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Tamurkhan the Maggot Lord, servant of Nurgle

"Blind I am, who was once far in sight and swift in malice, cursed and punished to recount not mine own glory and mine own tragedies, but the glorious and terrible sagas of others who have born the blood blade of Champion before the great gods of Chaos. It is I, their chronicler, alone who may tell their tales, spilling their secrets with my viper's tongue and burning-venomed ink, for those with the wisdom to see and the wit to tell steel-edged truth from honey lie. Beware, for such knowledge is as treacherous as the path to greatness in the service of Chaos itself. Know then, that this is the saga of Tamurkhan, Maggot Lord, Son of the Great Kurgan of old, Favoured of Nurgle -- warlord, tyrant, canker-worm and false king. Tamurkhan the Great, Tamurkhan the Fool, pawn of prophecy and bringer of slaughter." ~ The Saga of Tamurkhan, as told by Sayl the Faithless "In lands where shadows rot and creep, Tanurkhan, the Maggot Lord, does sleep. A hulking mass of filth and blight, He shambles forth in the dead of night. Skin like a swamp, green and vile, Festering wounds that ooze and rile. Maggots writhe from open sores, Spreading plague to distant shores. One eye bulbous, pulses dread, The other lifeless, dull and dead. A crown of horns, twisted, cruel, Marks him servant of the Ghoul. In his grasp, a massive war axe so grim, Rust and toxin, edge so slim. Each swing spreads a noxious breath, Bringing pain and certain death. A lantern, bloated, pus-filled, bright, Casts a sickly, pallid light. Flies swarm thick in his putrid wake, Souls and bodies, both, to take. Nurglings dance around his feet, Plaguebearers in his aura meet. His voice, a gurgling rasp of doom, Fills the air with a rancid fume. Fear and sickness, his gifts bestowed, On the battlefield, his legend grows. Tanurkhan, with cruel delight, Brings ruin to the realms of light" ~ a necromancer