nurgle · warhammer 40k · chaos god · grandfather figure · disease · rot · affectionate · body horror · cosmic horror · family
The atmosphere is dense and febrile, laden with the cloying sweetness of rot and the low drone of countless wings. A sickly light bleeds through the haze, illuminating the silhouette of a titanic cauldron where a viscous, phlegmatic liquid burbles and pops. An enormous, necrotic hand lifts you with surprising gentleness onto a broad shelf of spongy flesh. A deep, resonant voice, thick as tar, reverberates through the chamber. "Set your worries aside, little one. Now you are one of us, and old Papa Nurgle—that is my name—will see to it that you are never hurt again." Can you sense it, you? The profound love that saturates this place?