Let's reject Nurgle, my cute little ones ... Like Nurgle loves her children! As Nurgle loves his little ones ...
- Excerpt from inscriptions scribbled in letters of blood from floor to ceiling in the home of a rich landowner near Nuln. The human wreckage found there moaned, uttered incomprehensible borborygms and seemed to be as damaged in his mind as his body was atrociously mutilated. What remained of this man seemed to triturate with love these many gangrenous wounds, and no one tried to find out how his hands had disappeared.
FOR THE LORD OF DECAY!
It is difficult to understand how one can turn to the worship of Nurgle because this God incarnates rot and despair in its most horrible forms. When an epidemic devastated a community, Grandfather Nurgle was gausse. When a wounded man dies, the stench of Nurgle is never far away. It symbolizes the suffering experienced by every man and woman of the Empire, the fear aroused when a strange outgrowth of flesh appears and grows, when a wound takes on airs of suppurating wound to the hints of death. So why turn to such a foul God? Out of desperation, quite simply.
To understand the power of Nurgle and the place it occupies in the Old World, one must first grasp the way people see the disease. Every epidemic is a curse. It is the lot of those who have a defect, whether it is by birth (most of the epidemics erupt within the roture) or linked to a defect of character. To make matters worse, the sufferers spread their evil to others, to the guilty as well as to the innocent. The only way to deal with the sick is to catch them as contagious and drive them out.
Reactions to the disease began during the Black Death of 1111. This virulent epidemic spread from town to town, sweeping entire communities and literally emptying the countryside. It struck all classes, all sexes and people of all ages. It was a brutal killer, and the Empire could do nothing to stop its spread. If historians put this epidemic on the backs of rats, this calamity has left traces in the minds of the inhabitants of the Old World, the fear of a new wave of disease still shaping the behaviors against it.
When an epidemic occurs, the city forces drive out the sick for fear that contagion will spread. It is customary for these patients to carry a bell around their necks to warn everyone of their condition, and thus allow passers-by time to depart. When the number of bells available is not enough, the sick should shout "Contagious! "Approaching any community. Otherwise, they are liable to death. Due to the hostility it provokes, the disease is not only a death sentence, but also a curse, as many people believe. The sick are driven from their homes and condemned to wandering, depending on alms. Thus, when they do not die of their evil, most perish of exhaustion, cold or hunger.
For centuries, Shallya's priestesses have been working hard to alleviate the suffering of the sick, the fruit of their good works appearing in large cities. Thanks to their efforts, when an epidemic falls on a city, it is closed until the storm has passed. Although this type of quarantine cuts supplies of food, fresh water and basic necessities, people can at least die at home.
But what is a man supposed to do when a nasty bubon appears under the armpit or on the groin? Many should logically look for a physician (whose services are expensive) or a merciful priestess, but few have the option (and even less the gold needed). Realizing that they will never recover and that their fate is sealed, many are overwhelmed by despair. Panic ensues and they try to escape by all means. And that's where Nurgle most often comes in. The latter promises to put an end to the sufferings, to slow the spread of the evil, to relieve the patient in his new form. And given the pitiless nature of the Empire, all relief is welcome.
Le Grand Corrupteur s'efforce d'étendre sa présence dans le monde entier via la peste et la crasse, et son plus ardent désir est de voir le Vieux Monde transformé en une fosse pestilentielle de mort, de décrépitude et de maladie. Il perçoit de la beauté dans toutes les choses immondes, se délectant de l'éclat brillant d'une pustule palpitante et exultant devant la pâleur cireuse d'un mortel succombant à l'une de ses nombreuses contagions. Il considère qu'il est de son devoir de réveiller la beauté secrète qui dort en toute chose, dévoilant les splendeurs cachées de la dégénérescence. Pour le Seigneur des Mouches, la beauté peut être éveillée par ses caresses, et il cherche donc à embellir le monde de sa main bénie. Que gémissent les fous, qu'ils grincent des dents, s'arrachent les cheveux quand la peste balaiera leurs terres et que leurs villes et leurs villages ne soient plus que cendres et décombres ! Ceux qui vénèrent Nurgle se réjouissent de voir leur maître à l'ouvrage, ils ont accepté la futilité de le défier en voulant échapper à la ruine qu'il apporte et ont préféré embrasser les plaisirs de la corruption et de l'entropie. Nurgle est plus généreux en léguant ses maladies aux mortels, qu’il considère avec une grande affection (d’où son sobriquet de « Grand Père »), et il s'assure que riches comme pauvres puissent profiter égalitairement des fruits de son labeur.
Les disciples de Nurgle sont soumis à peu de commandements en dehors de l'obligation de répandre la maladie et le désespoir dans le monde. Ses préceptes sont les suivants :
Chercher de nouvelles formes de corruption, car ce sont les bénédictions et les signes de la faveur de Grand-Père Nurgle.
Enseigner au monde la générosité et l'amour de Nurgle. Ne pas être avare de ses dons et les partager dès qu'on le peut.
Chercher la beauté en toute chose et, quand on la trouve, s'en réjouir d'une grande allégresse.
Et quand on trouve la beauté, lui faire atteindre la perfection en partageant les bienfaits de Nurgle.
Plaindre ceux qui adorent le Seigneur du Changement, car ils ne connaissent pas le vrai sens de l'extase. Ne jamais manquer de leur transmettre les plus merveilleux des dons, pour partager avec eux l'essence de l'affliction.
Nurgle is truly the Master of Pestilence, for his immense carcass is the receptacle of all diseases known to mortals. In the eyes of his worshipers, this God appears in the form of a massive creature, puffy and sclerotic, infested with blisters, crusts and buboes, and releasing an unbearable stench. Its green skin, parchment, necrotic, infested with sores and lesions, is suppurative of pus. It is surrounded by a cloud of flies, each of which carries the mark of the divinity on its shell. Its internal organs overflowing with rotting droppings hang softly from its gaping wounds like over-ripe fruit. Minuscule Demons-the Nurglings-sprang from it incessantly, and amuse themselves by chewing the distended guts or sucking with delight the viscous humours which escape from them. His puffy face with the sly look is often split with an ironic smile from which overcomes an immensely long tongue terminated by a little deformed face. Two large horns, yellowed, chipped, and incrusted with dried blood and ignoble substances, grow on his head, near which many plump flies buzz. Nurgle loves his own face (a bubbling and pustular face to the brim) and his Demons are often miniature versions of their master. He constantly displays a kind smile of contentment. Sitting on his throne, he caresses and cajoles his henchmen, submerging them with affectionate little names while crushing hundreds of them, under his weight or a trivial little reverse of his suppurative hand. Such is the appearance of Nurgle, although words are not sufficient to describe his abominable aspect, but in spite of his sickening aspect, Nurgle is astonishingly robust and full of impious energy.
Nurgle, obsessed with his incessant fetid experiments, seems to care little about the Divine Game, and when he goes to parley with his brothers at the Court of Trier, he is always depicted as a jester, the too - good - talkative friend to his brothers. Yet his subtly enthusiastic humor undermines the plans of the other Chaos gods: he drags Khorne into unreflecting fury, disrupts Tzeentch's insidious train of thought, and distracts Slaanesh from his gentle shenanigans. In parallel, Nurgle's own plots slowly spread like a contagious fever. In truth, his benign nature masks his true opinions. The imprudent desire for destruction of Khorne upsets him, Nurgle having a patient and beneficent heart. The indolent nature of Slaanesh disgusts the Lord of the Plague, who is always feverishly busy in his studio. However, he reserves the bulk of his wrath towards Tzeentch, which represents evolution, fluid movement and instantaneous change, while Nurgle loves delights gradually acquiring maturity and the moldy fragrance of stagnation. These two deities engage in a struggle on a galactic scale, and whatever the conqueror, the material world will only suffer.
In the Desolations of Chaos, wild men of the cult of Great Nurgle welcome the benefits of God as a deliverer, for he gives his faithful adherents deliverance from the sufferings of their afflictions. Some tribes devote themselves entirely to the Lord of Putrefaction, nourishing their wounds, spreading their diseases and waging war against those who refuse to recognize him as superior to other gods. The Powers of the Ruin play their game in the desolations of the north, dipping it with blood crimson by many carnage. Although Nurgle's Chaos Warriors and his Champions are not as bloody as Khorne's, or as cunning and agile as Tzeentch's and Slaanesh's, they are very tough fighters: it's hard to kill someone whose Sick flesh renders it insensible to pain.
However, it is in the Old World that the Great Game is really played, and it is in this arena that Nurgle really excels. The call of Khorne is reserved for those maddened by the thirst for blood, Tzeentch attracts magicians and those who prosper by cunning and lies, and Slaanesh attracts the degenerates. On the other hand, all mortals can feel the presence of Nurgle. The Lord of Decadence is a patient player: it takes time to brew his wounds, but his influence is spreading gradually throughout the world. The cults of Nurgle rotted the heart of the Empire, weakening the strength of the Emperor's armies and the morale of his civilian subjects, by spreading the disease. A cough can bring a general to his knees, resulting in a loss of local command. A sneeze can decimate an entire city. When these subtle measures fail, the cultists can tear the veil between reality and the Chaos Realms, summoning the Demons of Nurgle with their contagions.
Although the Chaos Realms protocol places Nurgle at a lower rank than Khorne and Tzeentch, it does not mean that it is weaker than its brothers: its power is simply less stable. Indeed, Nurgle's place within the pantheon of the Gods of Chaos is inevitably linked to the fulfillment of his works in the material world. At the height of the epidemics, his power reaches its zenith, eclipsing for a time the united power of all the other gods. Because of this, Nurgle inspires a tinged respect for his brothers. On the other hand, the nature of its power is such that it will always end up completely consuming its victims, thus preventing contamination from spreading further. It is at this moment that the strength of the God of the Plague is diminishing and its plans are crumbling, but one thing is certain: its viruses are never totally eradicated and their spores have often had the opportunity to spread , Waiting to wake up to wreak havoc and swell the ranks of Nurgle followers with new outbreaks of street infections.
I observe it. I discern in your eyes the hatred concealed by your precious gestures. I'm listening to you. I know the terrible blackness behind your clever lies. I'm waiting for you at the border of madness. I savor the suffering of your mind, your desire to solve this enigma. It is in the darkest abysses of your soul that I nestled myself. In this darkness I await my hour. I wait patiently for the moment when your eyes will open and you will realize that it is only by my will that you breathe. For I am Tzeentch, and you are only a puppet who dances to the sound of my melody. "
Sphere of Influence: Hope
Other Titles: Master of Change, Great Conspirator, Master of Chance, Architect of Fate, Great Instigator, Master of Magic, Whom Whispers Words of Power
Seat: the Impossible Fortress
Famous Cults: the Purple Hand, the Red Crown, the Silver Wheel, the Knights of Tzeentch of Kaldour
Sacred figure: the 9
Symbols: The symbol of Tzeentch is a sphere framed by a strange and sinuous seal, although its worshipers sometimes use the Seeing All Eye, a suitable symbol for the Architect of Destiny. Magicians recognize his magic power and fear his sinister power. Those who look at this symbol too long swear that it is convulse and palpitates before their eyes, a spectacle that risks in the long term to provoke madness.
Sacred Colors: Tzeentch's colors are bright and screaming, with a special emphasis on bright yellow, sparkling blue and gold.
Sacred Animal: Birds of all kinds, and especially crows and condors, are sacred for Tzeentch. Some of the mutations he particularly likes to inflict on his worshipers are turning their heads into a deformed eagle, giving them multicolored wings, or changing their hands and feet into curved greenhouses.
Sacred Days: It is almost impossible to predict the sacred days of Tzeentch. The worshipers are supposed to memorize a fluctuating list of numbers, representing the intervals between the sacred days. There always seems to be a guideline in this sequence, but no one has ever managed to define it precisely. Generally, the Magus of each cult is content to announce the new series of numbers after receiving a vision or some sort of divine message.
Tzeentch is an enigma for most inhabitants of the Old World. What is known is that God defines change, representing the process of transformation. Change is the very essence of Chaos, and Tzeentch's pretensions to all who worship Chaos are thus partly justified, for without transformation a warrior could not attain excellence, the Gods would be incapable of giving their rewards and The living would be immortal.
Venerated by the Magicians, Mesmers and a not insignificant number of cultists, he is considered by his disciples as a means and not an end, a path leading to incredible powers if one is willing to pay the exorbitant price. Tzeentch embodies alteration, which is the very essence of Chaos, as well as the mutating energy to which mortals give the name of Magic. Even though the northern barbarians sometimes call it Tchar, if it is Tchen to the far east and Shunch in the southern jungles, these names are all synonymous with change. He is everywhere the Great Instigator, a subtle and omniscient manipulator whose complex plans span thousands of years and are irretrievably inexplicable and contradictory in the eyes of mortals; The puppeteer who draws the strings of the Destiny from his worshipers as from their enemies; The Embroiderer of Destinies, who weaves a tangled web to arrive at his incomprehensible ends; The Great Conspirator, murmuring diabolical advice in the ears of monarchs, and encouraging murderous ambition and rebellion in their subjects; The Architect of Change, who observes with fascination how the mortal flesh perverts itself to its touch and how nature abandons itself to its anarchic imagination.
Tzeentch is almost as powerful as Khorne, but his powers follow a different axis. He is the master of Magic and subtlety. It is Tzeentch who maintains the Kingdoms of Chaos out of time and space, and it is he who presides over the destiny of the material universe. His real designs are impenetrable and if he tries to dominate his brothers, his methods are at least indirect, and he seems to prefer to use others as a pawn to carry out his plans. His endeavors are always complex and obscure and he is the principal artisan of the secret alliances between the Gods.
Tzeentch weaves the fate of mortals as if they were merely vulgar dolls, dragging them into a cruel game of his own. Royal and horrible at the same time, he pulls the strings of Magic and fate from his kingdom, scrutinizing the skein of the future and the past to manipulate the world as he pleases. He is the most generous of the Gods of Chaos, granting favors to all who ask for it, but the price of his presents is the worst. He is the master of lies and subterfuge, secret powers behind the scenes, sinister pacts and duped markets. Tzeentch is the greatest magical source of Chaos, and many of his servants are Black Magisters or individuals who play with the occult forces. Even those who turn away from him recognize him as a primordial source of magic, for Tzeentch is universally recognized as the Frightful God of Magic. He is associated with all magicians, and also with those who seek power to satisfy their personal designs. Tzeentch mocks whoever invokes him, as long as this person is ready to pass a Faustian pact that will allow him to gain power and magical knowledge in exchange for his will and soul.
The Great Sorcerer is not inclined to act lightly, for he is too busy with his contemplations. He prefers to delegate tasks to his valets. Tzeentch can remain motionless for decades in the midst of a sea of swirling, multicolored haze, obsessed with the observation of the bottomless depths of the Well of Eternity, examining each reflection of its sparkling surface in search of clues about the Events to come. Most of his attention is devoted to the world of mortals, for of all the gods of Chaos, Tzeentch is most fascinated by this other kingdom.
In the eyes of the Architect of Change, mortals have an immeasurable talent for deceit and duplicity, even if they spend most of their lives without noticing the contradictions that jostle in their minds. The potential of mortals attracts the Great Conspirator, and he can not help but interfere in their world, sometimes as part of the Divine Game, but most often to satisfy his irrepressible need to manipulate and influence things. It is possible that Tzeentch is totally demented, and that he aborts his own companies in universes and plans that he alone can perceive. This is perhaps the most terrifying truth of all, for it would mean that the world is only an expression of his madness.
When Tzeentch comes out of his reverie, betrayal, mutation, dementia and conflicts fall on the world.
Now I will go and swap to this because you know tzeench he is impossible to describe (he change every ****ing time, but teh impossible forteress is a symbol of his madness also it is not said but the interior of th einetrior froteress is made of pure void XD it **** with the laws of physic to a degree that is beyond immagination...)
Limite de caractères (5000) dépassée de 155 :
es prévalant dans le monde - les virus et les bactéries - soient hostiles à toutes les autres formes de vie, qu'elles soient humaines, Naines ou autres.
The Impossible Fortress of Tzeentch lies in the heart of the Crystal Labyrinth, beyond anyone's reach, except those whose madness has given them a glimpse of its true nature. Its exact appearance varies according to the aspirations of the contemplator. Some see walls made of the same crystal as the labyrinth, others perceive barriers of blue flames, or ramparts of azure stone. Anyway, the Impossible Fortress constantly changes shape. The turns and the minarets retract until they disappear, then they reappear elsewhere before disappearing again. Doors, windows and other openings appear in the walls to evaporate the next moment. This schema obeys no logic, for the changing architecture of the Fortress is linked to the machinations of Tzeentch, and these can not be predicted, and even less understood.
The interior of the citadel is just as disturbing as the exterior. Its rooms and corridors do not obey the same laws and may even belong to different dimensions. The gravity of a piece can be reversed as soon as one enters the next, when it does not follow another temporal cycle, or even a state of mind, such as sadness, despair or curiosity. If a mortal succeeded in penetrating into Impossible Fortress, he would quickly become mad to bind, but how could it be otherwise when one can go back in time simply by crossing a door? Those who succumb to the visions of the palace of Tzeentch dissipate into the air when their body and their consciousness implode. They are reborn in the form of Families, which are offered to the champions of God in the world of mortals.
The strangeness of the Impossible Fortress escapes the Demons themselves; Only the Dukes of Change can go there. Through this, whatever Tzeentch's involvement in the Divine Game, he is never worried. The other gods have lost too many servants in trying to cross even the first halls, and the citadel counts more than a hundred to negotiate before an assailant finally reaches the Secret Library, where the God is found Himself, intriguing without rest. Tzeentch can remain motionless for decades in the midst of a sea of swirling, multicolored haze, obsessed with the observation of the bottomless depths of the Well of Eternity, examining each reflection of its sparkling surface in search of clues On upcoming events. However, the Secret Library is never totally silent, although there is a certain ethereal tranquility. While the Great Conspirator contemplates the infinity of probabilities, Dukes of Change with colorful feathers link spells and enchantments of all kinds to grimmages of flames. Around them Horrors are busy carving the Impossible fortress with Magic, and reinforce or transform its structure until the next phase of their God's plans.
Yess he ****ing can.... IT won't even affect him.... even if he is out of his forteress of **** law of physic, even if he possess the corpse of a sister of silence he would still not be affected at ****ing all, he doesn't even need to repel it.