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.
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.
A Curseling is a powerful warrior-mage imbued with daemonic power through a conjoined, spell-moulding homunculus known as a Tretchlet. Important leaders of rituals in Arcanite cults, these two-faced sorcerers love nothing more than turning the magics of their rivals back upon those who cast them.
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.
Bounding in a disturbing fashion, Flamers of Tzeentch spring toward the foe spouting wyrdflame, the warpfire of Chaos itself. The supernatural flames writhe and leer, but most of all they burn, scorching the foe’s flesh, bones and soul.
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.