Gutrot Spume was a reaver captain when the rot came for his ship, and while his crew prayed for deliverance he did something the Plague God found far more interesting: he demanded a promotion. Nurgle's answer burst from his flank as a writhing mass of kraken tentacles, and Spume took the gift exactly as it was intended — proof that despair is for men who lack ambition.
Now he is fleetmaster of the Grandfather's plague fleets and lord of the Drowned Men, prowling the seas of every realm in hulks so barnacled and bloated they have no business floating. His genius is the sea's own: patience, then sudden violence. No coast can garrison against an enemy who can be anywhere the tide reaches, and Spume's fleet announces itself only as a fog bank, a droning of flies, and then the bells. He fights axe in hand while his tentacles crush, drag, and drown, and he holds sorcery in open contempt — honest rot, he reckons, needs no incantations.
Spume measures his worth in drowned harbours and keeps a jealous ledger of the Grandfather's favour, for his ambition has never stopped at fleetmaster. Sailors of the free cities say you smell the Drowned Men a full day before you see them. Few have lived to smell them twice.