"Urrgh..."
A long groan, filled with nausea and discomfort, drifted from the mansion at the center of the Garden of Nurgle, built from countless diseased bodies and heaps of filth.
"Doesn't... feel good..."
Nurgle groaned. For the first time, pain showed on the face that always wore a kindly smile.
He looked toward the source of the golden torrent, his cloudy eyes filled with disgust.
"Interesting... so very interesting..."
His voice sounded like countless strings vibrating at once, brimming with delight and curiosity.
In the deepest reaches of the warp lay a realm shrouded in eternal, deathly still violet.
Deep within the Palace of Slaanesh, where Slaanesh's throne had once stood, only a vast hollow remained.
Slaanesh was not there.
The youngest, proudest of the Dark Gods had suffered an unprecedented wound and retreated into... isolation.
He had hidden himself away.
He hid in a dark corner in the deepest part of his divine realm, formed from endless pain and self-doubt. He had severed all contact with the outside world, no longer even listening to his followers' prayers or feeding on those depraved souls.
He was like a child who had taken a savage beating and then hidden in his room, refusing to come out.
When the golden torrent swept past, he ignored it.
Slaanesh huddled in the darkness. The face that should have been the most perfect, most beautiful in the universe was now covered in fear and venomous hatred.
He hated.
He hated the soul that had grievously wounded him.
Yet at the same time, deep within his divinity, a twisted emotion that even he could not understand was quietly taking root.
It was... longing.
A sick longing to see him again, clash with him again, and be "hurt" by him again. For one who had