The repulsive creature known as Molokh Slugtongue is anathema to cultivated life and natural harmony. Everything Mankind does to harness nature, every act of order intended to trammel the chaos of the wild, can be undone by a single gesture from Slugtongue's blackened claw. Slugtongue is the cold talon of winter incarnate, and famine follows in his wake.
Stalking across the lands of Man like a black, hobbled crow, Slugtongue turns the most fecund and fertile valleys into barren and freezing wastes crawling with poisonous vermin. At first glance, Slugtongue could be mistaken for a death-devil, for his head is little more than a leering, bovine skull and his emaciated body is covered with liver-spots and coarse, white hair. Yet on closer inspection Slugtongue teems with life, albeit of the basest kind - he is host to colonies of fat black lice, hopping fleas, bloated tics, wriggling worms and stink bodied cockroaches that infest every dank crevice of his wretched frame. Centipedes crawl from his empty eye sockets and slugs spill from gaps in his rotten teeth when Slugtongue croaks his pronouncements of slow but inevitable doom. Worse still, he is surrounded by an aura of numbing cold, his stinking breath coalescing in ever more disturbing shapes and his tattered robes hung with jagged icicles of filthy and unimaginable fluid.
As repugnant as Slugtongue is at first-hand, the signs of his passing are just as disturbing. With a single whispered phrase, he can unleash the power of blight upon the land and those that defend it. Ravenous living hurricanes of skull-headed locusts whip and tear across the crop-fields, reducing them to shocking ruin in seconds. Rivers of virgin meltwater turn to bile at the sound of his gurgling, phlegm-choked laughter. With a single word, the skies fill with writhing clouds of transparent maggot-things that rain down into freshwater lakes like a living hail. Storehouses full of golden corn and sheaves of barley are opened to reveal nothing more than rotting black sludge, and barrels of fine ale yield nothing more than a thick gruel of infected spittle.
Each of these vile transformations is pleasing to Slugtongue, for he knows that those on the brink of starvation are soon driven to acts of foolhardiness. It is not long before those living under the dark blight of his presence marshal their armies in their desperate need to lift the curse that ravages their lands. But those who follow Slugtongue are ready for them, knowing full well that war follows famine as surely as winter follows autumn. When the armies of the starving and frightened march to confront Slugtongue they are met by hordes of well-fed, hot-tempered and battle-ready Beastmen who descend upon them from every direction. It is not long before these bestial armies are hacking apart and trampling the weakened fools that dare stand against Slugtongue's curse, whilst mocking laughter drifts upon the rot-scented winds.