Vulkan landed on the planet.
His massive frame emerged from the Drop Pod, his boots leaving deep footprints in the scorched earth churned up by artillery fire.
Holding his plague Warhammer, he strode across the plain.
More and more Plague Marines were landing.
These former warriors of the Salamanders Legion had now fallen completely to Chaos. Green mold and rust covered their armor, pus-filled sores and festering ulcers riddled their skin, and murky green flames burned in their eyes.
They filed out of the Landing Craft and formed battle lines on the plain, their weapons gleaming sickly in the dim daylight.
The entire Salamanders Legion had fallen utterly to Chaos, becoming yet another army of corruption under Nurgle.
Toxic Miasma seeped from Vulkan's body.
The Toxic Miasma was a sickly gray-green, seeping from his pores, spilling from his breath, and escaping through the gaps in his armor to shroud his massive frame.
The Toxic Miasma rolled and surged around him as though alive, enveloping everything nearby in a deadly fog.
The Plague Marines walked through the Toxic Miasma. Their bodies had adapted to it, and they even drew strength from it.
"The enemy's coming! The enemy's coming!"
A sentry in the defensive position was the first to spot the approaching Toxic Miasma and the figures within it. His voice rang through the trenches, and the resting soldiers immediately leaped up, grabbed their weapons, and rushed to their battle stations.
Their movements were hurried but not chaotic. The fighting of the past few days had taught them how to ready themselves for battle in the shortest possible time.
The mortals raised their Lasguns, Plasma Weapons, and Melta Weapons, aiming into the approaching poisonous mist.
Their fingers rested on their triggers, their breathing quickened, and their hearts hammered in their chests.
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