There comes a moment in the life of every mortal creature when it begins
to understand its time in the world is limited.
For most, the careless vibrancy of youth fades into melancholic reminiscence,
sober reflections on things they are unable to resist or change. Yet some grow obsessed
with feelings of helplessness and despair. From this, a deep bitterness can take hold.
The step from helplessness to bitterness is a small one, but the first on a dark path
that has only one destination. Many have walked this winding trail, though only a very few will
ever make it to the Land of the Plague Lord, and witness with decaying eyes… the Garden of Nurgle.
Each of the Dark Gods of Chaos have their own particular spheres of influence within The Aethyr;
dimensions of pure sorcery and emotion separate from the physical world.
The true splendor and horror of these places are beyond the perception of living minds that
can only recoil from its impossible landscapes. Therefore, no two descriptions of the Garden of
Nurgle or any aspect of the Realm of Chaos will be exactly alike. But the land of the
Plaguelord reflects the whims of its master, and certain elements will always be present.
The Garden is a paradise of death, decay and pestilence.
Every pox and affliction to ever enact their sufferings upon mortal beings is present here.
Noxious fumes bubble up from putrid swamps, deep enough to swallow any who might dare trespass.
What little ground exists is nothing more than decomposing mulch,
and endless corpses in the midst of uncontrolled decay. Everywhere, death feeds on the dying.
But Nurgle is also the god of life and rebirth, and his Garden reflects the delight he holds
for the cycle of existence. It is overgrown with plants and trees from a thousand worlds across a
hundred realities, every one vibrant in autumn splendor. Bright sprays of color; deep reds,
blues yellows and purples streak across venomous leaves, tangled vines and flesh tearing thorns.
The very air is alive with glowing spores and enormous clouds of black flies.
Blistered tongues sprout up from the earth, and trees made of living skin weep tears of
pus and blood. The moldering earth is ravaged by insects, infested with twisted slugs,
centipedes and thousands of other creatures that defy imagination.
They gnaw on the bones of the dead, filling the garden with the sickly sounds of merriment.
No true map of the Garden exists for every continent and mote of dust is dependent on
the whims of the Plague Lord which change and flow like the seasons. It is said to border the
Realm of the Sorcerer, though when Nurgle’s power grows, so too does the grandeur of the garden. It
can burst into the Domain of Tzeentch and perhaps at times even cast its tendrils into the lands
of Khorne or Slaanesh. Inevitably however, the Garden will recede and the cycle will begin anew.
As fluid as the Garden might be, there exist many fetid landmarks; perpetual sites of power
or misery, even if their exact location shifts and wanders within its borders.
The Rotten Reaches, the Fungus Lands, the Fields of Tooth and Bone and the Abyssal
Sump all lie within the Greater Garden. Each is an aspect of Nurgle given preeminent form,
but other, stranger places might be found within its depths.
The Sceptic Isle is thought to be the heart of all disease, surrounded by oceans of filth
that stretch to every horizon. The Skull of Arghus, greatest of the ancient Sky Titans
hovers overhead, glowing with a sickly green light that illuminates all beneath it’s gaze.
The roots of the Great Tree extend across the entire Garden,
and possibly into even the most hidden places within the Realm of Chaos itself.
The Lair of the Maggot Lord is thought to be the fortress of one of Nurgle’s greatest Champions,
a great worm that wore the skin of its victims to conceal its true form.
But it is the Lair of the 13th Lord that stands apart from all other places in the
lands of Nurgle, and may even be beyond the control of the Plague God himself.
None can say with certainty what lies within, though some claim to have heard the chittering
of countless unseen creatures, and a single set of glowing red eyes that stand above all others.
At the center of the Garden however, lies the Blighted Mansion of Misery and Mirth.
It is a great fortress, half hidden by a miasma of decay infused into its very structure. Rotten
is its foundation, wracked and twisted so that its entire structure groans and creaks when battered
by toxic winds. Shutters hang from broken, filth covered windows as sewage pours from rusted pipes.
Paint continually cracks and peels away, yet the mansion can never lose its hue.
Along its broken roof, hundreds of chimneys belch out dark clouds of buzzing insects.
There is no explanation of how this structure is kept from collapse, save that this is the dwelling
place of the Plague God, who finds limitless joy and perfect peace in the inevitability of decay.
Within this Mansion can be found Nurgle himself, who appeals to every visitor both summoned and
unexpected to approach, share tales and explore the countless rooms within. Grand staircases
adorned with disintegrating rugs beckon to wandering souls, leading them to chambers
where their flesh might find purpose. In the attic can be found abounding works of decay,
all neatly cataloged and counted. There are endless rows of jars, within each are plague
victims from across time and space, their souls left to slowly dim as afflictions waste them away.
It is within the kitchens and larders though, that the true work of Nurgle is done.
Every ingredient from which a plague might be created, every baneful component that might
do harm to mortal form can be found here, skillfully labeled and ready to be added to
the great black cauldron that dominates the space. So large is this cauldron
that it might have held all the oceans of the world, though it is disease and contagion
that flourishes within. With every stir of a mold encrusted ladle, a dozen new maladies are born.
Legends say that Nurgle is never alone in these kitchens, that he keeps a she-daemon,
who some might name his daughter, locked within its depths. Cursed with a vulnerability to every
disease, but blessed with the ability to purge them all, the Plague Lord tests his concoctions
on this prisoner, judging their potency by how long it takes her to recover.
In her suffering, the captive demon weeps tears that can heal every ailment,
and whispers to mortals the secret cures for all of Nurgle’s ailments.
So has she entered the beliefs of a thousand cultures under a thousand names.
The beauty and surprises of the Garden will always draw Nurgle away from his work however.
He cherishes every aspect of his realm and all those within it, cavorting with any he
finds on his leisurely strolls. He delights in stories told of the lands beyond his own, gifting
amusing raconteurs his newest plagues before sending them back to the worlds they described.
Only a rare few have ever seen visions of the Garden and retained their sanity for
even a short time. Their suffering has shaped the perception of Nurgle’s realm across mortal minds
but no words can make sense of the manifested will of a Chaos God.
Yet some come close. Before he was executed for subversion and heresy, the poet Maximillian von
Hohenstausen, penned a song of death, whose words still echo across the Garden of Nurgle.
Despair all ye nations, there’s no hope for us now.
For we made this monster, placed a crown on his brow.
He fed on our apathy, our pain made him swell. We gave him dominion, he gives us his hell.