The galaxy is a dark and unforgiving place, where the only true constants are war and the laughter of thirsting gods. So it's not strange that, before it, mortal minds have to hide behind lies to keep themselves sane. As paltry shields as they are, they still manage their intent, shielding the weak from the horror and glory that is the reality of the Dark Gods.
Alongside the divinity of the Corpse Emperor, the greatest lie, and the most necessary, is that time is linear. To mortal minds, events arrange themselves in a tidy, neat row, where one can clearly see a before and an after, a cause and a consequence.
It is nothing but a lie, a pandering to mortality, and one which those that beheld the glory of the Immaterium can easily disprove.
In the realm of the Gods, reality shows itself in its true face, unbound by the farce that mortals call truth. There is no linearity, every moment co-exists, past and future and present intermingling in that eternal instant that is eternity. Everything already happened in the Immaterium, everything is still to happen, everything is happening. Souls mix with time, emotions merge with perceptions, potential with impossibilities and never happened. It is Chaos, pure, undiluted, free from inanities like differences and separations.
Words aren't enough to describe that state of endless perfection and so we must return to the lie, so that our minds can glimpse at least a glimmer of that perfection. Think of time, imagine it separated from the whole; see it as a great cloud of bubbles. Each bubble is a moment, enclosing a universe and a battlefield. In one bubble you see the Powers triumphant, gloating over a shared conquest; in another, they are receding, repelled, gathering themselves to return; in another, they are divided, bickering for influence and power. The Great Game is marvelous and unceasing, with none of the Four ever being able to overwhelm the others.
We are taught that the Powers fluctuate but always return, none of the Gods ever able to assert complete dominion. But look more closely now. You'll see there is One that escapes the equation. He labors joyously at His cauldron, throwing ingredients in the bubbling brew, tasting, refining, closer and closer to a new marvelous gift of decay.
Nurgle, the Grandfather. He's the Chaos God of Decay and Despair, Death and Destruction, Rebirth and Fear. He loves all and wishes us to see the truth and joy He offers us, the blessing of despair that breaks all lies.
By those with a sliver of knowledge, he's ranked as the third among the Powers. Another lie, but it works for us. Look now. Look more closely. Observe the bubbles. Nurgle is always there, always working, refining, brewing. Here's one where he broods, his fecund power spent, his sicknesses waning. He's the least of the Powers now, unwanted and unable. His Garden sags and disappears. But see now. He's like the sea, receding at times, only to mount once more. You see another bubble where he's unrivaled. The universe rots in his grip, disease running rampant across worlds and systems. He swells so largely that His girth obscures the Immaterium, his Garden shadowing all. Wily Tzeentch slinks away. Slaanesh whimpers. Even mighty Khorne growls, receding in his waning flames. Grandfather rules. Grandfather is unmatched.
Do you think that true power? Fool.
Look. Look! Bubbles, ancient and worn, belonging to a time when humankind wasn't even a distant thought. Grandfather is not dominant in these moments. In these eternal, ever-present instants, Grandfather is Alone. Death and fear are ancient, more than rage, more than schemes, more than lust. Once upon a time, there was no Four, but only the One. There was no Great Game, only the supreme will of the Immaterium that desired Death and Rebirth unending and loomed to embrace all. Nurgle, the Great, the Absolute. Nurgle, the Father of Chaos.
Behold! Those times have happened, happen and will happen again. Only Grandfather possesses such an exalted rank and He alone holds the throne of Chaos. His love is eternal and knows no bounds, not even from his brethren!
Behold now, before your paltry human mind crumbles and accepts Truth. The true visage of Death and Life, Decay and Rebirth. See them unbound themselves and flood the universe with the joy of the Lord of All. Peer now into the Grinning Book and see the glorious End that awaits us all in the embrace of the Urfather!
- Father Azgur-Nurgle, born Erzan Urs, ex-priest of the Ecclesiarchy on Maldus Secundus
Note: Erzan Urs surrendered himself at the Deathwatch Team arrived on his planet to cleanse it of a Nurglish infestation. The so-called Sheperd was the lone survivor of the mining colony, the population having been transformed into swaying plants by an unknown disease. He kept singing his blasphemous praises to the Father of All even as the squad carried off his execution. Bolter fire was useless - the thing's flesh appeared immortal - and fire took a greenish tint when it touched him, not burning him. Complete incineration from a blast of the ship's cannons was needed to silence him. The following book was found amongst the ashes, and resisted any following attempt at destruction. The team that retrieved it barely managed to consign it to a squad of Grey Knights before succumbing to its corruption and being cleansed. The Book has been stored on Titan, in the deepest chambers of the Chamber of Purity.
Warning: the following content can be perused only under authorization from the Supreme Grand Master, the Inquisitor Lords of the Ordo Malleus, or the Inquisitorial Representative of the Lords of Terra. Every perusal must be strictly kept beneath ten minutes and under Aegis shielding. Any deviation from these norms and/or abnormal before, during, or after the perusal must be met with immediate capture and/or extermination.
Emperor protects.
Nurgle Unbound Army List: Lords
Exalted Rotking: Life is born and life dies, so that more life can rise from the moldering remains. From the smallest microbe to the most towering colossus, this is a destiny that cannot be escaped. And yet, there is a joy to be found in every moment, especially in the rot and decay, since it heralds new life and rebirth, and as such it is glorious.
There is no greater truth, no more fundamental law in the universe, and no daemon embodies this concept better than the Rotking.
Morbidly obese, the Rotking is a mountain of diseased and rotting flesh, strolling forth on a palanquin adorned with moldering cushions and carried by a wave of noxious fluid. A crown of antlers emerges from his brow, imitating the one worn by Nurgle himself. A single, unblinking eye stares from beneath his ridged brow, constantly weeping pus and fluids but still animated with a gleeful light. The Daemon wields a regal scepter of endlessly rotting wood, and a great gong of stained bronze dangles from his throne.
Covered with boils and leaking contagion, this towering daemon is death and rot incarnate, endlessly decaying only for its flesh to regenerate just as fast. And yet, he's cheerful and takes great delight and pride both in his works and in those of his followers, whom he affectionately calls his "children".
Why fight against the inevitable? Life will end. Mountains will crumble, and the universe will melt away. Not even the Gods are above such destiny. So why cry and rally against it? Better to embrace it and find joy in the rot! After all, it isn't through decay that new life spurs? It is not through maceration that one's soul can shine the most brightly with its steadfastness and acceptance? The Rotking embodies all of this and more. He's the avatar of death and destruction, of plague and entropy and the acceptance of the end.
As such, where he threads, his power corrupts the land, turning thriving lands into bubbling fields of sludge, and great cities into smoldering heaps of rust and slime. Such is the power of the King that no mortal can hope to come near him without risking contagion and liquefaction. The Daemon hands over these gifts with paternal generosity, calling every soul to accept the joy of the Grandfather. With a wave of his Reeking Scepter, he sends mighty epidemics to sweep amongst the unbelievers' ranks, or calls the Divine Rot to devour entire regions of space and time. By striking his Gong of Destiny, he unleashes notes that gift despair and awakens the seed of death buried in even the mightiest soul. With a mighty heave, he breathes putrid fog to fill entire battlefields, consuming artillery projectiles and explosions before they can even reach their targets. His single eye holds the promise of death and destruction, and one gaze is enough to rip souls out of bodies and crumple steel into ruin.
Despite this already awesome display of power, a Rotking's true might is revealed only rarely. As paternal as he is, the Daemon wishes not to completely obliterate his misguided flock, only to show them the truth through his gifts. A few will be annihilated, yes, but only for the majority to be shown the way. But before souls that are too stubborn, insolent, or ingrateful, even this Daemon's smile will dip. It is on such momentous occasions that the King sets aside generosity and becomes the rebuking father. Leaving beneath his creaking throne, he strolls forward on his own mighty bulk, each thundering step staining the earth. His shadow is Death itself then, and all mortal life withers as it is cast beneath It. Those devoured by the projectiles of undiluted rot, or rotted away from the aura of death and destruction are the lucky ones: the object of the King's disdain is fated to be crushed under his Scepter, their soul absorbed from the rotting wood to learn respect during millennia of imprisonment before being released back into the Wheel.
Chronicles of Regal Rot
A challenge met (879.M35): Always searching for new lambs to add to his flock, Baal the Breaker of Lies brings blessed rot upon the Thoph Dynasty, putting the lie to Pharaoh Nekerth's claims to immortality. Ancient metal is still sizzling in puddles, when Kraken's shadow falls upon the deserted world. Rising to the challenge, Baal and his hordes raise bulwarks of half-melted nekron's corpses. The work is barely completed before the sky fills with the falling pods of the Tyranids.
Fighting rages for months as nurglish hordes fight off the frenzied assault of the aliens. Great pits are dug from the Tyranids' bio-titans, only to be filled with digestive juice into which the rotting flesh of a multitude of daemons is thrown in. Feeding tubes are stabbed into it from orbit, and the hive-fleet gluts itself over the bounty.
Unluckily for the Tyranids, such a feast had been orchestrated by Baal himself.
As the bio-ships swell with new grown flesh, thousands of plagues, both spiritual and physical, ravage synapses and nerves, burning connections and breaking the Hive Mind's hold. Even the incredible adaptability of the Tyranids can't withstand the riot and the ships transform into flying cankers.
In a panic, the greatest vessel attempts to sever the tubes, only for one of them to be grasped by Baal himself. Taking a prodigious breath, the Rotking fills the tube with the essence of purest destruction. As it is filled by it, the main bio-ship doesn't rot as much as tears itself apart in a whirlwind of unbound ruin. The rest of the fleet follows suit, the ships blowing apart or rotting themselves away in a rain that falls upon the nameless world.
Admiring the battlefields of rotting carrion, the reeking flesh-pits and the rain of plague, Baal considers it a proper tribute to the Plaguefather. He calls the nameless planet Un-Bakor, the Endless Fall, and offers it to his Father. The skies turn a bilious green in answer, Nurgle's smile writing large upon them.
Ever the pragmatist, the Hive-Mind files a new command in its ever-adapting physiology: avoid the Great God's forces.
The War of the Wayward Son (942.M36): The Khornate Prince Ax'Nimbal swears before Khorne to bring him a mighty skull to be added to his Throne, a tribute unrivaled by anyone else. To fulfill the oath, he takes to space, swearing to not stop wandering until the deed is done. The Father of All takes notice and steers the princeling's horde toward an ancient Crone World, untouched from the time of the Fall.
As Ax'Nimbal and his armies make landfall in a field of eternally rotting flowers, the Rotking Ur is awoken from his contemplation of the Whirlpool of Shin'bakrar by Grandfather's whisper. Overjoyed for the return of the wayward son, Ur unleashes his own armies to battle the servants of Rage. Across continents of bubbling tar and cities of festering foliages, Hellblade clashes with Plaguesword, and the old world's plagues swells with rotting corpses. Lulled by the sounds of combat and the buzz of flies, Ur returns to his contemplation with a larger smile.
The Rotting of Thran Six (632.M37): Pleased with the stout resistance put up by the Imperial Guard against a nurglish invasion and wishing to reward their determination even before the inevitable, the Rotking Lug requests the trio of Greater Daemons leading the invasion to grant him temporary command. The Unclean Ones duly acquiesce, fashioning a mighty portal out of their own bodies, and Lug himself steps into the Materium, followed by his Carnival of Joy. The next months are an orgy of rampant decay and destruction across the entire planet, culminating in all planet-to-space transmissions turning to a joyful hymn to the Father's glory. General Askerion orders Exterminatus, but before the orbital cannons can be brought to bear, the entire planet rots and collapses into itself, disappearing into the Warp. The only thing to remain is a piece of poetry decanting the virtues of the soldiers of the Imperium, written on a strip of flesh ripped from the Rotking's side and left in the empty space where the core of Thran Six had stood. It is gathered twenty years later by the Rogue Trader Laurentius Cox and sold at an auction on Turonn Prime at a staggering price.
A Father's Indignation (492.M38): Overjoyed for being the Rotking chosen for the once in a millennium walk in the mortal realm, Cal the Feather-plucker leads a nurglish army on the planet-ospice of Hyeronimus. The daemon's delight at seeing the ragged patients leave their beds and exult in the Plaguelord's glory, their bodies riddled by new diseases, is only increased by the opening of a portal that disgorges the capering hordes of Tzeentch. Overjoyed at the chance of crushing his favorite foe, Cal disgorges a litany of gratitude to the Grandfather as he leads his hordes to destroy the intruders, a litany that he then dutifully jots on multicolor feathers, using the spine of the Lord of Change in charge of the Tzeenthchian's forces as a pen.
His delight is brusquely interrupted by the arrival of a Brotherhood of Grey Knights. Supported by the Chapters of Redeemers and Red Flames, the Knights disrupt the carefully orchestrated dances across the planet, killing patients and causing portals to close. Displeased at seeing his work ruined, the Rotking's temper rises to indignation as the ignorant Knights stubbornly refuse his gifts. Fueled by righteous rage, Cal personally leads his hordes in a battle that sees the annihilation of the space marines contingent. Only the Grey Knights stand firm, and the Rotking leaves his throne to wade through them. Grand Master Khrosan Fel ends up crushed under the Daemon's scepter before Cal ceases fighting, refusing his blessings to such ignorant, ingrateful louts. As their King is pulled apart and banished, the nurglite daemons do the same, giving their backs to the blades of the Knights.
Back in the Garden, a sulking Cal is gently chided by Nurgle: to be angry at ingratitude is one thing, but to reject to hand out the gifts of the Plaguefather wasn't proper. Every soul deserves to receive truth and joy, doubly so for the most stubborn ones.
Chastised, Cal releases the soul of Khrosan and takes a millennium-long penance in the recesses of the Garden.
Widening Shadow (999. M39): As the turn of the forty-millennium draws close, voices speak of a great shadow stirring in the depths of the Warp, where the Lone King holds court. The forbidden name of the Nur, the Avatar of the Father, flits across feverish lips and burning brains. Prophets and madmen scream that the Time of Endings draws near, when the universe will feel the Loving Hand of Doom and rot away, only to rise once more in a new visage, for the cycle to start anew. Now, as night falls, the turn of the Wheel approaches and even the Gods will be put to the test.
My Father has always deluded himself with his pretense of divinity. He never was truly eternal. Nothing is. All of us, we are but beams of the Wheel, rising when our hour comes and falling when our time is up. Look at him now. A monument to decay, kept from truly dying by the sacrifice of thousands upon thousands. There could be a better tribute to the glory of Nurgle? No, I don't think myself the greatest servant of the Urfather. My father is, even if he doesn't realize It. But it doesn't matter. Time is our true ruler and he will understand. He will when he'll see the face I saw, so similar to the one he wears now and yet so much greater, so much more glorious. I've seen it, you know. The Nur, that unspeakable thing. It waits, the egg, and soon it will hatch.
Come. Let me show you…
Daemon-Primarch Mortarion
Beldame: In his incarnation as one of the Four, Nurgle is limited by the invading presence of his erstwhile brothers. Despite still being the awesome force of corruption and rebirth that he is, he's unable to bring the entirety of his potential to bear. And so all of his daemons carry the entirety of his themes into their beings. Rotting things, they still blaze with unbound life. The moment of decay and the moment of birth and growing are smashed together in a single, revolting abomination.
Not for the Lone King such limits. While his Rotkings embody his joy for destruction, death and decay, it is the Beldames that carry his aspects of life, growth and rebirth.
Unearthly beautiful, a Beldame is a doll-like figure carved out of delicate white wood, each a masterpiece lovingly crafted and smoothed to perfection by the bulbous hand of the Father himself. The man-sized doll body tops a mountain of plant mass that advances slithering ponderously and from which a forest worth of vines of all sizes and types flails. Flowers dripping with nectar, thickets of thorns and brambles, verdant fronds and mushrooms puffing clouds of spores, entire trees loaded with blooms and plants that have no equal in mortal knowledge; there is no member of the vegetal world that doesn't appear on a Beldame's body, making each a marvelous spectacle to look at, each different from the other apart from a single feature: the plant mass is always in bloom, swathing each Beldame in a constant cloud of pollen and dizzying colors.
A Beldame embodies nature's unchecked growth, be it from itself or from death. Where she slithers, plants of all kinds emerge from cracks in the stone, while those already present swell to prodigious sizes. Great forests dripping with moisture emerge from this kind lady's touch, the riot of life unbound covering wastelands of metal and ferrocrete. Works wrought through centuries of work are reclaimed by nature in a matter of weeks. It's a festival of growth, that sees plants amass over each other, choking each other even as others rise to take their place. The beings of flesh and blood aren't excluded from the festivities: they swell, new flesh covering the limited measure they had before; they transform, putting roots and growing limbs. Their skin turns to bark, their eyes into leaves. They too become part of the glorious dance of life.
A Beldame has no attraction toward fighting: her interests lie in the birth and growth of new life. Her pollens and aura of vitality erase any bitter feeling in her flock, until they too exult in the sheer life coursing through them. Kind, maternal, she hands out her blessing freely, giggling at the joy of her children. Of course, all life must end in mulch under the fell hand of the Rotking, but, even if she may lament this, no Beldame opposes it: death is necessary for new life to flourish after all, and death and decay are as glorious as growth and birth. And, if the King follows the Dame, even the opposite is true. Such is the unchanging Wheel. The Beldame feels joy in the exultation her flock finds in their fleeting existence, only to go forward, to find more souls to bless.
Unfortunately, not all accept the Beldame's gentleness. Some struggle, refusing the truth of their destiny. Even as she is pleased by such struggle, these deluded souls the Beldame chides, ripping them apart with her vines or crushing them under her bulk, only to use their remains to breed new life. Even the dead deserve blessing!
Where strength cannot measure, the Beldame calls upon the life-giving might of the Grandfather. With a single note of unearthly beauty, she knits the wounds of her followers, fills hearts with new vigor, or burst them alongside bodies with explosive growths. At her whisper, massive trees sweep with iron-hard boughs at her enemies and brains are filled with spores that erase any bitterness and paint smiles on the stubborn's face. At her greatest, her voice rises to a high pitch that cracks mountains and split hive cities open.
The Beldame knows no hatred. She knows that life's lot is to struggle. Even to those who despite everything refuse to fall to their knees and weep before the majesty of life, she still offers the greatest blessing. These great champions are devoured by the massive mouth beneath the doll-body, to be digested and offered immediate rebirth. Fueled by these brave souls, fruit-like wombs emerge from the Beldame's bodies, only to burst and disgorge daemons in the likeness of the devoured. And so it's that the most unattentive souls are offered the greatest reward. Such is the generosity of the Beldame.
Chronicles of Maternal Growth:
The Rebirth of Magnus Prime (M35.145): Anguished at the pollution caused upon the once nature reserve planet of Magnus Prime by Orks' planet-wide industry, the Lady of Dripping Thorns makes her blessing known upon a human slave. The wretch erupts with unchecked life, turning the arms factory where she slaved away her existence into a verdant paradise, into which both captors and prisoners alike are subsumed. The Lady's handmaidens emerge from the foliage a moment later, leading an army of nurglish daemons against the Orks.
Fight rages as growth advances to devour entire factory-cities, only to be repelled by Ork's flamethrowers and cannon shells.
Eventually, the handmaidens plant a single sapling in the most vibrant meadow on the planet. The seed swells into a massive flytrap from which the Lady herself strode forth.
Before the Dripping Thorns, even the Orks' ferocity reveals itself inadequate: new forests of shockingly green and robust boughs soon cover Magnus.
Some of the greenskins prisoners are kept from the Lady as samples to experiment upon, while the rest, human and orks alike, are loaded on ships wrought out of living wood and sent into space, to seed new worlds with their marvelous fecundity. The Lady leaves a chaste kiss on the first tree born from the slave before disappearing alongside her hordes.
Magnus Prime is a Class I Death World to this day.
Salvation from Growth (M36.764): The Verdict of Ultramar is carrying the Fifth Company of the Ultramarine chapter into the Warp when the Gellar Shields suddenly fail due to an unknown malfunction. Taking the chance, the forces of the Immaterium swarm in, and the entire ship is embroiled in bitter combat.
Just as the situation turns desperate for the Space Marines, their struggle attire the attention of the Bloom-in-Light, Beldame second only to the Spouse herself. Deeply pleased by the brightness of their life force, the Lady sends her legions to keep the light from fading. Before the Ultramarine's stunned eyes, the daemons invading their ship start to fight against each other, unearthly figures making the floor of the ship blossom with flowers at each step. Knowing better than to trust the horrors of the Warp, they open fire on any not-human they can see.
As the fight rages, the Keeper of Secret Tuk'naki coalesces on the bridge, desirous to devour Captain Brutus' heart. The daemon fell three Company Champions before coming toe to toe with his prey. Brutus is no match for the creature, but before he can be killed, delicately pale hands emerge from the walls, to drag a screaming Tuk'naki back into the Warp.
With their leader devoured, the forces of Chaos hesitate, giving the time needed for the Ultramarines to reach and reactivate the Geller Fields. The Verdict is shunted back into realspace, but a moment before it happens, the Bloom plucks from the ship an unnamed Space Marine, whose lifeforce brimmed more brightly than all the rest and surely deserves a better place for It.
The strange incident is written down in the chronicles of Ultramar and judged as another expression of the Empyrean's chaotic nature.
The War of the Wager (M37.826): To show his admiration, Rotking Vas gifts the ravaged world of Marinis to the Fair Dame, asking her to usher the wasteland into the next season of the Wheel. The Dame accepts with a coquettish giggle, promising to writ such life upon it that, when it was his turn once more, Vas would look at it in marvel.
The wager is accepted, and the Dame and her court start their work at once. But, just the seeds are planted, a fleet of Ulthwe appears above Marinis, starting to attack the planet. With only a few forces with her, the Dame looks in sadness as her best seedlings are consumed by cannon fire. Forlorn and without inspiration, she dismisses her handmaidens and slinks into the wilderness to nurse her pain. It is during the self-imposed exile that she stumbles upon the reason for the Eldar attack: a cache of soulstones, untouched since the time of the Fall, a priceless treasure for the invaders.
Her inspiration rekindled by the life enclosed in the gems, the Dame sets to work, summoning new forces and transforming the temple where the gems had laid hidden for millennia in a deathtrap. Believing the daemonic presence eradicated, the Eldar leaders arrive to collect, only to fall into daemon trap and fang and have their gems harvested.
Bereft of leadership, the Eldar cannot muster enough of a defense against the resurging forces of Nurgle and are forced to abandon the planets and their dead, with the Beldame herself claiming hundreds of soulgems.
When Val returns, Marinis is a paradise of unchecked growth, mountainous forests of dripping leaves and musky pollen choking each other as they compete for sun and space. Yet, what truly sparks marvel in his heart is the glittering tree wrought out of pregnant wood and Eldar soulstone towering over the landscape. With a flourish, the Rotking admits his defeat, naming the Fair Dame a glittering jewel in Nurgle's crown. The Dame accepts graciously, claiming as her prize the promise from the King to spare a single flower from each of his future devastations, before leaving Marinis to be razed once more. The Glittering Tree, as it came to be known, is a constant staple in both destruction and birth, with the souls inside subsumed in the glorious cycle.
One with Growth (M38.368): Displeased by the disregard for life of the Magi of the Forge-World of Tenarr IX, the Beldame Glory-In-Flowers masterminds the opening of a chain of demonic portals by the most wretched inhabitants of the Waste Plains. The blasted plains of the planet and the lower levels of the forge cities are quickly overrun by waves of capering daemons and sneaking vegetation, but the advance of life is eventually stymied: barricaded into the upper levels of their cities, the magi and their Skitarii slaves send avalanches of molten metal to burn the tendrils, while keeping contact with each other through aerial means. Meanwhile, they ceaselessly bombard from orbit, burning large swaths of the writhing forests.
Thrilled by the prospect of destroying abominable machine-things, Glory-In-Flowers tears asunder the Veil and floods the world with Chaos energy. Two colossal World-trees strode out of the portal and, empowered by the Warp's influence, set to the task of toppling the Mechanicus' cities.
As the last redoubt is being sieged, help arrives as an Imperial Fleet and two companies of the Invaders Chapter, as well as the fourth brotherhood of the Grey Knights. The reinforcements push the Beldame's forces back, but there's no victory as long as the portals still stand.
Her eyes attracted by the new invaders, Glory-In-Flower shuts down all portals minus one, in front of which she ushers her greatest handmaidens. As the Imperials launch their assault on a city of moisture and shadowed canopy, daemon and human clash beneath cyclopic boughs, with heavy losses on both sides.
Captain Lykander of the Invaders and his honor guard fight alongside Grand Master Eson Fel and his Terminator guard. Despite their losses, they reap a fearsome toll upon the daemons, but, just as it seems that victory is in reach, the Beldame emerges from the earth, cutting the Grand Master in half with a scythe-like appendage. Lykander attacks her, only to be stopped in his tracks when she sings a song so vibrant that his heart almost burst at hearing It. The Beldame grabs the Space Marine with a riot of tentacles, appraising him for a moment before letting him go, judging him "not yet ripe".
Satisfied with the lesson handed to the Mechanicus, the Daemon turns and strides back into the portal, followed by her handmaidens. The rest of her horde disappears suit.
Despite the victory, Tenarr is in ruin. It will be decades before production can be resumed.
One and One Only (M39.587): Overcome with a bout of melancholy, the Spouse leaves Nurgle's court. She reappears a millennium later on Yrax Prime as a forgotten Goddess of Fertility whose iconography has been subsumed in Imperial dogma.
A prosperous industry center and military center with a highly fecund population, Yrax acts both as a supplier of soldiers and weapons and as the seat of government for an entire Sector.
As the Festival of Births covers the world with festivities, the Spouse is awoken from her torpor by the voice of joyful life. Overcome with longing, she calls for his beloved Nurgle as she bursts through the planet's surface. As the words leave her delicate lips, all the people of Yrax, as well as all the soldiers and weapons supplied by the planet, no matter where they are, erupt with saplings from which nurglish Daemons spring forth. Entire campaigns are disrupted, with catastrophic consequences for dozens of worlds everywhere in the galaxy.
As the Spouse leaves Yrax, the planet blooms with a riot of life unprecedented.
The Spouse
An image plucked by the future, a possibility, or maybe just a wish for something that will never be. Nobody can say what drove Nurgle to create the greatest of Beldames. The only thing known is that the emotion that went into her sculpting is without peer, and that makes the Spouse First of the Dames and closer to the heart of Nurgle than any other entity of the Warp, offered respect as Queen of the Garden. Closest, but not enough to truly replace the one he modeled her after. Such knowledge fills the Spouse's heart with deep sorrow, that she pours out as tears of unmatched fecundity. But his love for his creator and husband is just as bottomless and she will endure any hardship for him, no matter what is It.
The power of the Spouse is such that it borders on the divine, making her second only to the Lone King himself. Not only does she have access to the powers, magnified by ten, of the Beldames. She participates in all aspects of the Lone King as well, and as such, of the entire Warp. This allows her to pinpoint the reflection of any soul reflected in the Realm of Chaos, and, should that soul show the smallest weakness, devour it. Those too powerful or protected for this to happen are faced instead with themselves, as the Queen reflects their soul in her immortal eyes. Only those truly exceptional, able to overcome both trials, are given a different fate: to become the Queen's puppet and play the part of Nurgle for her, to soothe her melancholy for a while.
In keeping in tradition with Workshop and Total War, you're getting a DLC Lord these days later.
Tell me if you like it!