Nurgle

**Nurgle**, also known as the "**Plague Lord**," "**Grandfather Nurgle**," the "**Plague God**," the "**Lord of Pestilence**," the "**Fly Lord**," "**Plaguefather**," and the "**Lord of Decay**" among many other honourifics, is the Chaos God of disease, decay, despair, destruction, death and rebirth. In particular, the emotion of despair in mortals empowers the Plague God more than any other.

Nurgle is the Great Lord of Decay and the Master of Plague and Pestilence. All things, no matter how solid and permanent they seem, are liable to eventual corruption and death. Even the process of creation is but the precursor to destruction and decay. The bastion of today is tomorrow's ruin, the maiden of the morning is the crone of the night, and the hope of a moment is but the foundation of regret.

Nurgle's power waxes strong when disease and the resulting anguish ravage the Mortal Realms. He wishes to see rot and contagion bloom across the realms, drowning the bastions of his enemies in a tide of putrid filth. Though he is a source of fear and revulsion to his enemies, Nurgle is a perversely paternal and joyful god, generous with his foul gifts and proud of his worshippers' every disgusting achievement.

Nurgle is not malicious -- far from it, the Plague God delights in fecundity, and the overabundance of life that disease and decay brings. To Nurgle, every raddled corpse is a welcoming nursery for wriggling maggots and cloying plague spores. Every stagnant lake and rotting forest is a paradise in which parasitic larvae and bountiful poxes can flourish. These are the gifts that Nurgle lavishes upon the Mortal Realms, and if there is malice behind his generosity it is directed only at those ingrates who try to decline his offerings.

Nurgle is the Chaos God most directly involved with the plight of mortals, particularly mankind, who suffer so acutely from a fear of death, perhaps the oldest fear of that species, or any other. While Nurgle is the god of death and decay, he is also the god of rebirth. Decay is simply one part of the cycle of life, without which no new life could grow. In the same way, Nurgle is also the god of perseverance and survival. While those who wish to spread decay and corruption are certainly amongst his followers, there are also those who wish to endure, to become resilient enough to handle the difficulties and opportunities presented by an uncaring universe. Many of those affected by Nurgle's poxes usually turn to the god in order to escape the pain and sheer despair caused by sickness and disease.

Though Nurgle is the ultimate creator of every infection and epidemic to have ever swept creation, Nurgle is not a morose purveyor of despair and gloom, but in fact a vibrant god of life and laughter. In death, there is life. Upon the decay of the living untold numbers of bacteria, viruses, insects and other carrion-feeders thrive. All life feeds upon other life to exist, and from every plague grows new generations, stronger and more virile than those who came before. Regeneration comes from decay, just as hope springs from despair. The greatest inspiration comes in the darkest moments; in times of crisis mortals are truly tested and driven to excel.

To understand what might otherwise seem contradictory or even perverse in nature, one must first comprehend that which Nurgle embodies. On the one hand, he is the Lord of Decay, whose body is wracked with disease; on the other, the god is full of unexpected energy and a desire to organise and enlighten.

The mortals of the Eight Realms know full well that their lives will end one day and that many of their number will live with disease or other torments in the meantime, yet they drive this knowledge deep into the corners of their minds and bury it with dreams and ceaseless activity. Nurgle is the embodiment of that knowledge of mortality and the unconscious response of all self-aware beings to the knowledge of their own ending. He is the hidden fear of disease and decay, the gnawing truth of mortality and the power of defiance that it generates.

Every mortal has been touched by Nurgle's foetid hand at some point. Countless populations are host to his malignant, invisible creations, which corrupt their physical forms and sow despair in their minds. Traffic across the realmspheres ensures that contagious diseases are carried across the Mortal Realms by the ignorant, the wilful and the strong.

As Nurgle's gifts multiply in full-blown pandemics, his power reaches a peak. Proud civilisations wither away even as Grandfather Nurgle conjures obscene new life from their remains. Wherever there are plague pits and mass graves, the rotting splendour of Nurgle shines through. Yet, despite his consistent "generosity," only an enlightened few truly embrace Nurgle's greatness among the mortal races. Yet the god's worshippers exist in numbers enough to ensure his Daemon servants access to realms wherever plague abounds. This is just as well, for of all the Chaos Gods, it is Nurgle who most appreciates the personal touch.

Nurgle's sacred number is seven, his colours are those of rot and ruin, waste and vomit, mucus and pus. The Plague God is represented by the colours of green and brown, generally the most putrid variations of each. Nurgle also embodies the will of mortals to struggle on no matter what opposes them, albeit perversely. Suffering, death, pain: mortals push these things from their minds and try to forget them by living in the moment in the hope that the future will be a better one.

For this reason, Nurgle, his Daemonic Plague Legions and mortal followers among the Maggotkin of Nurgle usually demonstrate a disturbing joy at the pestilence that their god inflicts, seeing the plagues as gifts and the cries of their victims as gratitude for the strength to overcome the obstacles of a mortal life rather than agony. The Plague Lord is often referred to as "Grandfather Nurgle," "Father Nurgle" or "Papa Nurgle" by his followers because of this hideous paternal stance.

## Manifestation

Nurgle's physical aspect is truly hideous. He is a swollen mountain of decaying, green flesh and pus, whose necrotic skin crawls with buboes and seethes with lice and other carrion. Filth and foulness drool from the rotting maws that dot his corpulent mass, and flies the size of boulders buzz around him in thick clouds, drawn by his stench.

## Rivals

Since time immemorial, Nurgle has been in competition with his siblings, the other Dark Gods. In their great game, Nurgle is typically ranked third most powerful behind wrathful Khorne and duplicitous Tzeentch. Yet this is a misleading notion, for in truth Nurgle is in no way inferior to his brothers. Rather, his might surges and recedes in a never-ending cycle. When plague and pestilence run rampant, Nurgle becomes so swollen with power that his leathery hide struggles to contain it. When remission comes, and Nurgle's plagues fall fallow, so his power wanes until he becomes a hollowed out shadow of his former greatness. Yet Nurgle is never defeated for long, for disease and decay are as inevitable as time and tide.

Nurgle has a far less fraternal relationship with the Horned Rat, the verminous Skaven deity who joined the Chaos pantheon at the fall of the World That Was. As an architect of plague and pestilence, the Horned Rat seems a natural ally of Nurgle, and certainly the two gods find common cause on occasion. Yet where Nurgle wishes to spread bilious life, the Horned Rat seeks only the ruin of all, with no thought for new life or creation. As a result, Nurgle looks down on the vermin-god as short-sighted and distasteful, more of a means to an end than a true ally.

## History

When the Age of Chaos began, Nurgle set his sights upon the inexhaustible cornucopia of Ghyran. His armies spilled across the Jade Kingdoms, corrupting everything in their path. Thousands of mortal tribes turned to Nurgle's worship in order to save themselves from his countless plagues. The sylvaneth and their queen, Alarielle, were driven into hiding, and for a time Nurgle stood upon the very cusp of victory. Yet at last, an alliance between Sigmar's Stormcast Eternals and the resurgent sylvaneth defeated Nurgle's greatest champions. Alarielle sealed the Genesis Gate, through which the greatest portion of Nurgle's might had flowed into Ghyran.

For a time, Nurgle wallowed in the despondency of rejection, and as he did so his armies were driven back on every front. But now the Plague God's optimism has returned, and with it the realistation that -- in obsessing over the conquest of Ghyran -- he was being selfish. All of the Mortal Reams deserve to benefit from Nurgle's generosity, and he means to make sure that they are all showered with his blessings until they can take no more.

## Land of the Plaguelord

The Land of the Plaguelord is the Plague God's domain within the Realm of Chaos. It is a festering amalgam of jungle, forest, swamp and ornamental parkland in which unclean life seethes, and sickness blossoms with epidemic intensity.

No living being save a worshipper of Nurgle could hope to survive within the Plague God's garden. Its winding paths run with diseased slurry and squirming worms, while the air is thick with miasmal fumes and the constant drone of flies unnumbered. Groves of Feculent Gnarlmaws justle with bloated fungi and stinking fever-blooms. Sickly light spills from floating spore-sacs that drift through the murk, trailing slimy lianas with pus-fat thorns. Everywhere mucus drips, insects scuttle, and nauseating gases bubble and pop. Fountains of mouldering bone rise from congealed lakes Fountains of mouldering bone rise from congealed lakes, jetting putrid slop from squealing sphincters. Meadows of grass like rusted blades creak and groan in the languid breeze, spewing clouds of seeds that would rot mortal flesh in seconds.

As Nurgle's power ebbs and flows, so the boundaries of his garden realm expand and contract. When his might is at its peak, the Garden of Nurgle bursts its existential bounds and surges into the territories of the other Chaos Gods. Plains of fire-blackened skulls and fractal crystal mazes are swiftly overrun by the Garden's predatory fecundity, turning all to bountiful filth.

The Chaos Gods are ever at war, for they fight as only immortal brothers can. Each maintains countless armies of daemonic soldiery with which to defend their own domains, while invading those of their brothers. Nurgle is no exception to this trend, and his garden teems with the commaders and foot soldiers of his daemon legions. Patrol bands of Plague drones thrum along the garden's myriad paths, seeking invaders to torment. Tides of diminutive Nurglings scamper through the foetid underbrush intent on mischief, while packs of slug-like Beasts of Nurgle slither and lollop amidst the marshy pools searching for unfortunate playmates. Fortresses and guard towers of rancid blubber and corroded iron loom over seeping gallows-trees, garrisoned by Plaguebearers who watch for hardy interlopers to punish.

At the heart of the garden stands Nurgle's Manse. The Dark God lumbers about this suppurating fastness, whistling phlegm-thick tunes as he gathers ingredients for his latest plague. Each new malady is brewed to perfection in his immense cauldron and then tested on the cursed creature knows as the Poxfulcrum, a caged being that has endured millenia of misery as Nurgle's personal test bed. Only once he is satisfied with the results of his concoction does Nurgle upend the cauldron, raining new contagions down upon the Mortal Realms.