Sample Text from "The Verdant Vile"

The interior of the Thunderhawk oozed, pulsed, and throbbed in time to the throaty roar of its engines. Lord Typhus stood by the assault ramp, braced against the slimy hull, Manreaper hanging easily at his side. The Destroyer Hive swarmed about him in a gloriously pestilent halo, restless and eager for the coming battle. The gunners opened fire on the Imperial rats scurrying for the feeble cover of their fort. Corpulius smiled inside his armor when he heard the braking guns, and stood ready along with his Battle Brothers. He checked the slide on his bolter, and turned to face the fodder.

“You will have the glory of leading the charge with Lord Typhus, worms! Make certain you earn that honor."

The cultists muttered and squeaked sycophantically, but Corpulius ignored them as they swarmed past Typhus to the assault ramp. The Thunderhawk shook as some Imperial wretch hit it with some meaningless ordnance, then came the jarring thud of landfall, and the armored doors of the assault ramp slammed down. Lord Typhus roared out of the craft shouting, “For Chaos, for plague, for disease, for Father Nurgle!"

The cultists charged out alongside their Lord, straight into the teeth of the Imperial defender’s weapon’s fire. The four Death Guard marched out behind the pack of cultists, and Corpulius breathed deep of the clean, fresh, air full of the flavor of a world in full summer’s bloom. “Not for much longer,” thought the Plague Marine. Aiming his bolter, Corpulius fired on the weak fools huddling behind the false safety of an autocannon’s ceramite gunshield. The loader’s arm disappeared in a wet, red burst, and his flailing slewed the gun around, exposing his shocked comrade. Corpulius’ next round detonated in the gunner’s chest, separating his head from the ruins of his ribcage. Corpulius barked, “Squad, advance!” The squad marched over the dead and dying cultists, all the while firing steadily upon the thin, tan line along the bastion’s walls. Any gunfire by the garrison’s troops was met with swift retaliation from the advancing squad of putrescent Death Guard.

As Lord Typhus and the surviving cultists approached the low barrier, each readied the weapons of their choosing. The cultists hurled grenades soaked in the foulest essences, containing the most virulent of pus, the foulest ichors, at the defenders, while Typhus let loose the Destroyer Hive and raised Manreaper aloft. The foul creatures of the Hive clogged mouths, and blinded eyes. The putrid grenades exploded in sickening splashes, afflicting the Imperial soldiers with horridly immediate contagions.

Typhus swung Manreaper in wide arcs, cleaving torsos and limbs with brutal ease. The pathetic soldiers attempted to form a firing line back from the wall, but were overwhelmed by the combined might of the cultists, and the Herald of Nurgle’s swinging scythe. It was over in mere seconds.

“Allow the vox-operator to complete his request for assistance before executing him, Corpulius. We wouldn’t want the Planetary Governor to think us rude.”