Prince Apophas is the Cursed Scarab Lord, a damned spectre who terrorises the battlefield in the form of swarming scarab beetles surrounding his sun-bleached skull. This remorseless killer still grips the very blade he used to slit the throats of his own family, a deed which saw him condemned by Usirian, the Nehekharan god of the underworld.
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.
A landscape cursed by the nefarious machinations of the dread necromancer Nagash, the realm of Nehekhara, once known as the Great Land thanks to its long-enduring prosperity, is now the domain of the dead. This accursed land is ruled over by the ancient Tomb Kings and their legions of dread skeletal warriors.
Warlock Bombardiers are those engineers who develop a particular penchant for weapons that deliver explosive death from extreme range. Their alchemical armaments cause utter devastation wherever they strike home.
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.
Deathmasters are the greatest assassins of the Clans Eshin, trained in the shadowy arts of stealth and contracted to slay those whom influential skaven deem too dangerous to live. Armed with poisoned ‘weeping blades’ and toxin-laced throwing stars, these supernaturally dextrous killers have slain kings and warlords beyond count.
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.