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So I've gone far enough I think it's fair to start an official BnC Hobby Thread! Without Further delay, it's obvious what this is for, so let's get into it: Links to Pictures: + The First 5 Plague Marines with my new scheme: +LINK+ + The next Batch of WIP's, including Typhus, and a couple of characters, also some vehicles in this picture: +LINK+ + Blight Haulers finished! +LINK+ + Poxwalkerd done, and some Blightlord WIP's: +LINK+ Links to Battle Reports in 8th Edition: + 2000 points of Death Guard featuring the new Myphitic Blight-Haulers going up against Tyranids in Maelstrom of War: +LINK+

I am afraid I've caught a nasty case of filthy nurgle-itus! I couldn't resist the new Death Guard Models, I was really inspired by the old Deathguard.org site of Ryan Powell in the early 00's, and thought i'd be really cool to do a CSM force along similar lines in the old legion colours, unfortunately this never really happened and I drifted out of the hobby. I have since returned to heresy era modelling but the awesome new DG range gives me this opportunity - at least until the Emperor's Children are re-done! I wanted to put these guy well and truly in the heresy era, so that I can use them for both 30k/40k i've adapted the base models slightly by de-nurlging them as much as possible. I wasn't a big fan of silly belly mouths and overly 'deformed' tentacles, as I see these as more 'possessed' sort of features. It'll be a welcome change painting up a highly weathered and dirty army after having to be extra neat and clean with my Third Legion pretty boys! Dirty, scruffy Death Guard are just about as far as you can get!!

So this may seem like an intolerably stupid question, but hear me out... the Acidic Ichor warlord trait states that on a 4+ when a model loses a wound in the fight phase, the unit who caused the wound suffers a mortal wound after all their own attacks have been resolved. So this must mean that the roll is done during the middle of the fight phase. However... disgustingly resilient means that the wound can be ignored, but the wording of disgustingly resilient says 'Each time this model loses a wound'. So, surely from that wording, a warlord with Acidic Ichor trait can roll both Acidic Ichor, and then recover the wound using Disgustingly Resilient, as the wound has technically been lost and is just regained. Thoughts?

Hi all! The new edition has brought a great chance to start collecting the Death Guard. My goal is to make a beautiful themed army of Nurgle in half a year. Zombies, demonic machine and of course a lot of Plague Marines - its foundation. Color scheme: Nurgle in his blessing gives us life and death. That life, that death have the richest palette. From all shades of rust to any gradation of green. Therefore, I want to use for different units - their color scheme. What I have at the moment: 1. Flavivirus Febricis - yellow / rust color scheme for Helldrakes 2. Pus Vertit Viridi - dark green / khaki, colors for regular plague marines 3. Viridi Frigus - sick green, colors for plague marines champion or special characters 4. Erugo - rust / white for daemonic engines on the ground battlefield And that's what I started at the moment: 1. Lord of Contacgnation 2. Plague Marines 3. Noxious Blightbringer 4. Helldrakes 5. Maulerfiend and Forgefiend Thanks for looking!

They lurched forward in waves, unnatural and rancid figures, resembling Space Marines but their countenances blighted and sullied with the stench of decay. Murky swarms of flies churned around them as they shuffled along on deformed limbs. Their rusted armor was greasy with the mucus that oozed from pocked carapaces bestrewn with sores. They held oxidized, grime-coated weapons in arms disfigured by foul disease. Despite their decomposing demeanors, these disgusting parodies of Space Marines were still formidable enemies. Wherever their weapons hit, men fell screaming, dark strains of crippling sickness spreading through their bodies. Weapons barely even fazed them, blasts and bolts absorbed into gnarled fusions of tissue and ceramite plate. Although the Guardsmen outnumbered them many times over, nothing seemed to interrupt the lethargic, scattered march of the Plague Marines. A discordant symphony of piercing shrieks, guttural death-rattles and the buzzing of warp-spawned pests followed them. Lieutenant Selwyn Barras cursed the day he had ever set foot on Ephesos. His regiment had come to the feudal world in response to bombastic claims that the dead were rising and slaughtering the human population. Barras’ superiors had put down the preliminary reports to the superstitious hysteria of barely-civilized serfs toiling in dark lowlands, growing meager rice in paddy fields. Following their deployment, however, regimental commanders soon assessed the blunt reality. Epidemics had ravaged Ephesos for months, but rather than alerting Terra to the outbreaks, the planetary governor had remained doggedly focused on ensuring that the world supplied its regular tithe of rice bushels to the Imperium. The governor and his staff had been the only ones off-planet to know about the hastily-dug mass graves containing the hundreds of thousands of peasants claimed by the spreading pestilence. They had broken their silence only when reanimated corpses had clambered out of their crude, shared tombs, ravaging all living things lucklessly in their paths. Fortunately, the mindless undead could not hope to match the exceptional training and veteran leadership of an Imperial Guard regiment. Rot rendered once-human bodies into soft meat easily torn apart by laser fire. Defeating the zombie hordes had proved more time-consuming than challenging, and in a matter of weeks, most of Ephesos’ key cities had been reclaimed by the Astra Militarum. Nature had not borne the plagues, nor their horrific creations. Unbeknownst to everyone, a Death Guard warband had instigated it all, and they were none too pleased at the disruption of their plans. They had attacked overnight, hobbling across the horizon. Regimental headquarters had instructed Barras to defend a dilapidated fortification along a stone wall running from a great river to a small inlet of a distant sea. The primitive masons who had constructed the barricade, with their highly limited knowledge of the universe in which they lived, would never have fathomed that the bulwark would someday be a citadel for the Imperial Guard against infernal demi-gods. “Not much we can do without plasma weapons, much less armored support,” Barras murmured to himself, chewing on his lower lip. He let out a troubled sigh. Commissar Aelia Tremelle, an ever-present face on the frontlines, could read the concern on Barras’ face as they observed the Plague Marines easily routing the forward positions. “The Emperor protects!” she yelled over the din of battle. What Tremelle lacked in persuasion she made up for in force of will. She was an ardent believer in the Imperium, and it was not hard to share her certainty, to emulate her zeal and unquestioning loyalty. Usually when Barras spied Tremelle’s peaked hat and fancily decorated coat, it bolstered his morale, reminded him that the all-powerful God-Emperor safeguarded humanity, against enemies both material and immaterial. This time was different. He reckoned by morning it was more probable he and the rest of the unit would be host to maggots rather than Tremelle’s unflappable passion. He buried his pessimism, though, knowing he could not risk revealing it. Tremelle would have used it as an excuse for a summary execution, but Barras did not fear his own death. He was more afraid that his despair would dishearten the rank-and-file, the men and women who depended on him for strength and guidance. Tremelle inspired them with moral purity, but it was from Barras they looked for leadership. If they saw him wavering, giving in to doubt and fear, they would resign themselves to annihilation. It was unlikely they could win against heretic Astartes, of course, but victory was not the goal now. Their objective was to offer the strongest resistance they could muster, to not give a single inch freely to the approaching traitors and their Chaos overlords. He grabbed the Aquila necklace he wore and pressed it against his lips. Readying his bolt pistol, he turned from Tremelle to face the soldiers who had fixed their wide eyes upon him, their las-rifles primed. His heart thudded in his chest in anticipation as he searched for the words. “Have no fear! We will never surrender! We fight for humanity and the Emperor! All of you: die standing! Be ready to greet the Emperor with pride!” Tremelle cheered first as he finished, a booming hurrah, which the enlisted ranks copied with raucous shouting of their own. The speech, as brief as it was, had done its job. Barras aimed toward the Plague Marines and fired. Lasers flashed past him, hitting their targets with great accuracy, but with minimal effect. The Death Guard traitors kept up their relentless march, cascades of shells spewing from their filth-encrusted weapons. Beside him, the side of Tremelle’s head exploded outward in a gory mess. Her corpse toppled over in the same direction seconds later. A determined Guardsman took her place. Tremelle had often spoke of her demise in hallowed, sacred terms, promising it would be a noble sacrifice. In truth, Barras saw nothing poetic or dignified about it. Instead, he wished that he would meet his death as quickly and unexpectedly as she had. “Look!” Barras swung his head around and saw a trooper pointing heavenward. Following the upturned finger with his eyes, Barras noticed a trail of fire blazing across the sky. It looked as though a meteor storm had suddenly broken out over Ephesos, another ominous omen to go along with the dead rising and demonic corruption. He could not long take his gaze away from the oncoming scourge; their drumming bolters would not permit them to be ignored. Each concussive shot that landed sent dirt, blood and viscera flying. It took every ounce of willpower to take decent aim and fire, and every fiber of his courage not to lose his nerve when he saw a Plague Marine disregard the shot when it landed. The only weapon he possessed which was serving its function was his faith, for it was that alone that kept him rigid to where he stood. Providence appeared to reward that faith. As the apparent meteoroids drew nearer, gaining ever more spectacular speed, it became clear they were something else entirely. They were drop pods of the Adeptus Astartes, and with ear-popping booms they plunged into the earth to the west of Barras’ position. Rocks and rubble sailed high in the air. Almost immediately pod doors whisked open, releasing their enormous occupants. The head of every soldier in Barras’ unit, the lieutenant himself included, had turned to gawk at the Space Marines in awe. In their power armor, they stood just over eight feet tall. To call them colossuses would barely do them justice. Despite looking like the figures of men, they were nevertheless alien and threatening, exuding auras of overwhelming violence. Their faces were hidden behind their helms, muzzle-mouthed and skull-faced, with piercing red lenses. Their armor was a pale tone of gray with yellow trim, and on their left pauldron a red scorpion raised its stinger menacingly against a white circle. In fluid motions, they smacked their bulky gauntlets on the stone eagle emblazoned over their breastplates before breaking out into sprints toward the Plague Marines. It seemed absurd that giants could move with such amazing celerity. Barras’ eyes were fixed on the goliath leading the charge. While his brothers mostly fired bolters, he carried a two-handed maul with two heads, each swathed in a powerful disruptor field. Letting out a growl that sounded distorted and harsh through his helmet speakers, the Marine swung his gigantic hammer and pounded an unsteady Plague Marine square in the chest. The sparking force field around the hammer’s head flashed on impact, amplifying the already inhuman strike to insane levels of strength. The Plague Marine flew backwards, landing and skidding around twenty yards away. Not dwelling on what he had just done, the maul-wielding Marine shouted to his comrades: “Let free the retribution of the Emperor, my brothers! Purge the unclean!” Unbelievably, the fallen Plague Marine rose again, a crater on his chest, dazed but not nearly incapacitated. It took a few more steps before being engulfed in a searing fireball. Many of the Marines wearing the scorpion heraldry carried flamers, and were using them liberally to submerge their Death Guard foes in infernos. The consuming blazes did little to dismay their shambling targets, and most of the Plague Marines continued firing their bolters and swinging their blades even as the flames scorched their armor and burned away their fetid flesh. Rather than seek their survival, they seemed to welcome death once it was credibly offered to them, as if it were some cherished gift. One of Barras’ soldiers let out a whoop of deliverance, sparking a chorus of additional supportive yells. With renewed dynamism, the Guardsmen resumed firing volleys, even if it was a weak supplement to the strength and firepower of the Adeptus Astartes. A small quantity of Plague Marines had died, but more were gradually closing in on their newly arrived attackers. Methodical salvos of bolter, flamer and plasma fire from the loyalist Marines thrashed the ranks of the Death Guard warband, but few were stopped, and eventually the two forces met. A helmetless heretic, his head resembling a moldering shriveled prune, grappled with the Space Marine commander, a humming chainsword gripped in one tremendous fist. His dark moss-colored armor seemed to leak with sludge. The Space Marine commander tried to shove him away, but his gauntlet slid clear due to the slimy gunk. The Death Guard warrior lunged, slashing his chainsword across the commander’s shoulder and blood sprayed through the split in the armor. The commander responded by slamming his elbow into his opponent’s belly and jumping backward, trouncing his maul onto neck and head. Like the rotted fruit it resembled, the Plague Marine’s head broke open, bone and brain obliterated in an eruption of filthy carnage. The decapitated body fell away as more enemies loomed. The scene became a festival of massacres, a carnival of blood and ferocity. A Space Marine fighting beside the commander died, an axe plunged into the space beneath his helm, and he fell to the sound of his own gurgling blood. Another Space Marine swept up his dead comrade’s bolt pistol and emptied the magazine into the killer. He was instantly set upon by a Plague Marine carrying a combat knife, which in Barras’ much smaller hands would easily have been a sword. The Chaos-corrupted Marine drove the serrated blade into the gap between breastplate and helmet before wrenching it out. He stabbed repeatedly, laughing with horrid glee, until the Space Marine collapsed. He was so caught up in his homicidal mania that he did not even notice the Astartes commander swinging his maul until it landed on his back, shattering his spine. The hammer rose and fell over and over, quickly turning the Plague Marine into a bludgeoned corpse. The battle was even, with the Space Marines winning slightly, but Barras wondered how long that would go on. The Death Guard Marines, though few in number, were only stoppable by extreme use of firepower or overwhelming brute force. In a conflict of pure attrition, the advantage lay with the nigh-invulnerable plague-bearing juggernauts. They were, Barras thought to himself, avatars of the inevitable entropy in the universe, the unpleasant but nevertheless harsh truth that all things, no matter how glorious or precious, would someday collapse and congeal, falling to ruin. Even the Imperium of Man, for all its splendors and righteousness, would at some point vanish from the universe, just as the brightest suns in the galaxy would fade into cold dark masses…. He was shaken from these heretical thoughts by the rumbling sound of Thunderhawks howling from behind him, their wing mounted guns blasting away. One by one, the Plague Marines exploded in a series of massive detonations. With almost stoic passivity, the more distant Death Guard survivors were torn apart by over-sized battle cannons spewing high-explosive rounds, others shredded by the shrapnel created by the rounds’ shell casings. The aircrafts banked around as they passed overhead, coming in low to the ground. When they landed, they unloaded streams of Space Marines, around twenty in each. From one, an enormous war machine strode clumsily down an exit ramp, roughly thirteen feet tall and just as wide. It moved in thumping, trifling steps, and its arms were weapons: the left was a steel arm capped by a wide chainsaw fist the size of an adult human, and the right was a long cannon with coils along its length that glowed dull blue. The battle ended soon thereafter. Barras’ men, exhausted and mortified by their brush with certain death, relaxed their discipline and slouched against the walls, some leaning on their firearms. Barras felt the urge to join them, but stopped when he spotted the Space Marine commander moving towards him. He snapped to attention, just as he had done years ago at the officers’ academy. He did his best to remain composed, but reflexively blanched at the noisy bluster of servos from the Marine’s armor joints. The Astartes had set aside his maul, and with gauntleted hands removed his helm. Underneath, his head was bald and leathery tan, marred with crisscrossed scars. His eyes were a light and watery blue, blank and unfocused. Barras smiled softly, hoping a relaxed and warm expression would obscure his nervousness before one of the God-Emperor’s chosen. Of course, he knew that was as futile as resisting an Inquisitor. “I’m Lieutenant Selywn Barras, my lord,” he began, “and we’re glad to see you…” “I am Brother-Captain Creon Mindarus,” the Astartes interrupted, “of the Red Scorpions’ Fourth Company. My orders are to purge this quadrant of the planet. Inquisitor Xanthus of the Ordo Malleus informed us that the traitors of the Fourteenth Legion were attempting to summon a powerful daemon, a harbinger of rot and ruin.” Barras nodded. “Well, it would appear your mission was accomplished.” “Not yet,” Creon said curtly. “Our orders were to cleanse this planet of Chaos taint, Lieutenant, and for us, that means all who were exposed to the corruption on Ephesos. Your unit has been deployed on the planet for several months, has it not?” Barras arched an eyebrow. “Y-Yes, my lord, to wipe out the walking dead…” “A task you did satisfactorily,” Creon replied with a cold monotone. “Yet, it was an error sending your regiment here. Despite its many commendations, you have one inherent flaw: you are mere humans.” He titled his head to one side briefly and clicked his tongue. “Well, most of you, at least. Your regiment has squads of abuhumans, yes?” “Y-You mean the Ogryns?” Barras stammered. “I have nothing to do with them!” The Astartes captain raised a hand to halt the protestations. “Your intentions are irrelevant. Even without the presence of abhumans, your regiment has been exposed to plagues and poxes your unmodified immune systems could not resist with guaranteed success. Rather than risk allowing you to leave Ephesos and potentially infect others, the chapter has decided to liquidate your regiment as part of our operations.” Barras went ashen as the blood drained from his face. His jaw dropped several centimeters and his eyes grew wide. “T-This is wrong! We did our duty!” “You did what was expected of you,” Creon responded with indifference. “Nevertheless, you cannot claim direct descent from the Emperor himself, as we can. Even few Astartes chapters truly do.” There was no pride on his lips; he spoke matter-of-factly. “You are flawed by your very nature, and thus, a liability. Your sacrifice serves the Imperium.” On instinct, Barras moved to run. Obviously the Astartes was faster. He reached out and clutched Barras’ neck in his gauntleted fingers. The Guardsman struggled in the grip, choking for air. Creon tightened his hold, crunching bone and cartilage with hardly a tensing of his muscles. Lifted off the ground, Barras’ feet kicked for solid contact, but soon went limp. The Astartes dropped him to the ground, where he fell with a thud. By this time, the worn and weakened soldiers of the unit had noticed the execution of their commander. As they processed what they were seeing, they also noticed that the charcoal-clad Space Marines had encircled them – and were now pointing their bolters, flamers, and plasma guns at them. Creon made a small motion with his hand and the Marines fired in unison, cutting down the surviving Guardsmen with ruthless efficiency. As lasers and flame reflected in his icy blue eyes, Creon whispered: “Purge the unclean.”

Hey guys, Years ago when got into warhammer my first army was a load of badly painted and greenstuffed models of my home brew chapter the rot lords. I moved on from them after my paint skill improved to word bearers and night lords but with the latest release i have decided to re-create that chapter and write a back story for them. I'll be adding pics of the models as I finish them. Feel free to skip the back story was longer than I thought it would be. Below you will find a picture of the remains of Decious who is now Defacatus. The Rotlords were once the Brother's Fealty Chapter hailing from a recruitment planet called Belian near Ultramar. They were known as successors from the Ultramarine chapter and were known as perfect example of what it was to serve the Emperor as Adeptus Astartes. When the Warp Rift that tore the galaxy in half came to the planet, Belian became completely cut off from the outside world. A rogue Death Guard Sorcerer by the name of Sephlis began blighting the population and summoning legions of the pestilent hordes of plague bearers to reap a bountiful tally for Nurgle. Chapter Master Decious issued that the marines were to dig in and fortify their fortress known as Unity Fort. They saved as much of the population as they could but sadly most of the population were left to fend for themselves in the blighted wasteland that was now Belian. Months passed and the legions of Nurgle threw themselves against the fortress and each time the Brothers Fealty pushed back. In the wasteland of Belian the plagues of Nurgle ran rampant and those that did not fall to the plagues turned to Nurgle for aid, and he was all too happy to accept them. The blighting of the planet became so severe that a far more ancient and devious mind set it's eyes on it. Axhaxaghul an ancient Great Unclean one, famous for demanding his followers call him "Big Fats" and being paternal to the extreme. It wasn't long before the walls of Unity fort began to crumble with Decay. Inside the fort the population that had made it in were beginning to starve and sicken. They pleaded with the Brother's fealty chapter to end their suffering and some even resorted to cannibalism. The Brother's Fealty began to despair and asked Decious to sally forth and reclaim the planet and purge the heresy but Decious knew that to open up the gates of the fort would lead to the planet falling. In desperation he ordered all the population within the walls to be purged as their clamoring and disparaging were taking it's tole upon his marines. This order was not entirely followed as some of the marines simply drove the population into the basement of the fort and locked it sealing them behind the massive basement doors in the hope that a solution could be found before they needed to be purged, it was this desperate act that would be the final undoing of the chapter. One infected person is all it took, In the basement the starvation continued and a rampant disease festered, the horror that they had been left to die in a pitch black cold basement drove some insane and chaos ensued. It was then that something crawled from the filth pits the population were using as a lavatory. The stench of it was unbearable and some so weak from hunger died on the spot. It called itself the Keeper of Anguish and offered a solution to the disparaging, Slowly over the course of a few days they converted, festered, loved and despaired, They rotted, bloated, hugged and laughed. They anguished,cried, transformed and by the ended were something that was not human at all. A man by the name of Kyudus suffered the most. Voted by the people to be the their voice to the Keeper of Anguish he was transformed in a monstrous chaos spawn that was able to rip down the basement doors and lead the revenge of those that had been locked below. The marines were shocked at what came from the basement, a Morbid selection of flesh monsters and dancing piles of filth. So great was the horror of the marines that had locked these poor souls in the basement that they had personally delivered themselves to Decious as punishment. Decious furious with rage ordered them to exterminate the monsters to the last. The Marines tried but were overwhelmed in a tide of flesh and despair. Decious in his tactical dreadnought armour ordered all available marines to the lower levels to put an end to this once and for all, it is there that he encountered the hulking monster Kyudus. Kyudus vomited on Decious a tidal wave of filth, decreasing in size as he poured his mass into the mix of bile and putrid filth, The lower levels where the Astartes were mounting their desperate counter attack against the jovial flesh monsters of the fortress bowels began to fill with the vomit, It rusted their Armour with the fumes clogging their bolters and chain blades but had no effect on the diseased denizens of the deep. It came down to the marines pushing on with rusted armour using nothing but their tactical knives to try reach the source but one by one they were either dragged into the vomit or torn apart by the diseased monsters of Nurgle. Eventually after hours of trudging through sludge and filth First captain Vinious and his squad reached the source to find the Keeper of Anguish and bowing to him was the bloated monstrosity that had become Decious. He had swollen to double his normal size almost busting from his Terminator Armour. The marines pleaded with Decious to stand up and slay the Daemon but Decious remained bowed. It was then the Keeper of Anguish handed Decious his blade and told him to cut out the Gene Seed from his brothers. The fight was over in minutes and the Keeper of Anguish knighted Decious as Defecatus, Champion of Rot. Defecatus with his army of Rotting flesh monsters set about taking the fort in the name of nurgle, His brothers that did not join him willingly were dipped into the sludge until they willingly vowed their souls to Defacatus and Nurgle. Once he had made the fort his he opened the gates to be greeted by Sephlis, Sephlis bowed to Defecatus offering his services to him swearing a legion of pox and plagues to his cause. Defacatus walked the wasteland while what the population had become worshiped at his feet swearing to serve him. They guided him up the stairs of what had been the governors palace to the feet of Axhaxaghul. Axhaxaghul embraced Defecatus and told him to take the planet and build an army that He would need it soon to spread the bounty of Papa. Defecatus rose and swore before Axhaxaghul that in his name he would blight a thousand worlds, he turned to what remained of his chapter and shouted what would become their war cry, "Metal shall rust, Flesh shall rot and the souls of man shall despair in the ever loving embrace of papa nurgle".He then renamed his chapter the Rotlords and began rebuilding Belian into a fully functioning plague planet. http://i.imgur.com/MSZBe2d.jpg