Warhammer: Starting as a Planetary Governor

The Warp.

Thick, cloying yellow mists blanketed the unclean region.

In this festering hellscape stood towering fortresses and watchtowers of rotting fat and corroded steel. Here, Nurgle's Great Unclean Ones and daemon legions stood vigil, defending the domain from other daemonic intrusions and waging relentless wars of life and death—but mostly, conquest.

Now, as Grandfather Nurgle's power continued to swell, the borders of his domain also expanded, breaking past their previous limits, devouring the Blasted Brass Plains of Khorne, the violet Pleasured Fields of Slaanesh, and the shifting Crystal Labyrinth of Tzeentch.

Nurgle's hordes rampaged through these regions, slaying all daemons of opposing faiths and transforming the land with vomitous bile and seed into fertile filth-ridden soil.

The power of plague spread through the Warp, consuming the realms of the other Chaos Gods, stoking the fires of hatred.

And yet, the outer slaughter did not disturb the quiet center.

There lay a place where life and pestilence were incarnate—an amalgamation of jungle, swamp, and verdant ground, all choked with rot and poison: the Garden of Nurgle.

"Blood for the Blood God!"

A Khorne Harbinger howled with madness and bloodlust, this powerful Gorebringer slashing down everything in his path—even his fellow warriors—in a frenzy of boiling slaughter.

He could feel Khorne's blessing boiling within him, making him stronger, severing one head after another.

It was unclear how much time passed.

In the midst of his charge, the Gorebringer suddenly stumbled and fell face-first into a pool of festering mud.

He rose, flinging off the sludge, and as the bloodlust faded from his eyes, realized he'd strayed far from the battlefield—into a twisting path made of rotten vegetation.

The winding trail ahead crawled with more sludge, maggots, and buzzing flies.

ROAR—

The Gorebringer, fearless, bellowed and stepped into the path. As a champion of the Blood God, he feared nothing.

He hacked away the thorny underbrush and plunged deeper into the Garden.

Dim light filtered through the diseased canopy, its vines swollen with pus. Along the path, he saw plague-mawed groves, bloated fungi, feverishly blooming flowers, and skeletal corpses of long-dead daemons rising from stagnant lakes.

Suddenly, from a gaping, screaming orifice, a torrent of foul rot sprayed directly onto him.

Enraged, he stabbed forward with his flaming greatsword.

Yowl!

The flaming strike slammed into the rump of a Great Unclean One mid-slumber, drawing a pained howl from the beast.

Other plaguebeasts were roused by the cry and came to investigate their unfortunate friend. Alongside them came patrolling plaguefly swarms and bouncing Nurglings.

They swarmed the Gorebringer, tormenting and toying with the intruder.

His resistance was pitiful, barely making a sound.

Virus-ridden paralysis set in, worms crawled over him, and his body slowly dissolved into the swamp—becoming part of the garden's nutrient cycle.

Aside from Nurgle's faithful, no life could ever hope to survive in the Plaguefather's garden.

Once it was over, the Nurglings hummed cheerful songs, waved goodbye to the plagueflies and beasts, and skipped off.

They were on their way to play with a particular Great Unclean One—Barla the Glutton.

The Nurglings bounded down winding paths, found familiar routes, skipped through stinking shrubbery, and approached a muddy clearing.

Already, they could hear the music of joy.

"Boils, phlegm, blood and guts; pus, offal, rot and sludge; blisters, fever, oozing wounds; from your cuts, sweet pus runs loose!"

To a booming beat, sappy-sapped hangman trees strummed strings, bloated plagueflies hummed harmonies, and poisonous mushrooms tooted like pipes.

The scene was a riot of festivity.

In the center of the mire, Barla the Glutton thumped his belly, rolling through the muck, occasionally vomiting thick plague-slop from the gaping maw in his stomach.

The dancing Nurglings cackled with joy, greedily absorbing every drop of his gift.

The newcomers shrieked with delight and joined the fray, dancing absurdly to impress the generous daemon.

Nearby, other Great Unclean Ones sang and wailed, offering raucous applause.

Joy was always the theme in this Nurgle playground.

And Barla the Glutton, this rotund daemon of Nurgle, was one of the most beloved figures in the region.

Wherever he went, parties and laughter followed.

"Sevenfold rot, sevenfold blight! Rejoice, little scamps and friends alike!"

Barla twirled all four arms wildly, belly dancing while spraying precious toxins that even other Great Unclean Ones admired.

Clearly, this was one cunning daemon who had perfectly adapted to his surroundings.

Cunning indeed—for Barla, since arriving, had never once left. He didn't participate in wars, fully indulging in Grandfather Nurgle's merriment.

He was a complete and utter slacker.

He'd nearly forgotten he was a spy.

"All praise the Four-Armed Savior! This is the perfect and happiest job ever!"

So said Barla, former underdeck cleaner of the Dreamweaver, now a Great Unclean One of Nurgle.

Ever since joining the Plaguefather, Barla had known only true happiness—from gaining many friends to tasting all manner of delicious plague-soups.

He'd even become a renowned gourmet in the Garden, earning his title of Glutton for his bottomless appetite.

His most famous feat: gulping down dozens of plague-soups in one sitting—without bursting. Truly a talent.

But just as the festivities reached their peak, a sudden interruption struck.

"NO MUSIC ALLOWED!"

A thunderous groan echoed across the mire.

Heavy, rotten footsteps approached—the putrid and tusked form of a towering plague-being emerged.

It was Ku'gath, the most beloved of Nurgle's champions, the Seventh Lord of the Seventh Mansion.

This eternally grim being clashed with joy and now looked more miserable than ever. He especially hated cheerful songs.

"No blowing! No music! No dancing! Nothing of the sort!" he roared.

At once, Ku'gath's fury darkened the skies with yellow-green sickness. Thunder cracked overhead.

The mire fell silent.

Even the Great Unclean Ones stopped grinning, the Nurglings huddled in fear, and even the plants wilted.

None in the garden dared anger this buzzkill of a daemon.

Boom ba-da boom boom!

Barla, a beat behind, was still lost in his rhythm and drummed out a belly beat.

"Who dares!?" Ku'gath snarled, now furious.

He stomped into the swamp, scanning every being with his rotting gaze.

Barla froze. Belatedly realizing what was happening, he turned to Ku'gath and grinned.

"Ku'gath! You look gloomy—how about a little song to lift your spirits?"

He gave another little boom boom.

Ku'gath, seeing the performer was Barla, softened a little.

But when the drumming resumed, he snapped: "No! Silence! Let me have some peace!"

Ku'gath was familiar with Barla's antics.

This guy danced and feasted across every other Great Unclean One's turf, trying their plague-soups and ranking them on his infamous Plague Delicacy Leaderboard.

Only the most viral, most rotten, most putrid flavors could make the cut.

This made Barla popular—every daemon wanted to impress him, hoping for a higher score.

Ku'gath tolerated this clown because Barla had ranked his plague-soup as second, ahead of his rival, Rotigus Rainfather.

And the top of the list?

Naturally, the Plaguefather himself—Nurgle. No question. His stew was the most rotten, most viral, most disgustingly divine soup in the galaxy.

Upon hearing of Barla's exploits, Nurgle gleefully summoned him and gifted him a special spoonful of his freshest plague-soup.

After that, Nurgle himself asked Barla how the soup tasted.

It was said that after taking a sip, Barla nearly chewed and swallowed his own tongue from delight. Right then and there, he delivered a thousands-of-words-long review—riddled with grammatical errors and strange vocabulary—lavishly praising and analyzing the dish.

He even deduced several of the toxin components and detailed parts of the brewing process.

Clearly, this sly Nurgle-affiliated infiltrator had some cultured bacteria in his belly.

After all, when he was removed from his janitor post aboard the Dreamweaver and granted a second blessing, he went on to receive formal training at the Loyal Sons Academy—where he underwent intensive espionage and basic literacy education.

The Academy's special instructors had poured more effort into training these sly infiltrators than they did for the Orks, finally managing to graduate them at an elementary school level—maybe even kindergarten-level by Imperial standards.

But given the difficulty of the Loyal Sons Academy curriculum, that was still terrifying—and it meant Barla had a better education than most Imperial citizens. He could even do some basic complex math.

After drinking Nurgle's personally brewed soup, Barla thickened his skin and shamelessly asked for more so he could continue tasting it.

The Plaguefather, laughing joyously at the request, gladly gave the little fellow another precious ladle of plague broth.

These two servings of pestilent divine favor drastically increased the Glutton's power—blessings that even most Great Unclean Ones could never dream of, making him the envy of many Nurgle daemons.

Even more infuriating to others, Nurgle praised Barla's natural talent, offering to teach him some plague concoction techniques so he could take on more duties.

But Barla refused without hesitation.

He regretfully told the Plaguefather that his talents were purely in the art of tasting, not brewing. He feared he would waste such precious toxins.

In truth, Barla simply didn't want to work.

He knew that if he accepted, he'd be sent into realspace to brew plagues and infect the galaxy—no more lounging in the garden.

Grandfather Nurgle wasn't angry at the refusal. Instead, he cheerfully reassured Barla, telling him not to worry and to focus on his true strength—tasting pestilence.

He said the Garden of Nurgle needed such connoisseurs to inspire his daemons to perfect their concoctions and produce ever more devastating viruses to twist and rot humanity.

From that day on, Barla the Glutton became the officially acknowledged Plague Tasting Master of the Garden—endorsed by the Plaguefather himself.

Even as other infiltrators in Nurgle's realm died in brutal campaigns, Barla's leisurely, parasitic life went undisturbed.

More than that—his constant consumption of disease and toxins only made him stronger.

If he wanted, he could easily earn the full title of Great Unclean One and become one of the more powerful among them—but he didn't.

And that was one of the main reasons Ku'gath treated Barla so kindly.

Like himself, Barla hated working.

And like Ku'gath, Barla had personally tasted the Plaguefather's finest soup.

Ku'gath looked at Barla, and a flicker of envy gleamed in his rotting eye. He wished he too could live like this daemon-brother—free of all burdens.

But he couldn't.

He had drunk the Plaguefather's most perfect plague-broth, and with it came guilt. He would never be at peace until he concocted an equally perfect brew of his own.

Until then, his suffering continued. He had to keep working—harder than ever.

"Barla... I'm so tired…" Ku'gath groaned, patting the small, trinket-like Cauldron of Nurgle at his side.

This cauldron was a divine artifact—a piece of Nurgle himself. It held unending rancid fluids and grew larger with every ingredient added, able to contain infinite filth from the entire galaxy.

It could never be filled. Even if you poured all the filth in the universe into it, it wouldn't overflow.

"Look at me... The Plaguefather has given me a new task and this divine tool. What an honor…"

But even as Ku'gath spoke, sadness overwhelmed his expression.

"This was where I was born… and the source of all my pain. Now, I must use it for a great work: to bring vast territories of the galaxy into this bountiful garden!"

Barla's expression changed.

He rushed forward and grabbed Ku'gath's hand with deep empathy.

"Oh, brother, Seventh Lord of the Seventh Mansion, I feel your pain. Work... work is a curse that drives joy away. It's like itchy fungus crawling all over you—and no matter how hard you scratch, you can't reach it!"

"Yes… It is a terrible pain." Ku'gath nodded, his face contorted. "I must leave now. I need to gather more toxins. Otherwise, that Plaguefather's pet—the Death Lord—will start hounding me again."

Mortarion was already preparing to ring the time-death bell seven times.

Ku'gath had to gather materials from realspace to brew a plague so virulent, it could kill both the Primarch-Regent and the Savior himself.

This plague would sweep across the galaxy, corrupting billions of humans and dragging Ultramar and other regions into the Garden of Nurgle—turning them into rotting farmlands.

"May the Sevenfold Blessings of Pestilence be with you, my brother. If you do brew such a sweet, fetid brew, make sure a Rot Fly delivers a sample to me!"

Though Barla didn't know the specifics, hearing Ku'gath was brewing something powerful made his DNA tingle.

He instinctively activated his freeloading skill.

"When the Divine Plague descends, I shall share that filthy gift with you," Ku'gath nodded.

He had already decided—once he finished the plague that could kill the Regent and the Savior, the very first to taste it would be Barla.

Barla was overjoyed by this promise and enthusiastically waved as the Plaguefather's favored daemon departed.

Once Ku'gath had gone, the oppressive atmosphere lifted.

Barla began thumping his belly drum again, and the joyful music resumed.

It even made Ku'gath walk a little faster, eager to get away.

The mire once again filled with dancing Nurglings and laughing daemons.

The Plaguefather had clearly launched a new grand undertaking, and war would soon erupt across the stars—but that had little to do with these lazy layabouts.

Yet it wasn't long before…

BOOM— the rhythmic belly-drum ceased abruptly. Barla froze, stunned.

The other Nurgle daemons quieted down and looked at the Glutton, puzzled.

Thud.

Barla's massive body collapsed into the mire. He sat in the sludge, visibly shaken.

"I think… I'm tired. I'll need some time to rest," he murmured.

The other daemons smiled and left without protest.

Once alone, Barla dug through the filth, his round belly trembling, his tiny eyes glinting with emotion.

Just now, he had received a message from realspace.

After decades… the great Four-Armed Savior had finally remembered him!

He'd thought he'd been forgotten forever.

Though Barla had embraced Nurgle's garden, he had never forgotten his true identity:

A devoted servant of the Four-Armed Savior. A loyal Nurgle infiltrator.

He had accepted both holy and profane blessings to embed himself in the Plaguefather's realm.

His loyalty to Nurgle was real—but his heart belonged to the Savior.

And now, the Savior had sent a secret directive—it was finally time to fulfill his mission!

Barla grew nervous. Would the Savior ask him to sabotage the Garden? To assassinate a key daemon?

Or worse—spy on Nurgle himself?

He quieted his mind and carefully absorbed the message.

The Savior's orders were simple:

Protect yourself. Stay hidden. Fully integrate with the Nurgle collective.

And send a progress report.

He had three tasks:

Map the layout of Nurgle's Garden, including hidden paths that could be used for covert approach.

Investigate the status of the Goddess of Life, Isha, without compromising himself.

Collect and transmit samples and data on plague viruses for research purposes.

Barla let out a sigh of relief.

Aside from Isha's situation, the other two were easy. He'd already wandered the Garden thoroughly—and had even visited the Black House, Nurgle's home.

He just needed to retrace his steps and refine the map.

As for plague samples?

He'd tasted more than he could count—he could provide data in abundance.

In truth, Eden had made the directive as conservative as possible—Barla was the only Nurgle infiltrator left. If they lost him, they'd face a major intel blackout and who knows how long it would take to train another.

This directive would evaluate Barla's potential—and help determine what missions he could be assigned later.

Barla compiled his intel, then waddled off again.

It was time to resume his plague soup "tour," while quietly investigating new hidden paths.

More importantly, he would attempt to approach the forbidden zone.

To obtain a vital piece of intel.

It was said that any who entered that forbidden place would incur the Plaguefather's wrath.

For within that place… resided the Goddess of Life—Isha.

(End of Chapter)

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