The feculent lord of plagues stood upon the calcified dias, and looked out to his followers, over two dozen strong blightkings.
All blessed with rotted purpose, each a proven champion to the Lord of All Things.
The Droning Quartet hovered not far from their captain, Ser Oris von Cancrum, who eyed Lord Kuru with brotherly love.
The lord of plagues felt the joyous despair in the Chamber of the Blot, where hope had been thoroughly weeded out.
They had nurtured the holy site to Grandfather for ages, kept hidden and safe deep in the body of the Godbeast Neolotl. An infection that has waxed full and throbbing with blessed humors.
In a booming joyful voice, Lord Kuru addressed his flock
“Long have we waited bruddas, tending to Grandfather’s favorite blot.” He strode about the calcified steps “Long have we nurtured our strength and grown mighty!”
The blightkings roared clashing there weapons together.
”Our patience has finally been rewarded” he gestured to Fergis Botchulus, the order’s resident sorcerer who was already chanting in deep sonorous tones.
“We have received word from Vorgur Boarfrenzy” small murmurs rippled through the crowd. All had heard of the Warlord and his hordes, it was hard not to with how much they trampled the lands atop Neolotl.
”A great worm of the Amber Steppes has ventured off its course and is blasting through the Grot haunted Forest of Gorch on a path to come between the paths of the two great godbeasts.”
The great blot swelled in size as Fergis concluded his ritual, something truly loathsome floated in its milky putrescence now.
”Our time has come, to spread our holy filth to not one but three great beasts of Ghur, and we have called upon our patron saint to aid us in the blighted crusade. Even now Father Rottingham ventures out from Grandfather’s Garden through our sacred blot.” His voice had risen without him noticing, filling the chamber with favored despair.
“Who will be left when all has rotted? He bellowed
”Only the faithful!” They shouted
“Who is left standing in victory?” He stomped towards the now writhing pustule.
”Only the faithful!”
”Who can tear free the weed of hope from Nurgle’s garden!” He raised his axe to the crowd.
“Only the faithful!” They roared
He straightened his helm of tarnished silver,a reminder of how lost he was to the sickness of hope
He drove his axe across the bottom of the great blot. Carving out the bottom, spilling the potent fluids across the floors.
Lord Kuru smiled as a mottled green flabby leg stepped out.
”Only the faithful.”
