A Wraith in Twilight
There are few names spoken in Middle-earth with such dread as the Witch-king of Angmar, Lord of the Nazgûl.
Once, he was a mighty sorcerer-king, corrupted by a Ring of Power gifted by Sauron, now neither living nor dead. Bound to will alone. A tyrant of dread. The captain of Barad-dûr's malice.
But after his fall at the hands of Éowyn and the prophecy fulfilled — no man would slay him — the world shifted.
He was not annihilated. Not truly.
Some wraiths are bound too deep.
As his essence dissolved, caught between undeath and damnation, the Warp opened like a wound. And the Witch-king was devoured.
The Garden of Excess and Decay
The first thing he noticed was the sensation.
Not pain. Not pleasure.
But the memory of both. Intoxicating and revolting at once.
He stood in a realm of mirrors and rot, where every reflection showed a different version of him: crowned, broken, worshipped, forgotten.
Before him, two entities approached.
One shimmered like lust given shape — a towering greater daemon of Slaanesh, its beauty so divine it burned the eyes and seduced the soul.
The other waddled forward like a rotten god-child — the greater daemon of Nurgle, joyous in its filth, flies buzzing in orbit like twisted halos.
"You are a creature of torment," Slaanesh whispered, voice both male and female. "You understand fear, and how it tastes when it breaks."
"You are also patient," Nurgle chuckled. "A spirit of persistence, of rot that lives through ages."
"You seek dominion over life, and death," Slaanesh cooed.
"You deny peace, even in decay," Nurgle added.
"And now," they said as one, "you are here. For trial. To see if you are worthy of a gift. Or if you are to be unmade."
The Witch-king did not speak.
He merely raised his blade.
Trial of Slaanesh: Echoes of Terror
He was dropped into an illusion.
He stood in a realm made of screams — pleasure, pain, ecstasy, horror — echoing back at him like a chorus of all the fears he'd ever inspired.
Victims from Middle-earth appeared before him.
Women who died screaming his name. Warriors who broke under his blade. Innocents who burned beneath his will.
But now they laughed. Not in joy, but in mockery.
"Was fear all you had?" they asked.
"A tyrant without a throne?"
"A wraith without worship?"
He knelt — not in weakness, but in fury — and unleashed his Black Breath, a fear so ancient it bent the illusion. The laughter turned to shrieks.
The world melted under his will, and he walked forward, unflinching.
Slaanesh's daemon purred in delight.
"You fear nothing. Not even irrelevance. That... is beautiful."
Trial of Nurgle: Embrace of Endless Decay
Then came rot.
The Witch-king was placed in a tomb that never closed.
A thousand years passed in seconds, then again.
Moss grew on his armor. Mold on his blade. Maggots ate what little essence he had left.
Yet he stood.
He never begged.
He never screamed.
Even as his spirit was slowly digested, he whispered incantations in the Black Speech of Mordor, strengthening himself.
He refused peace. He chose persistence.
Nurgle's daemon waddled closer, wheezing with admiration.
"You are like us. A plague that will not fade. How sweet you will be when you finally rot forever."
A Gift... and a Curse
Slaanesh offered him a blade of desire — one that cuts not flesh, but the will to resist.
Nurgle offered him a cloak of shadowrot — an aura of despair so thick it withers resolve, even in daemons.
He accepted both with a bow that was not of submission, but of strategy.
He knew he would need every weapon in the games to come.
He was now no longer just a Nazgûl. He was something far worse.
A specter of temptation and ruin. A wraith-lord that existed to pervert life and death alike.
The Whisper of the Clown
Later — whether by accident or design — he heard a laughter through the Warp.
Faint. Mocking. Familiar in its chaos.
A name passed through the decaying winds.
Joker.
The one the gods had chosen first.
He saw a glimpse — a mortal painted like a madman, spreading madness not through domination or terror... but with a smile.
A creature of freedom, not control.
It disgusted him.
"He serves without chains," he said aloud, his voice like wind through a tomb. "Then he is either a fool, or he seeks to chain the gods themselves."
The Witch-king clenched his gauntlet. Smoke rose from the bones beneath.
"This... jester. He will burn before I kneel to his whim."
The Crownless King Rises
He now roams a corner of the Warp called Dreadspire Hollow, a fortress made from black steel and rotted bone, surrounded by eternal fog.
His army is made of shadow beasts, wraith-born cultists, and hollowed champions from fallen worlds — warriors promised power and now enslaved to terror.
He waits.
He prepares.
Not because he fears the Joker or the others… but because he knows a second war is coming.
Not for the Imperium.
Not for the galaxy.
But within Chaos itself.
And he, the one who wears no crown yet rules fear, shall be ready.