"Plague is as much a part of the Dark Medieval landscape as mud and death. Without knowledge of the true causes of disease, mortals (and immortals as well) lay the blame at the feet of black cats, witches, spirits, and assorted minority groups whom everybody knows poison the wells.
But with this Knowledge, you know better. You know how to brew disease in corpses, how to feed corruption and taint until you have a bubbling cauldron of plague ready to loose upon the world. You understand instinctively how to use vermin and insects to spread disease, and can even direct the spread of plague to a certain extent. When mounting sieges, you know how to use disease as a weapon with which to reduce towns and fortresses to deserted ruins, and you can even poison someone with disease-causing agents so that the death looks natural."
But with this Knowledge, you know better. You know how to brew disease in corpses, how to feed corruption and taint until you have a bubbling cauldron of plague ready to loose upon the world. You understand instinctively how to use vermin and insects to spread disease, and can even direct the spread of plague to a certain extent. When mounting sieges, you know how to use disease as a weapon with which to reduce towns and fortresses to deserted ruins, and you can even poison someone with disease-causing agents so that the death looks natural."
— Description for the Plague-Breeding trait, Vampire: The Masquerade - Clanbook: Baali
"Hmmm, you boys don't look well. It might be the Scarlet Fever... or the meningitis... oh, or the syphilis. [clicks his tongue] That's no fun. However you feel now, it's gonna get so very, very much worse. Questions?"
Nurgle is responsible for all the greatest plagues and famines that have beset our lands throughout the centuries. For, it is said, the sorrows of lepers and the fears of the sick are His greatest fascination and truest love. Surely it is for His own amusement and nothing else that He devises the foul contagions that He inflicts upon the world.
"Would could I say? In terror, Ela came to me, her face bleeding from his blows. She did not consider herself, but rather begged me to remain with the tribe and minister to them. A great sickness has come upon them. The camp is thick with bodies. How they suffer and die with feverish wailing. They paint themselves white with clay, and roll in grey ashes. [...]
Each night he comes, calling softly about the camp, outside the firelight. None dare face him. The young men, the warriors, the grey beards — all live in terror of darkness, for he moves by moonlight, his dreadful body pale and crouching low. He is the sickness. He is the vile one who brought them death."
Each night he comes, calling softly about the camp, outside the firelight. None dare face him. The young men, the warriors, the grey beards — all live in terror of darkness, for he moves by moonlight, his dreadful body pale and crouching low. He is the sickness. He is the vile one who brought them death."
— Wouter Loos, Strange Objects, by Gary Crew
Corrupted and bloated, Lord Skrolk's flesh hangs in rotting tatters over his bones, and his eyes are oozing, empty sockets. His putrescent body is so vilely potent that only his brother Plague Monks can approach him in relative safety. His knowledge of the virulent diseases of Clan Pestilens is beyond compare, and he has unleashed many noisome plagues across the known world, ravaging civilizations and wiping out entire settlements.
He wondered sometimes if there were more like him, if there were others scattered around the country, even the world, passing on their contagion with a touch, alleviating their own pain by gifting it to others. Buddy didn't know, and he suspected he never would. He still had no understanding of how he had come to be this way. It might have been the work of some outside agency, but equally, it could have just been a consequence of Buddy's own moral decay. Maybe, he thought, I'm the next step in human evolution: a being whose physical form has become a reflection of his moral state, a man whose soul has corrupted and rotted within him, poisoning and transforming his insides. Whatever he was, Buddy was certain of one thing: he was stronger and more lethal than anyone in this shithole town, and pretty soon a lot of people were going to learn that lesson the hard way.
— The Cancer Cowboy Rides, by John Connolly
The Fledgling: You're the cause of all this disease, aren't you?
Bishop Vick: [coughs loudly] Disease? Brother, you've got to open your mind! One man's disease is another man's sanctity! Here among the Brotherhood of the Ninth Circle, we have shed these earthly labels! Come! Partake of our divine communion!
Bishop Vick: [coughs loudly] Disease? Brother, you've got to open your mind! One man's disease is another man's sanctity! Here among the Brotherhood of the Ninth Circle, we have shed these earthly labels! Come! Partake of our divine communion!
Plague Lords cultivate the Ratkin's most formidable weapon: disease. All Plague Lords are Metis: only an act that others consider "incestuous" — the breeding of one shapechanger with another — can create one of these troubled, tormented creatures. They oversee procreative rites that are nothing less than High Rituals extolling depravity and foulness. All of them are recognizable by the ravages of the diseases they consort with: the pustulent buboes of medieval plague, milky eyes festering with illness, unidentifiable tumors, horrific scars and warped limbs are all common deformities. Garou Metis have it easy; Plague Lords revel in their ugliness.
— Werewolf: The Apocalypse — Breedbook: Ratkin
Nurgle's great delight is in the cycle of existence, in life and death. At the heart of his mouldering mansion, he indulges his passion. Beneath mildewed and sagging beams, the great God labours for untold hours at an iron cauldron, a receptacle vast enough to contain all the oceans of the world. Nurgle works to create contagion and pestilence — the simplest, yet most fecund forms of life. Such is the ghastly irony of Nurgle's existence: everything he does is with the goal of bringing more life into the world, yet so many of his creations are inimical to other beings that Nurgle is widely thought of as a destroyer, not a creator. With every stir of Nurgle's maggot-ridden ladle, a dozen fresh diseases flourish.
— Warhammer: Chaos Demons Army Book (7th Edition)
"He is the pus in the wound. Oh, proper ones curl their noses, but it's pus that drinks foul humors and restores the blood. I worship Peryite, yes, because sometimes the world can only be cleansed by disease."
— Kesh the Clean on Peryite, Daedric Prince of Pestilence, Tasks, and the Natural Order, The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
"Feel the gift of necrosis and rejoice! Nurgle loves you!"
— Ulkair, Dawn of War II: Retribution
Despair all ye nations, deny not that we’re sick,
For our Blood is like water where once it was thick.
And our minds have grown leaden, our bodies gone weak,
And venom pours from our lips whenever we speak.
For our Blood is like water where once it was thick.
And our minds have grown leaden, our bodies gone weak,
And venom pours from our lips whenever we speak.
Despair all ye nations, for the time draws apace,
When the rot of the cynic shall steal our good grace.
And our sweetest of dreams shall fade to lost hope,
Our pride and our arrogance; our noose and our rope.
When the rot of the cynic shall steal our good grace.
And our sweetest of dreams shall fade to lost hope,
Our pride and our arrogance; our noose and our rope.
Despair all ye nations, see the years drawing on,
Our great cultures are fading and soon they’ll be gone.
So conceited our scholars, they jeer through their teeth,
With their theories so shallow - quite soulless beneath.
Our great cultures are fading and soon they’ll be gone.
So conceited our scholars, they jeer through their teeth,
With their theories so shallow - quite soulless beneath.
Despair all ye nations, for the ending is near,
When the Lord of Lost Heart shall govern us with fear.
Our weakness unfetters as we face this unknown,
And our faith trails to nothing; we stand here alone.
When the Lord of Lost Heart shall govern us with fear.
Our weakness unfetters as we face this unknown,
And our faith trails to nothing; we stand here alone.
Despair all ye nations, the Corrupter has come,
And the sad days of this world are nearing their sum.
For the shining ideals through endeavours we sought,
Grow sour as he passes and are coming to nought.
And the sad days of this world are nearing their sum.
For the shining ideals through endeavours we sought,
Grow sour as he passes and are coming to nought.
Despair all ye nations, there’s no hope for us now,
For we made this monster, placed a crown on his brow.
He fed on our apathy; our pain made him swell,
We gave him Dominion, he gives us his Hell.
For we made this monster, placed a crown on his brow.
He fed on our apathy; our pain made him swell,
We gave him Dominion, he gives us his Hell.
—Maximillian von Hohenstausen, Warhammer
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me:
Debilitating headaches,
Night sweats and fever,
Dry, flaky skiiiiin,
Sudden swings in mood,
Blurred vision,
Swelling of the tongue,
AND A RARE FORM OF KIDNEY DISEASE
Debilitating headaches,
Night sweats and fever,
Dry, flaky skiiiiin,
Sudden swings in mood,
Blurred vision,
Swelling of the tongue,
AND A RARE FORM OF KIDNEY DISEASE
—"and a rare form of kidney disease
", There I Ruined It reupload
", There I Ruined It reupload