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'Great Nurgle, rain your feculent blessing upon us.'
Dripping with putrescence, the Death Guard match towards their prey as slow but sure as the onset of a pox. The Plague Marines that form the vast bulk of their forces are literally rotten from the inside out, each riddled with decay and entropy. If anything, this malfeasance only makes them stronger, their necrotic bodies so numb to pain that only total destruction can stop them. Grandfather Nurgle has been generous indeed to his favoured sons - their flesh pulses with corruption and bulges from cracked armour - and they share these gifts of suffering across the galaxy.
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