Festus sighed at Vulkan's answer.
There was disappointment in that sigh, the helpless resignation of an elder watching a wayward child. Vulkan's choice saddened him, but did not anger him.
"Naughty child."
A voice rang out among the stars. It was deep and resonant, like the pulse of the earth, the breath of the ocean, the growth and decay of all things.
The voice carried an ancient kindness that transcended time.
It was Nurgle's voice. The Chaos God who governed disease and life had finally spoken himself.
The next instant, the floor beneath Vulkan's feet vanished.
With nothing beneath his feet and no support left, he plunged straight down.
He tried to grab something, but everything around him rotted, shattered, and crumbled to dust the moment his fingers touched it.
He fell through deck after deck, through cloud after cloud of green mist, until he was hurled straight into Nurgle's Garden.
The instant Vulkan landed, a foul stench struck him. It was a blend of rot, fermentation, mold, and death, so thick it seemed almost tangible. It flooded his nostrils, assaulted his sense of smell, and sent his stomach churning.
His legs sank into a thick, bubbling swamp. Its surface was a nauseating yellow-green, strewn with rotting plants.
The Virus dwelling in the swamp surged toward him like an invisible tide, trying to penetrate his skin, invade his airways, and corrode his cells.
His armor hissed under the assault of the Virus, tiny cracks and patches of rust beginning to appear across its surface.
Countless spawn of Nurgle poured from every corner of the garden and rushed at Vulkan.
The twisted creatures came in all sizes. Some were as small as wild dogs, others as large as houses, but all stared at Vulkan with the same ravenous eyes and voiced