The Tale of Cystus the Malignant
Gather round fa/tg/uys, as I weave the story of the sickest fuck in realspace since Typhus the Traveler. This is the tale of Cystus the Malignant.
"Fire at will, men!" The words still rung in the lone marine's ears. The same words that had sent an entire company of Deathwatch soldiers to their graves. Now, the former Black Templar was forced underneath the putrid bulk of a Chaos Lord, one of the Plaguefather's by his smell. As the heretic's pus dripped from his slathering lips, the former Templar heard hissing, his own blessed armor was melting from the pus. He could only pray.
"Why do you still cling to your life, corpse worshipping fool? Is it that you idolize your dead emperor so greatly you would imitate his pitiable excuse for defiance? Why would you not embrace the great Grandfather himself, and feel the only true love in the galaxy?" The pus bag questioned, vile, acrid air seeping from the three tongued orifice, as well as the flies constantly buzzing out from the depths of his lungs. One of the tongues snaked across the dying templar's helmet, causing him to wretch.
"I would rather be torn asunder by the first detonation of a cyclonic torpedo than ever worship a bloated sack of filth and rot!" The templar realized his right arm was free, free enough to grab his bolter.
"Oh you are truly a fool then, Grandfather Nurgle grants you no more pain, no more suffering. Unlike your, how you called it, bloated sack of filth and rot, Grandfather Nurgle allows us to not feel something like THIS!"
The Templar screamed in agony as the Plague Lord's full weight crushed down on his pelvis, turning it to nothing more than dust. Had he been a normal man, his concentration would've faltered, but a Black Templar knows not when to embrace death. With a final check, he shoved the bolter into the vile cretin's mouth. "NO PITY! NO REMORSE! NO FEAR! MAY THE EMPEROR'S LIGHT BURN THY SOUL TO A CRISP, FOUL WARP SPAWN!" The thundering roar of the bolter echoed across the otherwise silent, save for the squelching and buzzing, battlefield, flies poured out and engulfed the area of the now dead champion's head.
Shoving away the bloated sack of warp disease, the broken Black Templar clawed his way back, leaning up against one of the blasted walls of the base. With a smile, he aimed the bolter underneath his chin, to ensure the emperor would have his soul before Nurgle's Rot consumed it. However, from the cracked eyepieces of his helmet, which was promptly discarded to show a face full of giant pulsing boils, he saw the body stirring, rising to its feet.
"Oh child of little faith...Grandfather's love is much stronger than any bolter round. You truly think your pitiable attempt at ending me would have worked?! PLEASE CHILD! I HAVE TAKEN THE DIRECT FIRE OF FAR LARGER WEAPONRY, AND LAUGHED SECONDS LATER!" The once destroyed head began to reform, flies interlocking and dissolving into putrid, loosely hanging flesh, as his visage reformed. Grandfather had given him the ability to become one with his plague flies, making him nigh impossible to actually hit.
"Now...allow me to show you one of my favorite gifts!. The templar nearly vomited himself, the giant bulbous stomach of the Plague lord nearly caved in, a giant lump travelling upwards, nearly causing the throat to burst, until all at once, a horridly bright green stream of bile erupted from his mouth, spraying with such great pressure it cracked the wall behind the marine, who soon found his body to be no more than green sludge, the floor and all else touched by the warp touched slew finding itself similarly melting.
"Feel the great drink of my bile, feel the power of pure disease streaming over you. FEEL THE EMBRACE OF CYSTUS THE MALIGNANT'S GIFT!" the 10 foot tall Plague Lord screamed, the world's final living soul falling to his might. He had done it once more, he had sent a painful reminder of his and Nurgle's power. One that no man or woman in the Imperium could ignore any longer. Cystus the Malignant was coming, melting a path straight through to Terra itself.