Warhammer: Starting as a Planetary Governor

Nurgle's Garden.

"Ugh… Merciful Father, why would a place like this exist in Nurgle's Paradise?"

Barla stared at the forbidden zone where the Goddess of Life resided, a hint of fragrant scent drifting in the air causing an involuntary sense of revulsion.

Within the forbidden area were grassy meadows, crystal-clear streams, blooming flowers, and butterflies fluttering freely. All of it was the embodiment of healing and life energy—completely out of place in Nurgle's domain of death and rot, and exuding a presence that disgusted Nurgle's creatures.

For them, entering that zone would be no different than a human stepping into a sealed, fermented latrine during summer.

"By the Sevenfold Plague, our Merciful Father sure has peculiar tastes, to be able to tolerate that ugly being of life."

Barla pinched his nose, a blasphemous thought flashing through his mind.

It was said that the Goddess of Life was excessively clean, devoid of even a single germ. Her skin was pale and smooth, without boils or sores, no stench, no rot—only a sweet scent.

Such a terrifying body... even the sleekest and ugliest Nurgle beasts were more pleasant to look at!

He took a deep breath, inhaling the comforting stench of rot and pus to ease his nerves.

Truly, the task assigned by the Four-Armed Savior was no easy feat.

Barla once again raised the mission's threat level in his mind. Yet for his sacred duty, he marched forward resolutely toward the abominable forbidden zone.

The creatures of Nurgle clearly despised this place—none of them ventured near.

Around the area, there were hardly any Nurgle daemons or signs of life. Even the usually thriving bloated, festering plants had withered into drooping, shriveled husks.

"H-Halt! The Lord of Plagues has decreed—none shall pass this way!"

Barla had only followed the thorny path a short distance when two Great Unclean Ones halted him.

The two looked utterly drained, devoid of the usual joyful fervor characteristic of Nurgle's spawn. They seemed to be suffering, barely lifting their feet.

The one-eyed daemon hacked up a pile of maggots and scowled as he barked, "Intruder, leave now unless you wish to be punished…"

Rules within Nurgle's domain weren't strictly enforced; many things were negotiable. Sometimes, even mistakes were met with consolation instead of retribution.

Only the most grievous of offenses would warrant punishment from the Merciful Father—and even then, it wasn't as harsh as the Blood God's brutal executions.

Beside him, the Rottooth daemon complained, "By the Plaguefather! Is there any punishment more brutal than guarding this place? I'd rather fight the Grey Knights and their damn holy light!"

He seemed to recognize Barla, eyeing him warily. "Gluttonous Barla, what are you doing here?"

Barla, caught but unfazed, casually gave an excuse:

"By the Father's mercy, I've been training to enhance my plague-tasting skills. I came here to sharpen my resistance to... revolting scents."

Hearing this, the two daemons were instantly filled with reverence. Of course! It was no wonder he'd earned the Father's praise—he was willing to suffer this hellish assignment just to refine his senses.

Barla glanced toward the verdant garden beyond. "You two are the guards here?"

Rottooth wailed as he spat more bile onto the ground. "Yes. We're under Father's orders to guard this place for seventy-seven rot cycles!"

The One-Eye daemon moaned, "This place is unbearable. Even plague flies won't fly here! We won't last another cycle… I wish someone would replace us soon."

The Goddess of Life was a high-ranking deity, constantly radiating healing power—something that inflicted continual pain on Nurgle's spawn.

Though not as intense as the sacred light of the Accursed, it was still a slow and excruciating torture.

Barla shuddered, glancing at the two daemons with genuine sympathy.

This was truly a tormenting task.

If he were the one guarding this place, he'd rather be dead.

He tried to console them. "Brothers, may the Sevenfold Plague bless you. I hope your ordeal ends soon."

But then—Barla's eyes widened in alarm.

He saw a bright, fragrant flower sprouting from Rottooth's shoulder.

He stepped back and warned, "You've got something on you…"

The flower, a pure expression of healing, was like smearing excrement onto a Nurgle daemon.

Rottooth immediately caught the scent and let out a guttural scream.

"AGH! That damned plant again!"

He frantically yanked the flower off, tearing flesh and all, and flung it away.

Unfortunately, in his panic, the flower splattered directly onto the One-Eye daemon's face—prompting another round of agonized shrieks and chaos.

Eventually, things settled down.

At a price—One-Eye was now face-down on the ground, vomiting profusely and showing no signs of stopping.

Rottooth, still loyal to his duty, urged Barla to leave the forbidden zone immediately.

They didn't want to be reprimanded by the Father due to dereliction of duty.

Barla realized there was no way to bypass these two, so he gave up for now.

But before leaving, he gifted the two daemons a prized sample of his most foul-smelling plague and promised to take them to play with the Putrid Banshees in the Rotting Marshes after their sentence.

The daemons were deeply touched.

Barla departed from the forbidden zone.

He decided to seek alternative routes—some hidden pathway or method of transmitting information.

...

Within the Forbidden Zone

Upon a vine swing adorned with blooming flowers sat a radiant figure, her pale skin faintly glowing.

It was the Goddess of Life—Isha.

A divine being embodying all the beauty of life, one who inspired boundless compassion.

At this moment, Isha looked sorrowful, her gemlike eyes filled with melancholy.

She held a butterfly with torn wings in her hands, healing it gently before releasing it into the air.

Her sadness was not only for the wounded butterfly or her own captivity—but for the rise of plague energy she felt.

The Plague Lord was creating new diseases again, more weapons to torment life.

She looked toward the blackened depths of Nurgle's Garden.

There stood a massive jet-black hut, bloated with poisonous miasma. The wood was rotted and moldy, the roof writhing with every kind of maggot imaginable.

Toxic ooze cascaded from its rotted walls, polluting everything around.

That was Nurgle's dwelling.

Isha knew that though the house seemed decrepit, it would endure until the end of time.

She gazed at it with dread and loathing.

The Plague God was still the same.

He forced her to drink his fetid, disease-laden concoctions—watching as she suffered and then healed.

And she could not refuse his "affection," no matter how grotesque.

Inside that black hut, Isha had seen the fate of the galaxy—plagues spreading everywhere.

She wept for what was to come.

Her tears fell to the earth and became glittering crystal gems.

She had no means of stopping it. She couldn't even leave the Garden.

If she ever tried, Slaanesh, the Prince of Pleasure, would seize her—and the fate that awaited her would be far worse.

"What… what should I do?"

She trembled, sobbing, overwhelmed by despair. Then she remembered someone—a towering figure she once met.

He was her only hope now—perhaps he could stop the coming plagues.

"Devourer, do you still remember the promise we made?"

She sighed softly.

His legend had spread far across the Warp, his power growing stronger. It gave her hope.

Yet no matter how she called out to him, he no longer answered.

Maybe he had forgotten her… forgotten that promise.

That thought made her feel even more pitiful.

She no longer dared to hope for rescue—she only wished she could somehow deliver a warning, share methods of creating healing medicine.

To save others, even if she herself could not be saved.

But transmitting that message was no easy task.

Isha thought hard about how to send it—secretly, without the Plague God noticing.

No matter what, she had to try…

...

Dreamweaver – Underdeck Maintenance Corridor

ROAR—!

Hundreds of gruff, heavily-armored gremlins thundered down the corridor in neat rows, standing at attention, their beady eyes filled with resolve.

Under the cold lights of the pipes above, their Imperial aquilas and work badges gleamed brightly.

Many of the gremlins still had daemonic intruders clamped in their mouths—remnants from the Eye of Terror voyage, where many chaos spawn tried to cling to the ship's hull.

They hurriedly gulped down the creatures to avoid appearing unprofessional.

Because the Four-Armed Savior was about to inspect their work.

"Not bad. Very spirited."

Eden had just arrived before the formation when the resounding stomp of synchronized boots rang out.

The gremlins saluted with such precision that they nearly raised a heil.

He nodded in satisfaction. These loyal cleaning crews had served aboard the Dreamweaver for decades with exceptional diligence.

It was time some of them were promoted.

His clone body was in its final catalytic stage. His Chaos force was forming steadily. As for the Nurgle gremlin spy, no new intel had come in yet.

This visit was to select elite gremlins as the core of his new Chaos faction.

They would receive a second blessing—and a Chaos-infused transformation.

But their power would not belong to the Ruinous Powers.

It would be his alone.

He browsed the work logs and handpicked several of the most diligent and loyal gremlins.

Then he brought them to the black fortress-ship of the Black Legion tethered behind the Dreamweaver.

Those heavy-armored gremlins would undergo training and blessings there, then be transformed into powerful Chaos Daemons.

After finishing the selection, Eden returned to the bridge—there was an even more important matter to handle.

Outside the Dreamweaver, a grey planet loomed ever larger.

Its surface boiled with stormy clouds, lightning swirling in massive vortices. From within, black mountainous ridges pierced through the atmosphere like jagged claws.

Clearly, this planet was deeply saturated with Warp corruption—a perfect Chaos base handpicked by the Savior.

He reviewed the intelligence forwarded by the appropriate departments. While this planet was remote, its terrain was naturally defensive and difficult to assault.

More importantly, the Dreamweaver had discovered a secure and hidden warp lane that connected this planet to the outside galaxy.

By establishing a fortress at that corridor, they could effectively block any incoming attacks.

Even more fortuitous: no other Chaos forces had taken control of this world.

According to the reconnaissance team deployed, the strongest Chaos group found here was merely a band of Chaos pirates using the planet as a hideout.

And the surface wasn't devoid of life either. It held the remnants of a twisted civilization—tribal mortals.

From birth, these tribesfolk were warped by Chaos energy. They had extra limbs, eyeballs, pincers… their appearances grotesquely deformed.

They were Chaos creatures, through and through.

Yet these suffering mortals had no idea they were corrupted.

For one who has known only pain and torment since birth, with no concept of beauty or peace—the world simply is that way. It's their norm.

These Chaos dwellers lived amid agony as if it were normal, fighting endlessly over mutated beasts and putrid water sources.

Most of them died young.

But the strongest among them, fortified by mutations, lived longer and stronger than ordinary humans.

This was typical within the Eye of Terror—vast populations of corrupted humans serving as slaves and fodder to Chaos Warriors and daemons.

They were a vital, renewable source of strength for Chaos.

Soon, these corrupted mortals would become the Devourer's subjects—his loyal population, empowered and uplifted.

And this Chaos planet, which he named Black Abyss, would rise under his dominion.

But before he could seize it outright, he had to prepare.

"Lord Savior, the Warp storm ritual is ready," Tarko reported.

Following Eden's order, Tarko had gathered psykers and arcanists to craft a localized warp storm array.

"Then have them trigger it," Eden nodded.

The storm's target, however, wasn't the planet.

It was the Dreamweaver itself.

Or more precisely, the Chaos warship it towed behind.

This warship, defenseless and stripped, held over three thousand Chaos Space Marines—disarmed and unarmored. A formidable force.

They were Eden's intended core for his new Chaos army.

But he, their captor and former enemy, couldn't win them over by mere command. He had to stage a crisis.

Once the Warp storm erupted, it would "accidentally" tear open the Chaos ship's hull.

Coincidentally, the landing pods holding those Chaos Marines would be flung into space—right toward the surface of Black Abyss.

And the Dreamweaver would continue on, none the wiser.

These thousands of warriors, stranded by disaster on a backwater world, would have no means of escape.

They'd be left to survive the brutal terrain, far from the Eye of Terror and the glory of the Long War.

To a Chaos Marine, such disgrace was torment in itself.

And just as despair set in—he would descend upon them.

Clad in a Chaos-forged form, radiating an aura no daemon could resist, Eden would come bearing weapons, strength, and vengeance.

They would kneel.

And follow.

This was his script. A clean conversion. No resistance.

The command was given.

The Dreamweaver turned, leaving behind the warship.

As it drifted toward the planet, the hidden Warp storm activated—ripping through the ship's side and hurling hundreds of pods into space.

One by one, the pods fell under the planet's gravity, transforming into streaks of flame—falling stars.

"Let's hope… some of them survive."

Eden watched the fire-trails, exhaling slowly.

Many would die—either during descent or in the chaos that followed.

But those who lived… they would emerge stronger.

He looked forward to harnessing their rage and ruin.

With a Chaos army of his own, he'd gain a level of freedom he never had before.

So many eyes watched his every move. But this force would be his alone.

He slouched back on his chair, satisfied. Everything was in motion now. All that remained was to wait.

When he settled, his thoughts drifted again—to the Plague War.

That battle would determine the fate of his dominion.

Nurgle's forces were preparing a divine plague, potent enough to kill even a Primarch.

If he wasn't ready…

Even if he won, the price might be too steep. His territories could be set back years.

So much effort… wasted.

Yet months had passed, and there was still no word from the Nurgle infiltrator Barla.

Had he failed?

But no—the faith marker representing Barla was still active. He was alive.

Soon enough, Eden's lips curled into a smile.

At last, Barla sent word.

Included were maps of the Garden of Nurgle, alongside samples and detailed data on several new plagues—enough to push the Savior's research forward substantially.

Barla even managed to sneak a Nurgling close to the Goddess of Life to deliver a small message.

Unfortunately, Nurglings were too simple-minded to carry anything complex.

Still—this was contact. A breakthrough.

Now, Eden had to figure out how to personally reach the Goddess. A dangerous task.

If Nurgle was present, the risk was too great.

He poured over Barla's transmission, calculating his options.

He had time… and the plan would need to be perfect.

So began preparations for a perilous mission—one that could change everything.

Two Years Later – Garden of Nurgle

Within the forbidden zone, Isha sat once more upon her vine swing.

But she no longer wept.

Even though Nurgle had recently brought an even more vile, rotting soup, and ordered his daemons to dance for her—trampling her flowerbeds in the process…

Still, she felt hope.

The Devourer had not forgotten her.

Just the thought of it filled her with concern.

The risks were immense. If the Devourer came to this place, he might be harmed.

"I pray… he reaches me safely…"

Like a princess imprisoned in a dragon's lair, Isha's heart fluttered for her would-be rescuer.

CREAK—!

Suddenly, the great wooden doors groaned open, releasing a gust of rancid wind. Maggots scattered everywhere.

It was the Black House—Nurgle's home.

THUMP—THUMP—THUMP—

A massive form wreathed in thick yellow fog trudged forward.

With each step of his rotting body, death and pestilence spread. Flowers withered, screaming in agony as they twisted into decay.

Nurgle had come to visit Isha—but brought no plague soup this time.

He was leaving.

Every time he ventured from the garden, he stopped by to "check in" on the Goddess of Life.

And offer his... affection.

Today, he said nothing—only cast a glance of concern her way.

Then, gently, almost reluctantly, he turned and left.

Careful with his steps. Not wanting to crush more flowers.

Soon after, Nurgle issued orders to reinforce the zone's security.

Then departed the Garden in haste.

"…He's gone?!"

Isha gasped in disbelief—then joy, and nervous anticipation.

This was it.

A window to meet the Devourer.

But they had to act fast—before Nurgle returned.

If he found out… the consequences would be unthinkable.

Even Slaanesh feared his wrath.

Isha took a deep breath and raised her hand.

The flower fields parted, revealing a small, muddy swamp.

There, a miserable little Nurgling lay limp in the muck, tongue lolling.

Clearly, it hadn't had a good time—it was mildly depressed, unable to escape.

"Poor little one…"

Isha looked at the Nurgling with sympathy.

But its time of torment was over.

She parted the flowered ground, forming a narrow, plague-corroded path.

The Nurgling, sensing the healing aura recede, perked up immediately.

With a joyful cry, it scrambled out and began bouncing down the path.

Visibly happier, it skipped and leapt like a child.

It only wanted to return to its master—the Gluttonous Barla—and roll in the muck once more.

But it didn't realize that its return was the signal.

A message in itself:

"Nurgle's out. Come quick."

A single directive.

Once it arrived, both sides would begin preparations.

The Nurgling soon returned to the marsh.

"By the Plague! You pitiful little runt, you're finally back!"

Barla scooped it up, laughing, and flung it into a barrel of plague stew—its reward.

Then, brimming with excitement, he sent a transmission to the Four-Armed Savior.

(End of Chapter)

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