They sliced open the thick hide, revealing a fully transformed Space Marine inside. His skin was pale and covered in sores, his fat thick and greasy—fine quality by any standard. Then the other Plague Marines dressed him in rust-spotted armor that had been washed seven times in Nurgle's foul river, embracing him in celebration of his becoming one of the Death Guard.
The environment was better now, with far fewer factions coming to harass their farming. As a result, the Death Guard had an astonishing number of soldiers planted in the ground. Given a few hundred years, Mortarion producing seven million warriors was no idle fantasy.
Mortarion remained in a secret chamber aboard his flagship, the Endurance. This was his private space, with only strange varieties of grass and plants clinging to the walls and ceiling. It was very quiet, without the incessant giggling of Nurglings or the irritating buzz of swarms of flies.
Mortarion sat before a table with his enormous pale flesh-wings tucked away, fiddling with a sand table. He was using the knowledge he had learned to plan his architecture, hoping to improve the feng shui of the building complex.
Life needed a sense of ritual. That was the truth Mortarion had learned during his ten thousand years in the Warp.
Glug, glug. A crucible placed in the corner suddenly produced liquid for no apparent reason, then began to boil. Mortarion rose and walked over, discovering a flower bud slowly emerging from within.
When he opened the bud, he found a sword hilt with a golden daemon face, along with a small note personally scrawled by Nurgle.
"This thing is rather interesting. Consider it a gift!"
Mortarion frowned. Grandfather sending him a gift reminded him of when The Emperor had taken him to choose a weapon.
"I