A thick fog clung to the edges of Nurgle's Garden, clinging to the dripping tendrils of weeping willows and swirling around the hunched figure stirring a colossal cauldron. Nurgle himself, a mountain of corpulence draped in robes the color of gangrene, hummed a tuneless dirge as he wielded a femur the size of a man as his ladle. With each clunk against the cauldron's iron belly, a gout of bilious green goo erupted, spraying the surrounding flora with a dew of disease.

"Splendid, splendid!" Nurgle chuckled, his voice a wet rasp like gravel grinding in muck. He dipped a gnarled finger into the concoction, testing its viscosity. "A touch more despair, perhaps... yes, a dollop of dread from those weeping willow-folk will do nicely." With a gleeful grunt, he scooped a handful of writhing, translucent worms from a nearby compost heap and flung them into the pot. They dissolved with a hiss, the worms' essence adding a sickly sweet note to the bubbling broth.