Death Guard: Myphitic...
Powering into battle on a trio of articulated track units, the Myphitic Blight-hauler is a light Daemon Engine that provides the Death Guard with heavy firepower wherever it is needed.
Powering into battle on a trio of articulated track units, the Myphitic Blight-hauler is a light Daemon Engine that provides the Death Guard with heavy firepower wherever it is needed.
Illusion, misdirection and terror are the psychic tools at the disposal of the Shadowseer. Wherever the Shadowseer treads on the battlefield discipline collapses, replaced by a bedlam of screams, gibbering and panicked, aimless gunfire.
Embracing the role of Death in its entirety, there is no mercy in the heart of a Death Jester. His outsize shuriken cannon reaps a deadly toll on his enemies as each round, impregnated with virulent biotoxins, causes its victims’ metabolisms to spectacularly detonate.
Spiritseers are those upon the Witch Path who are called to commune with the dead – a chilling concept, even amongst the Asuryani.
Masters of prediction, the Farseers are the strangest and most visionary of a craftworld's advisors. Even in battle they can perform their divinations, casting the complex wraithbone runes of the Aeldari into the air and interpreting changes as the glowing icons orbit around them.
Sworn to Nurgle’s service, Plague Marines have disgusting, rotted bodies that stink of decay.
Sworn to Nurgle’s service, Plague Marines have disgusting, rotted bodies that stink of decay.
The great labour of the Death Guard is to spread Nurgle’s bounteous gift to every corner of realspace.
Sinister, hooded figures, Plague Surgeons drift through the mayhem of battle like ghoulish spectres of death.
The worshippers of the Dark Gods know that there is power in words and numbers, incantations and arcane numerology. Seven is the unholy number of Nurgle, and the preachers of this doctrine are the Tallymen.
A revolting stench wafts around the Foul Blightspawn, his corruption clotting the air itself. Breath rattles through pus-slick tubes as he cranks the rusted handle of his malignant churn, bellows wheezing and plague slop roiling in the incubatum upon his back.
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.