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Having followed the Thanator, the Heretics enter his domain and must submit to his judgement. When ready, read or paraphrase the following aloud:
Following after the gaunt figure of the Priornite Thanator, the mists close in as never before, so that soon you can barely see his shadow as it plunges through the swamps. You follow for what feels like hours, but may have been moments, sensing strange re-alignments taking place just beyond the boundaries of perception. After what appears an age of trudging through the swamps, massive shapes resolve themselves on either side, the mist slowly clearing to reveal new, twisted forms of life arching overhead. Wherever you are, it clearly is not upon the surface of Mire.
The creeping tendrils of mist, so long your constant companions on this noisome world, disengage and slink away, revealing a sight of stark terror and decaying majesty. You stand in a glade in an impossible forest, the trees rearing hundreds of metres into the air and a green-tinged glow filtering down through unseen boughs. All about you is riotous rot, the trunks of the mighty trees clad in glistening mould as fungal forms twist through and all about. Bloated flies the size of clenched fists buzz lazily through the cloudy air, which as you breath is revealed to be thick with spores and the overwhelming taste of death.
At the last, the Priornite Thanator comes to a halt in the centre of the glade and turns to face you, his hands wide in a gesture of greeting as he bows low and says: "Welcome, travellers. Welcome to the Garden of Nurgle, where you shall meet your judgement, and your doom."
Having set the scene, it is time for the Thanator to reveal the truth of his existence and the meaning for the Heretics' presence in his otherworldly court. Read or paraphrase the following aloud:
"My lords," the Thanator addresses you all, "I must introduce myself formally, so that you might meet your judgement knowingly. I am, as you know, a Priornite, one in whom countless generations of the Plague God's blessings are vested. There are many of us here on Mire, but I am unlike the others. I am the last of my line. Each and every one of my thousand thousand ancestors has imbibed the cranial matter of his forebear, filtering it through his soul to pass on to the next. I am the apex of my line, in whom is vested a single task allocated to us by the Plague Father so long, long ago.
"My task, my lords, is to communicate the judgement of the Plague Lord upon your eternal souls and, if he deems you worthy, to shepherd you through the Frozen Heart of the Vortex, and show you the path to your ultimate ambitions.
"You may turn now, and go, but I know you will not, for this moment has been known to me and every one of my line since time before time, age before half-dreamt age.
"Now is the moment. Each of you, my lords, must speak aloud the true extent of his ambition. But heed my words. Speak only the truth, lest the Great Powers deem you below their note. Speak that which you desire to find at the end of the Path to Glory, and prepare to pay the ultimate price for attaining it!"
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