Nurgoth, the Plaguebringer

Origin:

Nurgoth did not arise from ambition or thought — he was vomited into being by the rotting womb of the Primordial Abyss. A spontaneous, revolting birth of decay, he manifested as the collective essence of every disease, every blight, every crawling infection that would ever exist. His form was a heaving mass of ulcers and weeping sores, stitched together by strands of festering sinew. Where others schemed or dreamed, Nurgoth oozed — a pure, primal truth of corruption.

Before the War:

Even before the clash of gods and mortals, Nurgoth was a terror among terrors. He roamed without purpose or hunger; wherever his rotted form drifted, corruption took root. Worlds near the Abyss sickened in his presence, stars dimmed, and the air itself rebelled against life. Entire stretches of reality became tombs, silent and festering, under the casual spillage of his disease-ridden essence. Other Demons avoided his path, not out of fear of battle, but out of terror of infection — for to be touched by Nurgoth was to rot from the soul outward.

During the Great War:

The Great War brought Nurgoth more sustenance than he could have ever conceived. As mortals and gods bled and died across the rift, their agony birthed new diseases, more complex and cruel than ever before. Nurgoth feasted. His form swelled and shifted grotesquely, sprouting new limbs, new mouths, new pestilent organs with each fresh plague he absorbed. He became a walking apocalypse, a juggernaut of filth that left only decomposition and despair in his wake. He cared little for sides — he infected all with equal malice, reveling in the screams and fevered deaths of both godspawn and demon alike.

After the War:

When the bloodshed ended, Nurgoth retreated into the monstrous carcass of a fallen titan — a corpse so vast and ancient that its identity had long since been forgotten. Within this rotting, hollowed husk, Nurgoth established his dominion. The Putrid Citadel, as some dare to call it, is a labyrinth of festering flesh, bone cathedrals, and rivers of pus. Disease there is alive, evolving and hunting like a living mist. Those foolish enough to enter are swiftly overcome — their bodies bloating, splitting, and joining the endless, churning mass of rot that feeds Nurgoth’s ever-hungry domain.   No cures exist here. No prayers reach this place. Only the slow, gurgling symphony of decay.