I continued my slow walk through the garden, and with every step my following grew. First came the nurglings, chattering and laughing in their rotting joy. Then the poxwalkers shambled from the muck, and behind them lumbered the plaguebearers — the true spawn of Grandfather Nurgle.
We halted at the foot of a great pus tree, its branches swollen with oozing fruit. One of the nurglings tugged at my attention and held up a branch torn from a pox tree. I accepted it with a nod and a rasping word of thanks.
Before I could turn away, a plaguebearer stepped forward, clutching a glass vial in its filth-crusted claws. Within, a green liquid churned and twisted upon itself in impossible ways, as if it were alive. Then came more gifts — daemon after daemon, each offering me some strange trinket of the garden: bone charms, shards of corrupted crystal, bottles filled with whispered plague.
In return, I gave what I could — a few of my many insect companions, or a single drop of my power. Each exchange felt… right. Balanced, in its own diseased way.
In time, I found myself wrapped in an old, faded traveler's cloak. From its many pockets jutted all manner of oddities and curiosities. I must have looked more like a wandering peddler than a servant of the Plague God. The thought amused me. There was something charming in the idea — the humble trader of rot and decay.
So I began to gather more. My countless little friends crawled beneath my skin, peeking out in confusion or curiosity as I collected my strange wares. Even the daemons around me joined in, their laughter bubbling through the festering air.
With a rusted knife, I took to carving a rotten branch. The wood writhed beneath my touch, twisting to my will until it became a staff of perfect imperfection. To finish, I let a sliver of power slip from my fingertip — green light coiling around the wood before sinking into it. The staff pulsed once, alive. A smile spread across my face.
Then I felt it — a pull, deep within the core of my being. It tugged at something fundamental, like a hook buried in my soul.
Curious, I did not resist.
When I opened my eyes, the garden was gone. In its place stood towering giants clad in armor etched with blasphemous runes. Their sigils whispered secrets that gnawed at the edges of reason. The air stank of rust, oil, and old blood.
One of the giants stepped forward. His voice was a grinding rumble, filled with reverence.
"Greater servant of the Plague Father," he said. "We offer this vessel, that you may walk once more in the realm of mortals."
I looked down. Before me lay a body bound in chains, its flesh pale and twitching. I considered the offer. Why not?
I reached out — and entered.
It was a peculiar sensation, like pulling on a shirt made of wet skin. My essence slid into the body, filling it, reshaping it. When I opened its eyes, I found I could not yet move. The armored figures loomed above me, silent and expectant.
"You called for me," I rasped through borrowed lips