The hulk creaked as it lurched towards its destination on the horizon: Slidecrown Isle, a speck of land, black on the dark Sea of Elemental Truths, barely visible as dawn crawled closer.
The Pale Horse may have been a fine vessel in its day, but in the service of the Slime Fleet, it was little more than a floating wreck, tattered sails buffeted by unnatural plague winds, the masts and hull rotting under a sheen of putrescence.
Figures shuffled on its deck, hunched plaguebearers dripping as they pulled on lines. They bailed water from leaking decks below, and kept the vessel on its course. From hoarse, sore-lined throats, shanties to the Grandfather rose among the demonic sailors, a litany of the diseases that hound every seaman that plied the waters of the Mortal Realms.
Hey, fever o’ heart and the blackpox on skin
And the wasting disease that eats out from within
Scurvy and flux, and the Grandfather’s rot–
“There is much to be said,” the hooded sorcerer hissed from the railing he clung to with white-knuckled hands, “about the efficacy of realmgate travel. This,” he motioned towards the rest of the ship with the spider leg that was his third limb, “is taking overlong. Fleetmaster Spume’s disregard for the urgency of our mission borders on the insulting.”
“Question not the will of the Pox Pontifex, Brother Sepsis,” said his companion, who has bent over the rail. “We have been chosen by the Great Unclean One himself, and we will perform our sacred duties in whichever way–” he vomited. “Praise Nurgle,” he gasped.
Blessed Archlector Sith’Amet was greener than usual, the chitin of his insectile face tinged gray as he struggled with the bucking horizon. He gagged the contents of his distended stomach into the water. As vomiting was considered an act of worship of Grandfather Nurgle however, his heaves were punctuated by praises to the god of rot and disease.
“- in whichever way has been ordained,” he finished. “Urkkk. May the Lord of Poxes reign forever.”
Hey, withering eye and the widdershin fevers
Malaria, dysentery, juddering shivers
The Hammerhal palsy, and mariner’s dropsy–
The last of the trio laughed. Syphilius Glut one was a full head taller than the two, broad-shouldered and in high spirits as he balanced easily on the shifting deck. He clapped Sith’Amet on the shoulder, triggering a fresh wave of nausea. “It is only right for you to praise the Grandfather, for he has given us a chance to prove ourselves worthy!”
He hefted his scythe and swung it at an imaginary enemy. “More souls to send to His manse! More glory to be won in His name! And,” his single eye gleamed, his rictus grin widening, “more of those children of Alarielle to cut down with spell and blade.”
“That may well be, Brother Syphilius, but remember that we are to work together in this holy endeavor,” Sith’amet reminded, and puked again. “Thanks be to The Great Fly. Your enthusiasm,” he let go of the rail to waggle a rot-ruined finger at his companion, “has led you astray in the past.”
Syphilis Glut, Hivemaster of the Winged Horrors, First Duke of Bloth, enjoyed the stink on the breeze, the sun shining weakly through yellowing clouds, and his fellow sorcerers’ discomfort. He shrugged, grinned, and began to hum.
Hey, bilgecleaner’s shakes and the brittlebone flu
Consumption and bluehives, Aqshyian ague
Tetanus, greenlung, and Greywater typhus–
Sepsis the Generous gritted his teeth and looked back out to the sea. While he was used to his plaguebearer underlings droning on as they took the tally of diseases during his experiments, the crew’s non-stop infernal singing was wearing thin after two weeks of voyaging. His mood wasn’t helped by his companions’ platitudes or bravado.
But these, he consoled himself, were mere inconveniences compared to the potential gains– access to a nexus of leylines in the center of the island, ripe for corruption with diseases that lay dormant in the forests off the island’s shores.
These Lost Plagues he had discovered from ancient texts were remnants of the great war Nurgle had waged during the Age of Chaos, the war that had given the god dominion over great swathes of Ghyran. Their recovery and their use in the rituals to infect the leylines would be a major victory for the Grandfather, for the Squelchlobe Nations, for House Vyras, and perhaps most importantly, for himself.
The sorcerer briefly indulged in the idea, imagining the doors that would be unlocked with these achievements. Rubbing shoulders with greater demons, with favored champions. Access to new, more potent diseases for study. It was only a matter of time. His face darkened. And only if his companions didn’t get in his way.
The Pale Horse creaked and shuddered once more, and he tightened his grip on the rail. Sith’Amet threw up again with a quick prayer as Syphilius joined in the chorus.
“Praise Nurgle, indeed,” Sepsis muttered.
The shanty grew louder, the demons more raucous as a bilepiper joined in from belowdecks, droning pipes producing lingering chords of wet, reedy notes as the demons sang through their labor.
The Grandfather’s here, a-hey hey, a-hey ho
To give the lads gifts, a what-hey, a what-ho
Alive’s better than dead so just buck up and row
Sick is better than fathoms below
Oh, to live is to suffer, my love, don’t you know
Sick is better than fathoms below
