Paint continually cracks and peels away from the wood beneath, yet the house never loses it grey-green hue. Some Great Unclean Ones, for example, favour entirely airborne assaults, going to battle with clouds of Plague Drones that darken the skies and excel at aerial strikes. The legends and tales universally describe Nurgle in unflattering terms. The Lord of Decay and his foul experiments. The tiny daemons killed thousands of citizens and piled on top of the temple of Shallya, which collapsed under their weight, crushing the priests inside and destroying all hope of a remedy. One of the four great Chaos Gods is Nurgle. Those that embrace these "gifts" are given unbelievable constitution against all disease and against even mortal weapons. Centipedes, slugs, and a thousand other poisonous pests infest the decomposing mulch. This is not unusual for minions of the Plaguefather. Bellies swell and distend, the flesh straining to contain bleeding entrails that push the abdomen outward. Whereas other gods within the Realm of Chaos are associated with dozens, even hundreds, of depictions, there are far fewer variations on the appearance of the Plaguefather. The chosen of Nurgle often find this symbol growing on their festering skin. Nurgle is often illustrated with hordes of tiny daemons bursting forth from his pustules and suckling upon foulness. So many people died that they were left unburied, or heaped in mass graves of plague victims. Still, if one were to delve into the comparative histories and galaxy-wide myths associated with Nurgle, certain commonalities would present themselves. Internal organs bulging with decay spill through splits in the ruptured skin to hang like bunches of scrofulous grapes around his vast girth. It is the Plague Lord that brings light to the darkness. Only the most powerful weapons or the most lethal of wounds can ever have a chance to bring a Follower of Nurgle down for good, and even to get close to such followers would often bring death to the aggressor himself. It is impossible to escape deterioration, and yet people try. A single cough can lay low an Imperial general where feats of arms have failed. From his exposed guts spill tiny Lesser Daemons, his Nurglings, who dine upon the filthy fluids that ooze from Grandfather Nurgle's many festering wounds. "In the embrace of great Nurgle, I am no longer afraid, for with His pestilential favour I have become that which I once feared: Death.". See more ideas about warhammer, warhammer 40k, miniatures. From these organs burst swarms of tiny Nurglings that chew on Grandfather Nurgle's rotting intestines and suck upon its bountiful, noxious juices. [4f], The god of the skaven, the mysterious Horned Rat, shares Nurgle’s ideals and would see the entire Old World laid low by pestilence. Distemper!" When the Horus Heresy plunged the galaxy into civil war, the warriors of the Death Guard found themselves becalmed in the Warp and assailed by Warp-born plagues so virulent that not even their legendary resilience could withstand them. Beyond this gate existed a Chaotic ether inhabited by malevolent things, not quite real and not quite unreal, formed of extreme emotions and base concepts – wrath, lust, flux, and decay. When a child’s flesh turns a sickly pale green and her eyes glaze over and become dull, milky, unseeing orbs, her father comes to know that he is powerless to prevent her suffering. Old wounds rip open again spontaneously and invite fresh infections. Such was the fate of the Death Guard Space Marine Legion when it became marooned in the Warp on the long journey to Terra during the Horus Heresy. No king survives the plotting of his enemies. Perhaps the most famous Indian battle cry comes from the Lakota Sioux. Nurgle is the God of Pestilence and Disease, and so is it not surprising that all the sickness which inflicts the world is generally from him. Infected captives can be sent running into the daemon-plants, chased by Chaos Beasts. They must place it in some sort of relatable context that they can consider without going insane. Such is the fate of those who enter uninvited into the heartlands of Nurgle, for even the generosity of the Grandfather of Plagues has its limit. Yes, T5 is handy for CC troopers, they can take a lot more damage, and Banshees cry when they see them! But this coin is illusory; there is no divide between its two faces, no beginning and no end. It is because of this inescapable fact of life that Nurgle is known to many as the Lord of All, for there is nothing that transpires anywhere that does not serve his ends. By subscribing you confirm that you are over the age of 16 or have consent from your parent or guardian to subscribe. Seldom can he resist the temptation to add nearby visitors to his virulent concoctions. Among all the major intelligent species of the galaxy, Mankind fears death and the onset of nonexistence the most, and it is humans who have always been the majority of the Plague Lord's servants. In the market squares of backward planets and in the drone-filled cathedrals of the chapters of the Adeptus Ministorum, preachers spew their lies upon an unsuspecting and dimwitted flock. These Asuryani believe their legends to be absolute truth and even aspire to one day free their goddess from Nurgle's unctuous grasp. Although such cultists are proud of their bodily deformities, if they cannot hide them then they cannot operate within society, for their mutations will draw the attention of the witch hunters or a lynch mob of terrified peasants or townsfolk. "Suffer and despair!" Tzeentch surely has his own plans for what a twisted reality reshaped in his image would look like, but he has not shared what that might be. Nurgle takes great pride in blessing healers and physicians, helping them to understand the true beauty of plague. The greatest inspiration comes in the darkest moments; in times of crisis mortals are truly tested and driven to excel. Each inevitable ending brings with it an equally certain start to something new. Khorne desires nothing more than to claim every skull and drop of blood to use as the mortar with which to build the foundations of his new kingdom. The soupy air of the garden seeped into their lungs, worm-riddled mud spattered up their legs, and white-bodied daemonflies clambered into their mouths. A tribe of Nurglite warriors ready to further his cause. His is majesty unfathomable by the mortal mind. Slowly, as their bodies shrivelled and their Spirit Stones turned to rotting mulch, the souls of the Seers that were trapped in Nurgle's realm began to pass fully into the Immaterium. Only the courage of Magnus the Pious and the blood of the brave men and dwarfs who fought under him thwarted the Dark Gods’ ambitions. Still, even the Plaguebearers accept their place in the Garden and spend their eternity enjoying all it offers in their own way. Of course, his nature tends to rot and decay those objects he fancies, but such effects are acceptable since Nurgle sees glistening decay as an enhancement to its natural beauty. Hope, rebirth, resistance, and growth all arise directly from facing death and decay. For those who accept the boundless gifts of the Father of Plagues, everlasting hope is the ultimate reward. They inspire him to create new pestilences that are well-suited to other lands, and in the Death Beds he has countless potential storytellers. Each chants sonorously, keeping count of the diseases created, the mischievous Nurglings that have hatched, and the souls claimed by the Lord of Decay's putrid blessings. The power of Nurgle wanes and expands with the death and destruction that befalls man. They dote over their charges in the manner of a loving parent, cajoling each of their Plague Legion's seven Tallybands upon its appointed tasks. Running and denial only buy time at a cost of suffering, and time has no meaning in the Realm of Chaos. In the ordered cosmos of the Old Ones, disease and suffering were virtually unknown. His skin is shown as leathery and necrotic, his surface pocked with running sores, swelling buboes and oozing wounds. And when the Great Corruption has settled over the land, and permeated the very foundations of reality itself, then shall the Lord of All rise from the rot and ruin, spread his arms wide to reclaim all his dutiful children...". Cost: Free. Yet it is so. Those who walk with Nurgle and aid him in bringing about the Great Corruption, as Nurgle calls it, do so with joy in their hearts. Portrayed in hymns and myths as a god of war and pestilence, Nergal seems to represent the sun of noontime and of the summer solstice that brings destruction, as high summer was the dead season in the Mesopotamian annual cycle. All that was will cease to be, and from the rotted ruins a new and glorious reality will emerge -- one dominated by Nurgle and his beloved children. The Daemons of Nurgle are truly putrid in their appearance and sickening to look upon. [4f], Most cults of Nurgle go to ground at the mere hint of an investigation by witch hunters, yet these diligent servants of Sigmar can often sniff out even the most cautious Chaos cult, and will condemn its members to torture, a swift trial, and consignment to a blazing pyre. It is to free themselves from despair -- the eternal mortal dread of disease, starvation and death -- that men and other mortals turn to the Plague Lord. Indeed, many discover that the initial malady from which they suffered, the one that drove them to seek salvation in the first place, was actually bestowed upon them by Nurgle. Thus, many senior cultists of Nurgle are forced to hide themselves away, and use newly initiated members less afflicted by decay to perform tasks among the public.[4e]. To a small extent, they are correct, but their evaluation is narrow in scope and fails to grasp the greater truth. The Garden of Nurgle is an ever-changing realm, shifting according to the needs and whims of its master. The foot soldiers of Nurgle’s Maggotkin love nothing more than spreading filth and bountiful contagions, hoping to transform the Eightpoints into a sacred garden of beautiful putrescence. 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