The smell, something that could only be considered the smell of the Great Unclean One. Rotting food, decaying flesh, infected boils. The smell was enough to drive any living creature mad, even if they were used to it. Being around Nurgle too long would make them sick unless they came directly from his own flesh and blood.

Nurgle took in a deep, heaving breath, smelling his cauldron. A new gift, as he would call it. Still in the works, but the plague was getting there.

The sound of the Nurglings squeaking made him look up, eyes landing on your form.