Labouring through the air on buzzing turbines and driven by the trapped essence of a Nurgle Daemon, the Foetid Bloat-drone drifts toward the enemy like an armoured plague fly. This hideous war engine bears monstrous weapons onto the battlefield to annihilate the enemies of the Death Guard. Clad in rusting plates of rot-iron armour, their hulls overflowing with flabby foulness, Foetid Bloat-drones can withstand ferocious amounts of punishment and still keep fighting. They are designed to hover in close, drifting lazily through the most treacherous of terrain to provide supporting fire.
This multi-part plastic kit contains the components necessary to assemble a Foetid Bloat-drone. A huge, intimidating amalgamation of machine and rotting meat, the front of the model is dominated by a carapace which can be assembled as 1 of 3 options – one featuring a Nurgle symbol picked out in skulls, one featuring the symbol carved into the carapace, and one featuring a hideous toothed maw covered in pustules, tentacles and hoses dangling from within. It comes armed with 2 plague spitters and a plague probe; whichever carapace you pick, the plague spitters can be replaced with either a heavy blight launcher or a flesh mower (which looks as utterly ghastly as it sounds…) The back of the model is a riot of horrendous detail, with obscenely stretched skin spilling over the metal structures that barely contain it
The kit comes as 44 components, and is supplied with a Citadel 60mm Round base.
Striding onto the battlefield like a demigod of war, the Despoiler scowls at the mortal chattel before him. He is an ender of worlds, a destroyer of hope, a bane unto the galaxy itself. Yet he is not beyond the siren call of battle, and leads his Black Legion to acts of pitiless slaughter whenever a worthy foe is near.
Plot the downfall of the False Emperor (or anyone else you’re battling!) with these datacards – an invaluable reference resource for Chaos Space Marines players. These cards are designed to make referencing key information in your games simpler, meaning less time trying to find the right page in your codex, and more time to crush the thin-blooded whelps who dare stand before you!
A Chaos Lord is a tyrannical warrior king who lives to bathe in the blood of worlds. He strives to bring whole star systems to their knees in the name of his patron deities. Typified by merciless ambition and fierce pride, many of these champions of disorder were once noble Chapter Masters and Captains of the Adeptus Astartes, but long years of unremitting war have twisted their souls beyond recovery.
The Pale Harvestmen; the Scythes of Nurgle; the Eyes of Mortarion. The elite warriors of the Deathshroud go by many names, and every one is redolent with a miasma of fear and menace. Swollen with unnatural power, the Deathshroud tower over their enemies. Rusted gauntlets and squirming tentacles clutch huge battle scythes known as manreapers, cursed weapons that slice heads from shoulders and limbs from torsos with every swing. Clouds of plague flies boil around the Deathshroud, while vile smog spills from vents in their armour to choke and blind their foes.
Tubes and pipes erupt in profusion from the Lord of Virulence’s armour. These gout noxious fumes are putrid eruptions whose hue and stench guide the fire of artillery engines behind the lines. In their wake, their flensefrond cloaks leave a trail of sickening mucosal slime for hungry Daemon Engines to follow.
The Death Guard are the greatest champions of the Plague God, Grandfather Nurgle, his favoured spreaders of his bounteous gifts. Look upon them and see the signs: pus seeping from festering wounds that never heal; miasmic smogs of corrosive, stinking gas hanging thickly in the air wherever Nurgle’s chosen tread; the wriggling, lamprey-mouthed tick-leeches that clamp on to their rotting flesh; the droning billions of plague flies that swarm the battlefields they stalk and the ships in which they course through the stars.
Festooned with swaying plague censers and tainted bells, Miasmic Malignifiers belch thick clouds of miasmal fumes from their rusted chimneys. Sown like spores across target worlds, they are parasites that suck filth from the ground and latch themselves on to local infrastructure, polluting the world on every level.
Haarken Worldclaimer takes a heinous joy in his role as the mouthpiece of Abaddon, for it is he who proclaims the death of worlds. He does so not with some quotidian threat or hollow boast, but by driving his weapon, the Daemon-touched Helspear deep into the heart of citizen and soldier alike. He is a dark omen given form, and the otherworldly destruction he heralds is the coming of the Warmaster himself.
Shambling across the battlefield in reeking hordes, Poxwalkers engulf their enemies in rotting tides of grasping hands, gnashing teeth and squirming tentacles. They are the cursed victims of Nurgle’s plagues, transformed into unliving weapons by the cruel masters of the Death Guard.