Rift Ravagers from around the Aqshian Clavis Isles and beyond: a fleet of pirates and sellswords, who have put the Dawnbringer settlements of Lymeport and Kismet to the torch, and plundered much of their riches. Even Fort Denst was brought to its knees, its defenders having bravely resisted the siege but its walls breached and the garrison ransacked.
The Rift Ravagers sought out the realmbeast Charonhydra as their ultimate prize, having followed in its wake of devastation across the shores of Capilaria. Morros had bought, stolen and dug up enough of the cursed blades of Vekhangra to dominate the minds of ten megalofins. But after a fierce battle at sea off the Cape of Spines, where the Ravager pirates surrounded the Charonhydra together with the defenders rallied by Lord-Commander Bastian Carthalos, they were beaten off the beast at the last minute. The gigantic creature was crippled and retreated to the depths, and for now Morros’ grand ambitions for puppeteering the monster were laid low…
But his name is now the fear of Capilarian settlements on the coast, who will take much to recover from these terrible raids, even with reinforcements from Hammerhal. The agents of Chaos have well and truly infiltrated back into those lands.