Talk:Nurgle in the Mortal Realms
Psychotic Loner: Isn't Nurglitch a skaven character, the leader of Clan Pestilens, and not another name for Nurgle?
- Just sign your comments with --~~~~ (it automatically generates username and date). Afaik Nurglitch is used for both, so it should be a disambiguation page or noted here and in the article of the skaven plaguelord (when created).--Genestealer, Magus 09:08, 7 March 2009 (UTC)
- Notice that Clan Pestilens fanatically spreads disease and plague. One can speculate that this clan has been tainted by Nurgle (notice this is just speculation). Aehren 18:55, 21 March 2009 (UTC)
Excerpt from Hallowed Knights Plague Guarden
‘It’s coming,’ Tegrus said, his voice almost shrill. He thrashed, as if trying to free himself from the clutches of something only he could see. A moment later, a dull boom echoed up out of the cistern and washed over them. Gardus felt his heart pause in its rhythm, and gasped, clutching his chest. Nauseated, he saw several Stormcast fall to their knees, retching. The daemons had stopped their advance and fallen silent, seemingly expectant.
Another boom, like the collision of distant stars. Gardus tasted blood. He’d bitten his tongue. Tallon shrieked loud and long, every feather on the gryph-hound’s neck stiff and flared in fear.
‘What is that?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.
‘The Lord of Flies himself,’ Morbus said. The Lord-Relictor strode past them towards the edge of the cistern. Gardus rose quickly and followed him, after waving the others back. They knew enough to hold their positions, unless otherwise ordered.
Through the ragged shroud of smoke, Gardus saw what lay below the Inevitable Citadel, at the heart of Nurgle’s garden. Almost immediately, he closed his eyes and turned away, unable to bear it.
It was impossible to describe. Impossible to comprehend. To his eyes, it was a wallowing swamp of black stars and dying worlds, of rotting galaxies alive with immense, writhing shapes as large as nebulas. Cosmic maggots, gnawing at the roots of infinity. Galactic plagues, eating away at the very flesh of existence, reducing all that was to leprous ruin in their unending hunger. It was a dark mirror of Azyr, corrupted, reduced, strangled. All glory vanished, all hope quashed. A thunder of screams echoed upwards, driving him back. A million million voices, raised up in anguish and despair. Forever crying out for that which would never come.
Again, the world shook. The reverberations were the death knell of the worlds below, Gardus knew, though he could not say how. Worlds claimed by Nurgle, realms older than Azyr or Ghyran, now broken and ground into filth. He felt sick. He wanted to see the clean stars of Azyr once more, even if it meant enduring the Reforging. But still the voices cried out, crying for aid, for him.
Garradan… help us…
It hurts… why does it hurt…
Everything is burning… help us…
The voices assailed him from every side, filling his head, squeezing his heart. He staggered, and felt Morbus’ hand steadying him. Another tolling of the death knell.
Down below, something began to crawl out of the black heart of that cancerous infinity. It was no shape, and all shapes. Fat and thin, a plume of smoke, a puddle of oil, spreading ever upwards. There were eyes in the smoke, as round as cold, dead suns, and teeth that stretched in a grin as wide as the horizon. Fingers like comets clutched at the void, as the Lord of All Things stirred from his manse, and began the long, arduous climb to his garden. Moons crumbled beneath that impossible bulk, and stars were snuffed out.
‘He is coming,’ Morbus said, hollowly. ‘An honour, of sorts.’
Gardus closed his eyes. ‘He is coming for me. I escaped once before. I should not have. My fate was written the day I stepped through the Gates of Dawn.’
Gardus stepped away from the edge of the cistern. He did not wish to see the swamp of dead universes swirling below, or the thing rising from within them. The thing that had been trying to claim his soul since before the burning of Demesnus Harbour, in one way or another. He looked up, and saw the others approaching. ‘Stay back,’ he roared. He looked at Morbus. ‘Keep them back. Keep them from seeing that, if you can.’
‘Soon that will not be an option.’
Gardus shook his head. The ground trembled beneath his feet. It felt as if the garden were set to tear itself apart. Perhaps Nurgle had grown bored, and had decided to reshape it all again. ‘Much is demanded–’ he said.
‘–of those to whom much is given,’ Morbus said.
‘Lead them to glory, Morbus,’ Gardus said softly. ‘Temper them, as I might have. Be the light that guides them.’ He took a breath and stepped to the edge of the cistern. His hands tightened on his weapons. He wanted to run. To leave this place. To see the stars again. But the voices cried out, and he could not turn away from such pain. He would not. Whatever the cost.
‘What do you think you are doing?’
‘If Nurgle wants me, I will go to him. I will carry the light of Sigmar’s wrath into the dark, as the only the faithful can.’
Morbus laughed softly and extended his staff, blocking Gardus. ‘I think not.’
‘I think I have waited all of my life for this one moment,’ Morbus said. ‘I was ancient before I heard Sigmar’s call. And I have only grown more ancient still in the centuries since. I am old, and I am tired, but I have one storm yet left in me. A storm bolstered by the souls of the living and the dead alike.’ He looked at Gardus, lightning trailing from his eyes. ‘I think you are wrong, my friend. This is not your doom. It is mine.’
‘Morbus,’ Gardus began. Morbus flicked a finger and Gardus was hurled backwards by a flash of celestial energies. He struggled to his feet, smoke rising from his armour.
‘I know now why I came here with you. In death, we prove ourselves worthy of life. The fifth canticle.’ Morbus unclasped the remains of his cloak and let it crumple to the ground. He cast aside his staff. ‘Our souls are pure, and by their light is darkness banished. I hold an army within me now. You are the sword. Grymn is the shield. But I am become the hammer stroke, which puts an end to the conflict.’ He stepped to the edge of the great, cosmic cistern. He stared down into untold abysses of foulness, into the very eyes of the Lord of All Things.
And Morbus Stormwarden laughed.
He spread his arms. Lightning swelled out around him, melting the stones to slag, and driving back the mass of daemons which surrounded the remaining Stormcasts. ‘This is why we are here, Gardus. This is the first blow, and the last. This is the settling of a question millennia old.’
Gardus lunged, reaching for him. Morbus leapt. He fell into the black, a shining comet of azure. The rising presence paused in its ascent. Something that might have been a hand, miles across and as wide as a universe, reached up to intercept the light. Fingers closed. The light was gone. Snuffed.
The light returned. A spark, at first. Then a blazing column of fire and heat, spearing upwards through the black, pursued by the agonised screams of a daemon-god. Twenty souls, thirty, more, all those who’d fallen in this diseased realm, rising up, at last, to the forges of Azyr. The light swept out as it rose, filling the amphitheatre. Daemons screamed as they were reduced to floating motes of ash. Everything wavered and came apart, reduced to shards of darkness. The light grew brighter and brighter, until it was the only thing Gardus could see. He felt a wrenching sensation deep within him. And then he was rushing upwards, carried on wings of lightning and thunder.
Below him, he could see the darkness returning in the wake of the light’s ascent. He could hear the enraged bellows of a consciousness as old as the stars. Neither Nurgle nor his garden could be so easily destroyed. But they could be hurt. They could be reminded of why they had once feared the storm. And should do so again.
Reminded. Warned. Challenged.
Who shall carry my light into the darkness? Sigmar’s voice whispered.
‘Only the faithful,’ Gardus said.
He closed his eyes, and let the light carry him home.