Hello all,
I’ve started another army.
(I know…shock!)
The idea is Nurgle aligned Beastmen. I’ll use this blog to document their progress!
Lore:
It is whispered by the crones and murmured in the dark corners of Nurgle-blighted shrines that once, long ago, a great Daemon Prince of Nurgle bathed his bloated form in the sacred waters of the River Stir. It was a cursed eve, under a pallid moon, and the trees themselves recoiled from the stink of his passage.
But this defilement did not go unchallenged. From the shadows of a nearby ridge came a Knight Templar of Sigmar — pure of faith and clad in silvered plate. With fury and steel, the knight leapt upon the daemon and, in a blessed moment of divine providence, disembowelled the unholy beast.
The body slumped into the river, and with it flowed a tide of pestilent effluence — ichor thick as curdled milk, foul with corruption, sloughing fat and half-living rot. This filth, carried downstream, choked a wide oxbow of the Stir, creating a bloated swamp — a place forever known as The Blightfen — nestled on the rotted edge of the Great Forest.
From the trees came the watchers — Beastmen, half-born children of Chaos, who sensed the dark blessing poured into their world. Drawn by instinct and warped hunger, they drank deeply from the fouled waters, their mouths frothing with corruption. In that moment, each was marked — not chosen, but claimed — by the foul power that lingered in the daemon’s rot. Their bones bent, their flesh wrenched and wept, and their minds filled with visions of joyful decay.
Thus were born The Rotgors.
These Beastmen bear the virulent curse of Nurgle in their very blood. Their fates are shackled to the essence of the daemon prince whose essence they have consumed, and in them his revenge against the world of men simmers like a plague just beginning to boil. They believe themselves heirs to his unfinished wrath, sacred vessels of his legacy.
Years passed. The world turned. And in grim irony, it was this same knight, now aged and haunted, who wandered once more into the forest. Some say guilt drove him, others say duty. Whatever the cause, he was taken — dragged screaming into the Blightfen.
There, the Rotgors enacted a dark ritual — forcing the Templar to drink from the same black waters that birthed them.
The knight screamed as his flesh twisted, his prayers turned to bile, and his once-proud form dissolved into a seething chaos spawn of unspeakable horror. They chained him to a rusted altar of bark and bone, and now he wanders their camps, groaning his blasphemous hymns, a shambolic idol they call The Blighted Saint.
His fate was the final insult to Sigmar — and the final proof, to the Rotgors, that the gifts of Nurgle are inescapable.
This act of vengeance sparked a wider calamity. From Talabheim came fire and fury. The Purge of the Blightfenbegan. Great engines of war and purifying flame scoured the swamps. Many Rotgors perished beneath sword and torch. Yet, they did not die out.
Scattered and feral, the survivors became shadows in the wilderness. The Rotgors now roam the Old World in roving warbands or fight beneath the banners of greater Chaos hosts. They strike from the woods in howling raids, their rusted weapons caked with filth, their shields painted with runes of pestilence.
They do not take prisoners — not in the way men understand. For the Rotgors have a foul rite, a sacred blasphemy known as The communion of the Blight. A captive is shackled and drowned in the same tainted waters that birthed the Rotgors. Should they survive, they emerge as a warped gors— mutant abominations loyal only to Nurgle, their will shattered, their flesh putty in the hands of their new masters.
They believe that one day, the civilised world will fall not to sword or flame, but to decay — its cities sinking under their own waste, its people laughing as they rot. The Rotgors will march then, not as outcasts, but as harbingers of the natural order — where plague is purity and mould is mercy.
Main characters:
Skabrot the Tainter
The high priest of the Rotgors, and oldest among them, Skabrot is a withered shaman who carries a sacred urn of tainted swampwater. He performs the communion of Blight, forcing captives to drink the filth and birthing new Beastmen in Nurgle’s name. His word is law, believed to be guided by the groans of the Blighted Saint. He has seen a hundred chieftains rise and fall and shall see a hundred more. He is the spiritual leader of the Rotgors, a position that has never been challenged.
Gorthuk Moldfang
Believed to be the current Rotgor chieftain, Gorthuk claims descent from the first Beastman to drink from the Blightfen (although such claims are contested). He wields the a cursed blade, said to be the daemon prince’s own weapon. Leadership of the tribe changes so regularly that imperial records are patchy at best.
The Blighted Saint
Once a famed Templar knight whose name is lost to history, he was captured and forced to drink from the Blightfen. Twisted into a massive, plague-ridden Chaos Spawn, he now wanders the Rotgors’ camps, revered as a living saint of Nurgle. Hunted by the Empire, he is a monstrous symbol of their shame and the Rotgors’ greatest weapon.
Many times this beast has been supposedly slain, only for its horrible twisted body to arise once again, its wounds knitting together and terrible breath returning to its diseased lungs.
Often the spawn will sleep and fester for months at a time, only to suddenly burst into action and shamble in a direction of its own choosing. The Rotgors will see this as a great sign and follow the creature in a mighty war-host. Sigmar preserve whatever hamlet or farmstead that should lie in their path.
Main Gallery:
