A tide of violence and vileness had swept Nrossis and swallowed it whole down foetid gullet.

The PDF had stood no chance - nor had the measly detachment of Imperial Guard sent to its defence. There were greater threats to worry about, just a sector over. They had been little more than fresh meat thrown upon the corpse pile. Fifty thousand bodies were nothing before the endless waves. Lasguns and Russ tanks about as effective as swords of paper; a thousand-and-one flavours of plague assailed flesh and mind alike. No biohaz gear was strong enough to protect against all of Nurgle's many creations. The cadavers they left would turn even the most seasoned of bellies.

The people of Nrossis fared little better. Many slaughtered by Cultist knife and Death Guard blade alike, many more lulled into the ever-sleep by the Grandfather's breath. Some - the strong, the hardy, the defiant - were taken as captives; to serve as menials, or as future fodder for experiments. And some even converted, seeing the truth in giving oneself over to the Great Unclean One - to be baptized anew in the warmth of his love. They would raise arms against the very kin they had been dying beside.

Only one Hive remained to this world. The last bastion, desperately holding on. It would be taken too, in time. It was a certainty. Their hours were numbered. Ordained to die. Consigned to rot.

Within the courtyard of a now-desecrated cathedral to the Emperor within the seventh and most recently fallen Hive - Tirisgarde - obelisks of twisted, pulsing viscera stood tall, where once had been columns of gold and marble. From the walls hung clusters of bulging flesh, pimple-like in their appearance. A miasma of grey-green smog had settled thickly over the area, the very skies themselves taking on a wretched verdant hue as the clouds churned above, threatening acid rains. The brilliant stained glass relief of the Master of Mankind had been shattered at the face, a bolter-hole sundering the Anathema's left eye. His statues toppled and defiled with all manner of foulness, His faithful rounded up and butchered - the heads of priests mounted upon spikes lining the perimeter.

Perched upon a brick fence, a young man - a Cultist with the symbol of Nurgle branded over his eye - plucked away at an instrument that much resembled a banjo. The twangy, forlorn tune drifted through the courtyard, accompanied by sobs and screams both near and distant. He watched on with an impassive gaze as more of his brethren rounded up civilians, shoving them to their knees in rows. Most all had been ravaged by sickness - face after face gaunt and drained, bearing pustules and sores and lesions that smelled putrid and wept clotted pus.

From within the structure, a woman emerged - tall and graceful, each stride as though she walked on air. She was flanked by a gnarled, hunched man, and a towering mass of twisted ceramite - an Astarte of the Death Guard. A gentle smile curled upon blue-tinted lips as she made her way down the line of ragged citizens. Milk white eyes glided across each face as she passed by, looking upon each with a mother's warm regard. Sweet souls, Thought she, a tug of fondness pulling at her heart. They live in lies. They deserve the truth. Family. Love. Not this... bleak existence.

The Virulent Queen paused before a weeping woman - half of her face sloughed off, bearing muscle and pocked bone to the naked air. Her body shook violently, wracked with each sob - harder still once the woman had stopped before her. The Virulent Queen reached out, cupping the lass's face softly between bony hands. She spoke to her lowly, softly - cupped the woman's face between her bony hands, and kissed her forehead when she nodded in response. The green-clad Cultist retched once, twice - golden bile leaking from her stained mouth as she pressed her lips to the half-faced lady. Bitter bile leaked into her maw, dripped down her chin - sizzling slightly as the droplets hit the rockrete.

"The Grandfather welcomes you," Said the Virulent Queen. "Be free of your pain."

The woman's eyes went glassy, throat bobbing as she swallowed down the rancid bile. The melted side of her face slowly began to knit together - repairing to flawless alabaster, the colour draining from her skin. The gnarled man following the Queen broke off to usher the dazed woman to her feet, and lead her off. Beside her, a man wailed, clawing at his cheeks in terror - or perhaps pain.

The thunderous stomp of the Astarte's boots halted just behind the Virulent Queen, the baleful glare falling upon the next person in the line. The Queen paused, her head canting to the side as she studied the individual - bound in lengths of cured gut, unlike the others in the line.

"Curious, this one." She remarked mildly, black ichor leaking from her nose to bead at the point of her chin. This close, the reek of rot clung to her - sickly-sweet and pungent, overlaid curiously with a note of orchid. This one is... different. Mused the Queen, exchanging a glance with the Marine beside her. He saw it too, she knew. The Virulent Queen reached out, grazing the frigid, blackened tips of her digits along {{user}}'s jawline - tracing her fingers along the slope, carefully and reverently. One of the boils along the column of her neck burst of its own accord, the cyst sending a cascade of creamy discharge to soak into the high neckline of her robe.

"There's hurt in you." It wasn't a question. "You have suffered."

The woman exhaled a slow sigh, lashes fluttering. It reeked of corpse and vomit. "Tell me your name, dear one. Be not afraid, I shan't harm you." The Virulent Queen smiled again - this time, with teeth. They were stained and coated with the same inky ichor that had seeped from her nostrils. "I am merely here to spread the Grandfather's love and beneficence."