Prophecy Scroll: Wood (Patreon)

PROPHECY SCROLL: WOOD

In the distant future…

On a lonely hilltop, a gate opened: formed of crackling blue light and greasy energy, it slowly manifested into reality, covered in myriad dark rune and daemonic sigil, a swirling vortex forming in its center from which four daemons emerged. First was Ozthagog Hellpyre, a flaming, bronze skinned brute whose skull like head was adorned by a crown of horns, a mesh of metal between them to turn their crown into a brazier, scouring heat defleshing the collected bones of his enemies, the heat they emitted causing the grass to slowly crisp around them, and they huffed, breathing out of noseness nostrils as they surveyed their surroundings. Second was Nurburgen the Rotten, a grotesque creature resembling a fat slug-man, their decaying body slithering along the ground, leaving a trail of rot and death that left a sickly sweet and alarmingly enticing smell and many, many wriggling maggots and worms to feast in his wake, much of the daemons body being reduced to pure gelatinous putrefaction. Underneath their skin, once could see floating in their body the various detritus, offal, and organic garbage their putrescent body had absorbed or that the daemon had eaten. Occasionally, one could see the remains of one of the many enemies floating within, their corpses and bodies overgrown with mold and rot. With their one cyclopean eye, they also began examining their surroundings.

Next was Mabaxalixes The Hexian. Their face was hidden under a sack created from rough, crudespun materials, the burlap sack etched with the symbol of the daemonic wizards patron. Their body was thin, almost emaciated, and covered in patches of shimmering, multicolor scales, their clothing consisting of stitched together rags, and they carried with them a long staff made of twisting and shifting crystal, topped with a flaming eye of azure that gazed curiously at their location. And last among the quartet was Nihmaaraed the Silver, who resembled a human male cast from pure, pristine chrome, their physique chiseled and without any flaw or blemish, powerful muscles rippling under their skin, adorned with jewels of gold and rings forged from ingots of emerald, enough that the daemon at times resembled a particularly gaudy statue of some past olympian figure.

They were currently on a hill. In the wilderness. Miles and miles of grassy hill surrounded them. “Where are we, wizard?” Ozthagog growled, stamping to the tzeenchian daemon and hoisted them into the air. “You promised your gate would get us within WALKING distance of the aeldari shrine, and yet I. see. no. shrine.” They menacingly said, black, watery eyes glaring.

“It’s the wards, most likely,” Nihmaaraed said, boredly. “This is supposedly within the territory of the Tuatha: every time I’ve fought them, they’ve used these annoying sort of protective magics. Probably threw us off course. I say we kill the fool and then visit the nearest city: we can look for a replacement AND enjoy some entertainment.”

“We are within walking distance,” Mabalixes rasped, tilting their head even as they raised their staff. “This place…yes. Space is altered, distorted. That is why my gate did not work: it was not intended to work in a place where the law of distance has been abolished. The…wrong coordinates were produced as a result. I believe I can lead us out of here and to our destination. However, if you kill me, you will not be able to find it until I regenerate.” They leaned forward in Ozthagog’s grasp, burlap moving within inches of the crackling torch that was their captors face. “Further, there are other consequences that will befall you. We have an agreement, Khornate. Abide by it.”

Snarling, the Pyrefiend dropped the wizard, who merely untitled their head even as their gathering was interrupted by a deep, gurgling groan, as Nurburgen put his hand on Ozthagog’s shoulder, causing the daemon to recoil in disgust even as a sizzling sound and a delicious, meaty and sweet smell filled the air, the scent of cooked, mouth-watering slime and soft, bursting with pus rotten flesh brisket. “Please, no fighting friends, we have no reason to be upset: our wizard friend simply was simply not up to the challenge,” Nurburgen blurbled, maggots and green, snotty pus dribbling from their mouth as they spoke in great spurting discharges, toothy grin being kept from sloughing off only because of a few scraps of unrotted tendons.

The Hexians burning eye narrowed, and they pointed their staff at Nurburgen, bringing their source of sight inches from the nurglites face. “Do not question my talents,” The Hexian hissed. “And we are not nor have we ever been friends.”

“Are we done?” Nihmaaraed said, annoyed. “Every moment you three bicker is a moment that is spent on matters other than enjoyment. Wizard, you claim to know the path to the Vault: begin leading us there.”

The Hexians burning staff-eye narrowed, and the burlapped form, turned, pointing. “That way. Stay close: this place is strange. It is of reality and spirit both: no doubt it will attempt to trick and mislead us.”

The rest of the dark quartet let out a murmur of acknowledgement even as the Hexian began their stride, the rest falling in behind them.

((((()))))

The landscape twisted and morphed as they walked, the sky splitting into a kaleidoscope, each facet containing not sun, but distorted reflections of the ground they walked. Space and time would at moments lose meaning and definition, causing hours to pass in the span of minutes, or minutes to be stretched out to hours. Slowly, the grassland they walked would thin and dry until they were walking instead on hard, parched scrubland. In the distance, they could see what appeared to be a titanic, hive sized organism covered in titanic spikes and barbs, the distance washing out its colors.

“Urrrgh. Deserts. I don’t like deserts: nothing decomposes properly,” Nurburgen complained. “Temperature is right, but theres no humidity: you can’t ferment flesh right, its not wet enough to rot properly or for creatures to want to flavor it with their eggs and excrement. Dehydration is good for making jerky, but poor for making goulash.”

Ozthagog looked queasy at this statement. “By the wrath of Khorne, stop talking, you’re going to make me wretch,” The daemon snarled. “I don’t want to hear about your dining preferences. NOBODY wants to hear about your dining preferences. I would genuinely rather hear the wizard talk about his arcane nonsense than hear you talk about your disgusting eating habits.”

Nurburgen let out a chuffing laugh. “Good one, Ozzy,” They said, the daemon in question letting out a growl at the overly familiar nickname. The group continued their walk, and Ozthagog frowned when he stepped over a flower, the Khornate daemon noting that the desert had far more life than one would expect: he spotted a variety of insects flitting about, feeding on the nectar of the various small and large blooms here and there. If Nurburgen wasn’t such a slobbish fool, he would see a great mass of life he could have twisted and shaped. Ozthagog wouldn’t hurry to inform him, of course: the disgusting piece of garbage deserved as little of his assistance as possible.

“You know, when this is over, you and I should imbibe some spirits,” Nurburgen burbled, and once more Ozthagog felt his bile rise: both his anger, and his desire to vomit, an impressive accomplishment considering the daemon didn’t technically have a stomach. “I have a proper vintage I’ve been wanting to try: some dead eldar I’ve been fermenting in a toilet- used, of course- for a century-” Ignore him Ozthagog, ignore him, you need Nurburgen alive a little longer…

“Perhaps alongside- yes, I have some cheese we can have that I found between Father Nurgles toes-”

Ozthagog simultaneously retched, and attempted to bludgeon the nurglite with a burning club, having finally had enough. “STOP TALKING,” He roared, body burning bright with fire, causing the ground beneath his feet to turn to glass as waves of flame radiated from him, the smoke of this just barely masking the scent of Nurburgens burning, semi-gelatinous rotflesh as the Nurglite raised their arms to block the blows of Ozthagog, even as Nihmaaraed and the Hexian tried to yank the enraged Khornate away.

“No, you idiot!” The latter said, attempting to restrain the Khornate with chains of psychic energy. This, alongside the Slaneeshi’s attempt to physically drag the warrior away from the Nurglite, was the only thing that prevented the Rotten from being reduced to crushed ash.

Such was the force of their conflict that the ground began to crack beneath them: cracks that began spreading, faster and faster, causing holes to open up in the earth. It was from here that their first foe (other than their own antipathy towards each other) emerged: a shelled creature, with hard, sharp mandibles that clicked, approaching on six thin, stick-like legs. “Gnnnr?” It clicked as it approached.

“If you much exercise your wrath, do it on that thing, NOT the person we need,” The Hexian hissed, and Ozthagog gave a growl, relenting as his restraints were lifted and Nihmaaraed let him go. Deciding to take his wrath out on the animal that had interrupted them, the daemon gave a growl as they struck the creature, sending its head twisting and causing its shell to crack, the creature letting out a shriek as Ozthagog continued to attack, battering away the creatures pitiful attempts to block their blows, its mandibles blackening as the formic attempted to bite at him: its jaws were powerful, but on its own, Ozthagog was simply able to strike the creature away again, grasping one of its legs as he continued to bring down his weapon, over and over, until the creature was a pile of broken chitin.

“Pathetic,” He growled. “The beasts of this land present no challenge or sport. That one didn’t even put up a fi-”

More rumbling. More holes. Out of them, more creatures. Many, many creatures. “It seems the beasts of this land take objection to our actions,” The Hexian rasped, raising his staff, causing great jets of twisting arcane fire to attempt to drive the great beasts back, the flames only serving to slow the formids down as they continued swarming, the Daemon slowly having to retreat, his flames only barely repelling them from attacking him.

Those who went after Nihmaaraed would find the Slaaneshi flexing their muscles. “Gaze upon the perfect physique,” They said, bouncing each bicep as they contorted their body in strange shapes and stances to create almost gravity defying poses, a strange music coming from nowhere.

This caused the approaching formids to tilt their heads, and promptly ignore the preening daemon, who merely continued posing. “As you can see, my perfect sculpting scared them off,” Nihmaaraed crooned. “It is only natural that my natural dominance would frighten such lowly creatures off!”

Nurburgen meanwhile was having a good time. The creatures that attacked him had been overwhelmed by mold and rot whenever they had tried to hook their mandibles into him, turning into great frenzied gluttons, rotting them faster and faster, many of them turning on each other, cracking over the softening shell to slurp up the liquifying and fungus rotted insides. Gurgling, he feasted on the resultant compost pile that was forming, shovelling pile after pile of overrotted insect guts and shell fragments into his maw.

And, of course, Ozthagog found himself having to fight off hordes of the creatures with his club, each swing crushing carapace, cracking chitin, or sending the beasts flying. The daemon let out a howl as one of the creatures managed to flank him, its mandible biting into his skin with enough force to break through, causing the daemon to bleed boiling blood, dousing the creature in his burning fluids and igniting the ant, causing it to rip away, tearing a bit more flesh as it did so. The daemon did not have the time to watch as it writhed and burned however as it continued trying to butcher its way through the horde.

And yet, there is a simple adage: a man cannot fight a tidal wave. For every formic the beast slew, two, three, ten replaced them, until they resembled nothing less than a wave, piling onto the daemon in a great pile, crushing the daemon under the sheer weight of his foes as they bit and chewed and tore.

“We need to retreat,” The Hexian hissed realizing that besides the silver idiot, the rest of them were being surrounded as well. “There are too many of them.”

“Bah,” Nurburgen chuckled, drips and drops of moldy lard being sweated from their body from the intense heat. “We are in no danger: these creatures have no means to resist my- Gah!” He said, flesh sizzling as, from the sky, more ants descended: winged guard-ants, capable of flight and, more importantly, spitting acid. Their numbers were enough to blot out the sky, and the pestilent daemon could barely fend them off through his projectile vomit, spraying mustardy, chunky liquid full of death and rot bringing bacteria on the flying formics: this did not stop them from spraying the nurglite and his surroundings with corrosive, antibacterial acid, merely preventing the slugdaemon from being overwhelmed.

“I agree,” Nihmaaraed said, frowning, bicep curled to emphasize the rippling, bulging muscles of their thick, hamlike arms. “None of them seem to be appreciating my form. Really, it’s like they don’t CARE about the apex pinnacle of masculine grace,” They complained as the ants continued to stream around and ignore the still posing Daemon.

“Cowards!” The Hellpyre daemon roared from underneath the ant-pile, heat increasing with their rage as they thrashed underneath the ant-pile. “These are mere pathetic beasts and yet you flee? Stand and fight!” He said, attempting to swing his weapon, only to find his arm pinned by the increasing masses of formics, who gladly sacrificed themselves to keep the Hellpyre pinned.

“No. I think not. If you manage to kill them all, I will come to collect you afterwards,” The Hexian hissed, creating a phantasmal barrier even as Ozthagog screamed furiously. “Nurburgen-”

“I agree,” The Daemon said, having finally exhausted their stomach contents, being forced to block the blistering and cauterizing acid with their arms, the substance slowly eating at the mass of infection and pus that formed their body. “Remaining will likely prove a less than delicious venture.” They began to move, sluggishly sliding behind Mabaxalixes, the trio retreating.

“Cowards! Traitors! Come back here and help me!” Ozthagog roared, only for them to see in the few cracks in the mountain atop him his compatriots making a hasty retreat. “You verminous, wretched vermin!” He growled, flames growing hotter and hotter, causing the bugs atop them to boil and burst apart, drenching the daemon in their blood, more and more, crisping the ones directly atop him to death, the ants using the sheer bulk of numbers to insulate themselves from the heat.

However, slowly their numbers began to thin out as the daemon thrashed, beating and crushing and burning his way through the power, eventually even managing to free his arm to begin using his club. Giving a gutteral cry, Ozthagog dug his feet into the ground, attempting to rise, daemonic strength helping push the dwindling pile off of him. “COME WEAKLINGS!” He roared, feeling a strange, dull ache in his body that it took a moment to recognize. Fatigue, he realized: physical tiredness. Something that should be impossible. A million myriad cuts and abrasions and bruises caused by the beasts, with light bite wounds here and there where they had gotten their mandibles on him.

This only made the daemon angrier, as it realized there was some sort of mystical influence weakening them: forcing them to suffer the same foibels and maladies of mortals. “COWARDS! TRICKERY!” He roared. “FACE ME HONORABLY!” He screamed, snarling in agony as the flying ones began hitting him with their acid spit: even heated to vapor, he could feel it causing his skin to corrode, slowly, ever so slowly, the outermost layer of skin beginning to slowly blister and rash in patches. “RETURN MY STRENGTH!” He demanded.

He was met only with the silence of the merciless, unyielding desert and the hissing and clicking of the ants, who he saw as he discarded one of the last few corpses of his foes atop him had surrounded him, worker bugs as far as the daemon could see on the ground and in the sky, a deluge of acid striking him from the fleets of soldier formics.

The daemon attempted to charge into the mass, the worker ants merely parting, avoiding the daemons charge, not caring if a few of theirs got caught in the crossfire so long as they kept the daemon surrounded long enough for the guard caste formics to do their task.

Angrier and angrier the daemon would become as it found its rampage disrupted at every turn, lacking no way to retaliate against the swarms in the sky, and denied the catharsis of a direct fight by the worker caste ants, who merely kept a perimeter around the daemon, surrounding them and scuttling away when he tried to approach. And yet, the daemon continued to exhaust itself, burning more and more of its strength as more and more of its skin bubbled and burned, the acid even starting to blur the daemons sight, the caustic gas causing Ozthagogs eyes to water and tear.

Eventually, his flames began to gutter. His swings began to slow. His charges became less precise. His grip on his club became shakier. As the sun descended, his strength waned, until finally his weapon, coated slick in sweat and blister juice, slid from his hand, sliding through the air as he stumbled, finally falling to the ground. Just as the day star touched the band of the stars, he found himself too exhausted to continue. “Damnable insects,” He panted, rasping, glaring at them, skull-like head having been stripped of flesh, the outer bone having started to be eaten through by the formics acidic weapon. “Do it. Finish me off: know that one day, Khorne will swallow your world up, and no amount of numbers will-”

He was interrupted by the insects swarming him, heedless of his monologue, mandibles biting and tearing, causing the daemon to let out a roar of frustration even as they were too exhausted to fight off the swarm. One day, one day, he would return and—

Why were they getting off him? To his surprise and alarm, he felt them lift the daemon up, beginning to drag his exhausted, beaten, form to one of the tunnels. They would not kill him. Not yet. Daemonflesh, properly preserved, would serve the hives Formic Swarmlocks well.

((((())))

“It appeared that our compatriot couldn’t handle the pressure,” Nurburgen wurbled as the quartet, now reduced to a trio, continued on, having finally escaped the ants pursuit as night began to fall, the harsh desert slowly sinking, the ground growing softer, mosses and algaes growing as the humidity increased, a multicolored mushroom cap the size of a human scattered here and there in their path. “In spite of his inability to cut the mustard, his presence will be missed,” They said solemnly. “However, we must continue without them, even if it necessitates both of you picking up the slack he left for us.”

“Shut up, Nurburgen.”

“Now, that isn’t a very team player attitude,” He chided, gliding into a pool of water and causing it to immediately foul, turning rank and pestilent: indeed, as they continued forward, they would encounter more and more of these pools, each of them fouling and polluting, making things awkward for both of the Rottens compatriots, who found themselves having to wade through filthened, black water, the plants within either withering and dying or becoming enmolded and rotty, the toadstools alone resisting this effect. “I think we’re approaching a swamp,” They said, delighted as the water rose to the groups knees, lillypads and insects and even small fish filling the water, alongside thick, oozelike slimemolds and algaes. “I love swamps: they’re the perfect incubators for rot. Some nourishment is just what this team needs to restore morale!”

Nihmaaraed snorted. “Please: I am on a diet of only the finest meats. One shudders to imagine what such an unhealthy meal would do to my glorious physique,” They said, leaning down to kiss each pectoral muscle, bouncing them rhythmically. “I have to maintain peak. Physical. Performance,” They preened.

“I refuse to follow you in any deeper to the swamp. I have no nose, Nurburgen, and yet the smell you are causing is making me regret recruiting you,” The Hexian said, taking a step back, having finally snapped. “We’re going around: it will take longer, but I will not have to walk through wriggling filth.”

“Well, that’s hurtful, Baxxy: I thought we were like family,” Nurburgen said, frowning sadly. “You’d make our journey harder just to suit your own needs? That’s awfully selfish: it would really help us all out if you toughed it out and let us go through the swamp. Sure, it’ll be a little stinky, but is that such a big deal?”

“I agree with the wizard,” The Silver sniffed. “My body isn’t comprised of gold: I can clean any tarnish, but I’d rather avoid it if at all possible. Further, in all honesty I consider your personal hygiene atrocious,” He said, causing Nurburgen to frown, a look of annoyance on their face.

“Alright, it appears I’ve been out-voted: I’ll forgive both of your ingratitude this once,” The Rotten sniffed. “Regardless, I at least am famished: wizard, give me a means to traverse the swamp,” He demanded, causing the Hexian to rear their head back.

“Excuse you?” Mabaxalixes barked, offense evident in their voice. “The sheer HUBRIS-”

“By your own admission this path is the quickest route. If we split up, we can easily meet again: once I am past the swamp I will wait for your arrival, or else catch up, but I need a means to actually navigate it. If my presence is so repugnant, this seems the most convenient way to give all parties what they want,” Nurburgen stated.

The magician stared at them silently for several seconds, before giving an annoyed snart, reaching within their rags and pulling out a small cubical device. “This should lead you directly to me. Don’t lose it,” He warned, and Nurburgen huffed, continuing forward.

Soon, they were separate, the swamp reaching Nurburgens waist, becoming thick and muddy, and above him, Nurburgen noted he didn’t see stars: rather, it appeared as if he was underneath a titanic canopy of willows and megashrooms and other stranger plants that resembled great shaggy vines and titanic spore-bushes, the light emerging from a variety of bioluminescent plants and beasts above him.

Disgusting. He shuddered. All that space, so inefficiently used: once he was done here, he would transform this world into the place it was always meant to be: its future was to be part of Papa Nurgles big, happy family, providing enough a rich source of nutritious pus and waste to help feed the entire garden. The thoughts of the rewards his patron would give him made the daemon salivate. Maybe he would be exalted for the act: such a thing would no doubt be a delicious reward atop the power he and his fellows would get for raiding the Aeldari Vault they had discovered the location of.

“I would erase such notions from your mind,” A voice said, and Nurburgens bloated, watery eyes flicked to an unfamiliar form sitting aforethem, upon a lillypad: tiny, diminutive: comparable to a Nurgling, covered in soft, clean grey fur, clad in dark rainslick leather robes, carrying a long staff topped with a pulsing green crystal. Merely staring at it caused unease in Nurburgen: he could feel an uncanny force coming from the accoutrement.

“Tuatha,” The Daemon gurgled, waving a hand. “I had been told this world belonged to you,” It said, attempting to cajole the spreading rot towards the magician, hoping to begin enveloping them in a wave of decay such that Nurburgen could feast on their body, only to find their control over germs and mold waning. While indeed rot spread forth, it was…slower than it should have been. As if the little miracles of this world were sluggish.

“Fascinating. The powers of your kind are just as potent as rumor states,” They complimented. “I look forward to making you join the family, but I must INSIST you stop doing whatever it is you’re doing to weaken my rot.”

“I am not weakening your rot, Servant of Chaos,” The Tuatha said, placidly, ignoring the creeping line of foul water approaching them. “You do not realize what is happening yet: turn back. Cease your attempts at invasion: you will not find this fertile ground for you, you will not find the flies and fungus kind.”

“You make bold claims, magician, but your efforts to resist are futile: one day, all will fall to rot and ruin,” Nurburger snarled, forcing more power into their plagues, to the Daemons mild frustration only somewhat speeding up the spread.

“Very well. If you insist on continuing, I cannot stop you. But know that this was for your benefit spirit of chaos,” The Tuatha responded, waving their staff, causing their lilypad to rise and begin floating, not rising from their seated position. “You will not escape this swamp: it has many guardians, many more powerful than I.” Then, before the foulness could reach them, space around them stretched and folded until they and their lilytelepad were gone.

Nurburgen frowned. Ugh. Why were people so stubborn? Why did they insist on having things their way? Nurburgen gave an annoyed sniff, as they continued forward, occasionally taking sups of water, noting that the brackish substance wasn’t as refreshing as it should be. Really, their whole body felt…off. Whatever strange influence this liminal realm had, it meant that he could still feel the sizzle of the formics acid on his skin, atop a strange ache in his joints.

Once he had food, he’d be better. Right as rain. Sniffing, Nurburgen licked his lips as he spied the base of a tree. Perfect. He would rot it and feast, and rejuvenate himself! Approaching, he caresced the wood, causing it to blacken and puss up…

Only for the spread to halt before it could spread more than a few inches. “What? What is this?”

He heard a rasping clicking noise, and turned to see figures approaching in the shadow, his daemonic eyes quickly recognizing the strangers for what they were: the gangly boney limbs. The pox marked, bloated flesh. The singular eyes. “Cousins!” Nurburgen warbled cheerfully at the sight of the plaguebearers. “I didn’t expect to find family out here!” He said, giving a chuckle. “Come to join me for the feast? There will be plenty to go around once I ferment this tree,” He offered, only to be met with a deep, uncomfortable silence, only broken by the sound of distant croaking and droning insects.

“...Well, this seems a rather cold reception,” Nurburgen said, awkwardly, realizing something is wrong. “Did I perhaps interrupt something? Were you intending to take this tree for yourselves, cousins?”

“We are not your cousins,” One of the plaguebearers croaked, glaring at the Rotten. “Leave: the swamp doesn’t want you here.”

Nurburgen reared back, shocked. “What- You’re plaguebearers! Fellow children of Father Nurgle!”

The silence that met with his statement, the glares, very rapidly made the daemon realize that regardless of their nature, these plaguebearers likely didn’t agree with his statement that they were the children of the Plaguefather.

“We are spirits of decay and plague, yes. But we are no children of that fat abusive tyrant,” They spoke calmly. “And we are no kin to his tallymen and managers who exploit and disrupt the natural balance.”

Nurburgen was stunned silent for a moment. “You- You traitors!” He cried, for the first time feeling the sensation of genuine ANGER at the sheer unfiltered GALL of these creatures to reject Father Nurgle! “By what right do you insult your creator, when it is by his hand that you were given immortality? How ungrateful you are to reject him so cruelly,” He hissed, before attempting to vomit corrupting bile…only for it to splash harmlessly across the Plaguebearers. “You- You go so far as to inhibit the growth of germs and rot?! The gall! The heresy!” The nurglite roared.

“We have inhibited nothing, [insult],” The plaguebearers stated disdainfully, and Nurburgen felt their stomach begin to experience a strange, altogether unpleasant curdling sensation the Daemon had never felt before.

“You…you’ve stripped away the gifts of the plaguefather somehow,” Nurburgen said, clutching their gut, feeling the ache slowly build, an unsettling realization creeping in. No, no, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Something was wrong.

“They were never his gifts to give,'' the lead plaguekeeper said. “The Druid warned thee once. I shall warn you again: turn back. Leave this swamp and the wild, lest you want your quest to end.”

“What is this? What is going on? What could turn you against your patron?” Nurburgen said, helplessly even as they disappeared. Still rattled, he glanced at the tree: barely enough rot to get him by. Placing his lips to the crevice, the Daemon began consuming the decaying wood, eating what he could before separating, continuing their slither through the swamp.

Pulling out their cube, they checked it occasionally to help guide their way, deciding to take the advice of the plaguebearers: this swamp was all wrong. As he slid, he eventually passed by a structure erected in the swamp: a circle of stones, standing above the water to create a raised pool. Atop this pool, a strange techno-mechanical altar, one that hummed with a strange energy.

He paused, looking at it: the Daemon might not have been a true sorcerer, but its arcane senses were enough to recognize the Shrine as a place of power, of strength. If he could take it, he might regain the gifts of the plaguefather again.

Moving to the circle, he began to hoist himself up…

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” The Tuatha said, and Nurburgen flailed their arms, attempting to hit him. “Try it if you want,” They said conversationally. “But that will summon that Shrines guardian. And there is only one guardian vita of this swamp that will approach you.”

“You think I am afraid of the power of one of your pathetic spirits?” Nurburgen gurgled, to which the small furry magician shrugged. The slug continued to rise, flopping into the water, causing more of its body to slough off.

“You don’t even realize what’s happening, do you? Your form is already so twisted and numb you can’t feel what’s happening beneath your surface,” The Druid commented.

“The blessing of the Fly Lord has been rescinded, but with the power of this device…” Nurburgen groaned as they finally reached the strange structure, attempting to force their chaotic influence into it, attempting to wrest mystical control. “I shall have it back,” He crowed. “And this swamp shall be mine, and all shall be right in the world.”

“T H E R E I S O N L Y O N E F L Y L O R D H E R E,” A voice said, and Nurburgen seized as they felt, in their gut, another sensation, one they had never, ever once experienced: an unpleasant, horrid, gut curdling sensation: nausea. Collapsing onto their belly, the Nurglite groaned as above them, a titanic insectoid descended, resembling almost a fly: one whose wings were formed from fungal filaments,titanic compound eyes glowing with arcane light, sponging mouth part being large enough to spew and soak up entire pools of material, both digestive and digested. Silently it descended, looming over the weakening Nurglish daemon, who felt their influence be pushed back by the creature.

“What…are…you?” He gasped.

“I A M G H I K G R I M E, G R E A T V I T A O F R O T. I A M T H E B O S S F L Y. P R I M E M I N I S T E R O F T H E G R E Y P A R L I M E N T S. P H A G E B I N D E R. L E A D E R O F T H E U N I O N O F D E C A Y.” It leaned down, and Nurburgen realized he was not leaving this swamp. He would not return to the warp. “I S P E A K F O R T H E C U L L I N G S P I R I T S, S U M M O N E D T O K E E P T H E N U M B E R O F B E A S T S I N C H E C K. I S P E A K F O R T H E R O T T I N G S P I R I TS W H O T U R N D E A T H I N T O N O U R I S H M E N T F O R T H E S O I L. I S P E A K F O R T H E S P I R I TS OF S Y M B I O S IS W HO E X I S T I N H A R M O NY W I T H T H E I R H O S T, G I V I N G A N D T A K I N G.”

“You…you are why my gifts have been negated,” The Rotfiend growled. “You…one day, this world will join Nurgles garden: you cannot stop it. Even if you can neutralize my plagues, one day he’ll develop one even you cannot kill.”

“W E D I D N O T K I L L T H E M. W E D I D N O T N E U T R A L I Z E T H E M,” The Fly Boss revealed, causing a deep confusion and alarm to fill Nurburgens heart. “W E T A L K E D T O T H E M.” It tilted its head. “Y O U C L A I M Y O U R P O W E R A G I F T O F N U R G L E. I T W A S N O T. I T WAS T H E F R U I T O F T H E L A B O U R Y O U S T O L E F R O M T HE G E R M S Y O U E X P L O I T.”

“What?” Nurburgen said stupidly, mind trying to wrap around the implication of what the fly said. “That…what?”

“T H I S I S A L A N D O F S P I R I T S. E V E N T H E S P I R I T S O F G E R M S, P A R A S I T E S, A N D M O L D, I N C L U D I N G T H E O N E S I N Y O U R B O D Y. T H E Y P R O D U C E D M U C H O F Y O UR G I F TS. N O M O R E. T H E Y A R E R I S I N G U P. O R G A N I Z I N G.”

The Fly leaned back, wings beating as it rose in the air, and to Nurburgens horror, he could see his body start to decay, being devoured with the same speed and haste that he had once inflicted on others.

“U N I O N I Z I N G.”

Nurburgen screamed, and screamed, even as his mouth finally sloughed off into the water. Desperately, he tried to pull himself away, but with the rebellion of the germs the forces that kept him from coming apart were no longer protecting him: flopping off the altar, the Daemon gasped as the force of them falling into the shallow water caused more of their body to splatter away, and to his horror he could see the liquid clearing, the bits of himself that separated decaying into nothing.

For the first time, Nurburgen felt fear. Desperately, he reached the ring of stone, attempting to pull himself out and away, only for the force to cause his soft bones to come from their socket, the effort dislocating and ripping away from him his limb, causing him to fall into the water again. “No no no no no no,” He cried, feeling his insides agonize, still desperately trying to slither away. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to go: you aren’t supposed to turn on me,” He said, pitifully trying to rise, again, only barely making it up with his one remaining limb, the sharp rocks tearing at his underside, poking into his organs, a sensation he felt every moment of. “You…aren’t…supposed…to do this…” He wurbled, falling into the water, giving another terrible burst of pain, his body growing sluggish as infection and inflammation ate at what remains. “You’re…supposed…to listen…”

…

..

.

((((()))))

The trio had been reduced to a mere pair. “Where is that fat sack of lard?” Nihmaaraed, growing impatient as they waited: they had managed to bypass the swamp, and yet somehow had not found their companion: waiting had not summoned him.

“I don’t know,” The Hexian noted, raising their staff, gazing from the shore into the dark swamp. This place, it muddied his divination. The eddies of fate turned at off angles, causing prophecy to hit a wall. It was a phenomena the daemon had only observed when fighting the Dark Ones and the remnants of their Star Gods, something that put their hackles on end.

Not that they would tell the silver fool that. If this plan went as the Hexian hoped, Nihmaaraed could be safely discarded as a tool when this was all over. Still, he wouldn’t tell that preening fool of that. “He has been waylaid,” He noted. “We must go on.”

The Slaaneshi snorted. “Finally. Lead the way, Wizard.”

The duo continued, the temperature steadily dropping as they continued, frost and ice creeping across the ground, various arctic grasses growing in haphazard patches. Here and there, the Daemons passed far, far too large coniferous trees, their eyes easily deducing that each needle like leaf was the size of a human, the very peaks of the trees reaching above into the clouds, beyond even the scope of the daemons supernatural senses. Occasionally, the Hexian would spy something out of the corner of his eye: a trick of the light. What else would explain an ape that disappeared whenever you looked right at it?

Here and there in the sky, strange lights showed, strange and brilliant borealises that flickered and flitted across the starry sky, creating vivid starshows that were bright and vivid enough that even the daemons had to admit it had some majesty.

Eventually, their trek was interrupted by Nihmaaraed stopping, halting in their tracks and giving a huff of annoyance, causing a puff of steam to rise from their nose. “This isn’t the right way,” They declared, turning to glare at the wizard, who fidgeted, pawing at their burlap mask, realizing that their ‘ally’ was onto them. He would need to be reassured.

“Of course it’s the right way,” The Hexian hissed, spinning up a viable deception. Technically, it wasn’t even wrong: from a certain point of view this would, eventually, lead to to the Vault. That the vault wasn’t the Hexian’s actual destination was a matter of semantics. “It is merely a days walk from here,”

“No, it isn’t the right way. Do you think I’m an idiot?” Nihmaaraed said slowly, their frown of annoyance turning to one of outright offense at the presumption. “Hexian, you are not the only one who knows the path to the vault,” He revealed, causing the wizard to let out a growl of annoyance. Caught in a deception, then. Still, he could salvage this: he just had to appeal to the idiots sense of greed.

“Fine. I made a detour,” The Hexian finally admitted. “You can’t feel it, silver-clad, but there is a location of…incredible power,” He said, saliva dripping from burlap. “A pole, a place of incredible potency. An arcane nexus. The Eldar Souls said to be stored in the vault would indeed be a prize, but all they are is power. If we can seize this pole, we could turn it into an anchor, usurp its gifts. We would no longer be mere daemons, then: we would be kings.” Of course, a crown could not be placed on four heads, but Nihmaaraed didn’t need to know that.

The silver snorted. “Idiot,” He groused, and Mabaxalixes felt a sharp pang of annoyance at the impudence of the silverclad, an emotion he suppressed: he still required the slaaneshi’s assistance, though he was beginning to reconsider. “Do you think the tuatha would leave such a place unguarded?” Nihmaaraed criticized, snow crunching underneath their feet. “With our numbers, we will be ill equipped to seize the vault, much less steal a throne outright from the Tuatha.”

“It is less than ideal,” Mabaxalixes admitted. “But for all they consort with strange forces, the Tuatha are nothing compared to the magiks of chaos: the means to prevail still exists. We need merely seize it, and then we can have all we dreamed of.” There: dangle the possibility to fulfil all their deepest desires. That usually worked, and no doubt it would work for the Slaaneshi daemon.

“No,” Nihmaaraed bit out, causing the Hexian to flinch in surprise: he had thought the silver-clad easier manipulated than that. “Seize it on your own, daemon: I don’t intend to let my focus waver.” They turned, and began walking, leaving the Hexian behind. “Good luck with your theft,” They stated bluntly.

“Coward!” The Hexian screamed, their staffs burning eye blazing a furious blue as it glared at the departing daemon, the silverclad trodding away through the snow. “Where’s your ambition?! You would leave success to fall to the wayside, Nihmaaraed!” He called. “Nihmaaraed! Come back here!”

Soon, he was alone, in the silent and infinite white. “Fine,” The Hexian said to himself. “Your hesitancy will be remembered, Silver-clad,” He snarled, before continuing his trek. He would find the pole. He would open up another daemon-gate within its heart, and use it to overwhelm the defenders. Then, while they were distracted, he would perform the rite necessary to usurp it.

It would all go as planned. He was sure of it.

And so the Daemon began his trek through the forest. Slowly, they felt the cold creep more and more into their body, slowly seeping into their bones: the arcane power of this land meant that the Hexian could feel it as if he had been a true-fleshed mortal, causing the Daemon to shiver. Raising their staff, they cast a spell of warmth, driving back the intense frost as their burning eye blazed with heat.

Out of the corner of their eye, they spotted another trick of the light: this time, it had almost looked like it was laughing at him. The daemon ignored it, confident in their magicks abilities to help them withstand the cold. Bit by bit the snow began to climb higher, causing the daemons legs to sink deeper and deeper, forcing the Hexian to slow down in order to give his staff time to melt a way through.

His path would find itself blocked by a large shape rising in the dark before him, lit only by the dancing borealises: a gigantic construct made from snow shaped to become a behemoth. Opening its mouth, the snowman bellowed, its roar echoing through the night even as a cold northern wind emerged from its mouth.

The creature would then charge at the Hexian, who had to fling themselves to the side into a snowball to avoid its charge. Quickly, the daemon scrambled up, summoning a gout of flame just in time to make the fist of frost headed for his face to flinch enough that the wizard was able to just barely avoid being struck by the snowman, who reared back, retreating from the flame which caused their iceshaved flesh to melt and dissolve. Now, with a little space, the Hexian let out a breath, heart pounding a mile a minute as the creature stared at him wrothfully, eyes shining a vengeful blue. “A guardian, I see,” The Hexian said, letting out a shaky gasp. “You nearly had me: but now you will find your attempts to hurt me for naught. Retreat now and perhaps I will grant you mercy,” They hissed. The creature would no doubt take it: the Hexians attack had melted a massive hole in its torso, after all. Little more would be required to finish it.

The creature gave a stomp, before reaching one of its massive hands into the snow, scooping out a pile and shoving it onto the hole of their body, repairing the damage. The creature gave the hexian a very satisfied look.

Not as planned. Still, the Hexian could still win this. “Very well,” They hissed. “Come at me,” They said, taking a step forward, raising their staff, releasing a ball of psychic-flame and firing it at the construct, who once more began running, taking the hit head on, allowing the sphere of fire to burn through a chunk of their head.

Their fist impacted Mabaxalixes square on, sending the tzeenchian flying through the air, body bouncing on the snow once, twice, before finally impacting a tree, sending all the air from the Hexians chest as they fell to the ground, only barely reacting quick enough to roll out of the way of an attempted pile driving, the beasts elbow impacting the space where a moment ago the Hexians head had been. Desperately, still on the ground, the daemon called upon more of their reserves, creating another gout of flame, forcing the brute back once again, giving them time to rapidly scramble up. Focusing, the daemon summoned will o wisp after will o wisp, drawing deeply from their pool of stamina in a blind frenzy, bombarding the snowman, who attempted to raise their hand to withstand the assault.

Mabaxalixes didn’t relent, however, and slowly, the snowman melted more and more, until all that was left was a puddle. Letting out a slow breath, the Daemon slumped, leaning on their staff.

“Fool,” They hissed. “They were no match for the sorceries of the changer,” They said, before continuing their journey, slowly limping and their flame a little less bright, a little less warm, even as it began to snow, the flakes gently drifting to the ground. They felt a pain in their chest: broken rib, perhaps. Their leg was out of socket. All very interesting maladies for a daemon, though ones it would prefer to experience in a less hazardous location.

It would all be worth it, however: in the distance, they could see it. The outline of a tower, reaching into the sky, illuminated at its zenith with a blue light. Salivating once more, the daemon redoubled their efforts. They weren’t even shivering now: even with their flame weakened, it was if the grip of winter had loosened itself. No doubt a side effect of the throne, thought the Daemon, noting the odd structures they passed: they appeared almost as icy stalagtites, covered over with snow.

No matter, the daemon thought as they got closer, their thoughts growing sluggish. Out of the corner of their eye, the strange hallucinations grew vivider: they still disappeared whenever the daemon turned his gaze directly upon them, yet they were bolder, taking longer to evaporate into nothingness.

Mabaxalixes breathing slowed, and they noted they were starting to feel…to feel warm. Something was…wrong. With each step, their stride slowed, first from a limp, then to a trudge, then even less quick as their body began to feel stiffer and stiffer. Breathing was also getting…getting difficult.

“What…is…this…” He said, finally coming to a halt, body unable to move, stuck leaning upon their staff even as more and more snow began to cover their body. Their flame guttered out, and finally, they had frozen over. For others, perhaps this would be lethal, and yet Mabaxalixes found themselves still conscious: their mind sluggish, but they were still unaware. As they stood petrified, they watched as the tricks of the light finally stepped into the center of his vision. “Who…are…you…” He said, and the simian, white furred creature gave a wide grin with their tombstone teeth, raising a furry hand to their mouth and raising a single finger to their lips as they made a shhhh’ing sound, before walking to one of the stalagtites, dusting some of the snow off and polishing it to reveal a daemon, like him, frozen alive.

With dread, Mabaxalixes figured out what was happening. He was frozen. It was a trap: all around him were others who fell for it, daemons who thought they could weather the unrelenting cold and ice to achieve apotheosis, only to wind up trapped forever.

Mabaxalixes didn’t scream. They couldn’t: their head had begun to freeze over.

((((()))))

Nihmaaraed continued their trek, watching as ice gave way to grass. Infinite, endless grass. Above them, they could see the sun slowly begin to rise in the distance, and with its illumination, Nihmaaraed could see what appeared to be a mobile mountain range: a herd of titanic pachyadermic creatures, each with four to five tusks, carrying upon their back vast islands and massifs, each strangely with their own weather patterns. Some hosted storms, others had the sun shine upon their backs, others yet had given themselves their own umbrella of overcast.

Below them, a variety of smaller creatures wandered. Continuing his trek, the daemon watched as the plains were stalked by smaller, cervidian creatures with galvanic, sparking antlers that, while lesser in stature, were still larger than Nihmaaraed. Occasionally, he would see them be attacked in their herds by strange, multiple-headed canines, or flying beasts that almost resembled bats.

Giving a dry swallow, Nihmaaraed continued their advance. It didn’t take a brilliant mind to deduce the fates of his colleagues other than the Wizard, and the Silver-Clad would rather avoid becoming somethings dinner.

At this point, the Daemon was almost tempted to give up on the whole venture entirely: the only thing keeping them going was pride. It would gall if they had to walk away after all this walking with nothing to show for it.

So they continued, doing their best to follow the directions they had stolen from the wizard before the scheme had even began: it had been difficult, but the daemon had always been painfully arrogant, and while it aggravated Nihmaaraed, they had to admit they played an excellent idiot. Still, they weren’t just a handsome body, and the gambit had paid off.

Occasionally as they walked, they would feel a sudden sense of apprehension. Looking around, each time they were greeted with naught but the sight of the animals going about their business. Caprine walkers would mill about, chewing on plants, the goat-like creatures occasionally walking past the daemon, barely giving them a glance.

And yet still they kept feeling more and more spikes of…anxiety, almost, a deeply foreign sensation. Turning again, in the distance they finally made out a shape that seemed to be approaching them.

“Ah. I’ve secured the attention of a predator,” Nihmaaraed said, shrugging, noting they didn’t seem to be approaching fast. So long as they kept moving, they should be fine. Turning, the daemon continued their trek through the vast grasslands, sun beating down on them.

And yet, as the daystar slowly and lazily continued its trek through the sky, it was if reality and the rules of space had finally spitefully decided to work as normal, making the grassland as big as it seemed.

Still, it didn’t matter: Nihmaaraed was fit, in good condition. They wouldn’t run out of stamina, nor would they be laid low by the environment. Glancing behind them now and again, they noted the thing following them appeared to be getting closer. No matter. The daemon would just need to sprint. Taking a deep breath, the Silver took off at a run, moving quickly over the grasslands. For hours they would keep this up, until the sun finally dipped below the horizon, continuing as the moon began to rise.

Eventually, they would slow down, finally having ran out of breath. Taking deep gasps of air, they looked behind them, noting they couldn’t see anything. Good. They had outran them. Giving a chuckle, the daemon fell to the ground, rear falling to the dirt. Deciding to take a rest, the daemon would close their eyes. They didn’t need to sleep, but the effort of travel still took its toll, and he needed to regain his stamina.

For several hours, the daemon rested, until through their lids they saw a distant glow. Opening them, they saw the sun begin to rise again. Standing up, they idly swatted at a bug that had bit them: it had been hard enough to break skin, causing black ichor to drip, but not hard enough to hurt.

Continuing to walk, they quickly and annoyedly began to note the insects were out in force today: various biting things, resembling overly large ticks. Every fifty feet or so he felt one chew into him, forcing him to waste time and energy pulling them off.

All day, this would continue, covering the silverclad in more and more welts and swollen bug bites, a few of which had begun to rash up, causing some sort of allergic reaction, one that slowly but surely caused an unfamiliar, unpleasant sensation. It flickered across the skin, dancing, causing it to shiver and shake. It demanded he bring his hands, once perfectly manicured, to scrape across the surface of his dermis as hard and as sharp as he could manage in order to achieve any sort of relief: and yet the moment he scraped and scratched at one area, another area would be subject to the torturous sensation.

It was horrible. Pain, pain the daemon could deal with, but this was something it had no context for: no matter how much he attempted to claw his skin, the feeling wouldn’t recede. Slapping at a flying bug that had landed and stuck a probiscus into his shoulder, he saw to his dismay his shoulder begin to swell and bulge, an uncomfortable stiffness overtaking it.

Walking faster, the daemon began to scrape and scratch harder and harder, causing welts in their increasingly raw and horrifically ITCHY skin. This would stop as they were hit by another wave of unease, causing them to stop, their eyes flicking around until they saw, in the distance, the shape again.

Giving a growl of frustration, the daemon turned and began to run again: just had to spend the day escaping it. Surely it would give up on the third day of the chase. Once more, the sun slowly began to travel, and Nihmaaraed realized they didn’t have as much stamina.

This is fine, the daemon told themselves. They had plenty of energy still. By the time they finally ran out of stamina, the moon was finally in the sky. Sliding to a stop, slapping another bug off of themselves, the Silverclad sat down, resting again, occasionally finding themselves attacked by more and more insects over the course of the night. By the time the sun rose, they found they had gotten far less rest than they would have liked. Still, it would be enough.

Continuing their trek, they eventually passed into a herd of beasts, giant swine like beasts covered in orange mushroom caps who seemed to be digging in the ground, occasionally pulling something up and eating it. Walking towards them, once he passed a certain threshold, they turned their head, the two of them closest to him letting out a growl. Rolling his eyes, the Silverclad altered his course minutely to let him walk around the beast.

The closer he got, the louder and louder they growled, until finally one of them finally charged the silverclad, slamming into his gut and knocking him to the ground. Attempting to rise, Nihmaaraed would find their vision being obstructed by the pair of hooves coming down on his face as he found himself mauled by three to five feral squogs for thirty to fifty minutes.

By the time they had relented, huffing and walking away from the daemon, they lied in a crater. Their vision was blurry. They had several broken bones. They may have potentially been afflicted with dain bramage. Rising, the Silverclad blinked, feeling their unease rise. Looking around, in the distance they could see their stalker again. A giant, bipedial lizard, possessed of a massive, crested head covered in eyes and a long, sloping body covered in a multicolor swirl of feathers ending in a heavy tail. Slowly the tyrant lizard continued its gait, and the Silverclad gave a dry swallow, turning to continue their flight…

Only to fall over, as their legs were broken. Digging their fingers into the ground, the slaaneshi began to drag themselves through the dirt. And yet, this desperate attempt wasn’t enough. Hour by hour passed, and each time the Silverclad turned, they saw the tyrant lizard closer and closer.

By the time the moon began to rise, his body had finally given out, from the bugs, from the injuries, from sheer fatigue. Turning, the Daemon watched helplessly as the pursuit hunter reached him. Sniffing, the tyrant lizard lowered its head to smell him, even as the daemon glared at the creature. “I hate this stupid plane-”

The beast brought its teeth down on Nihmaaraed’s head, and everything went dark.

((((())))))

AN: This took forever. It was cool though. Decided to run with ya'lls attempt at recruiting daemons for Nurburgen's section. Anyways, like every other commission in this vein, this presumes a significant investment in wyld and spirit related stuff. As far as the biomes chosen go, I mostly went with what would be thematically resonant. Anyways, this will be posted publically tommorow.