One of the many gates leading out of the central court [of Malfeas] opens into what appears to be a formal garden. The plants, although they smell of decaying meat and possess an unhealthy sheen, are neatly ordered and carefully cultivated. Crucified, flayed, and otherwise mutilated and tortured victims are on display at each turn and joining of the paths, and the area constantly burbles with the sound of the many fountains and stream running red with blood or black with steaming poison.
Once through the gate, the garden seems to extend more or less unchanged in every direction. The further that one moves, however, the less orderly the garden becomes. Even if a visitor tries to turn and make for the entry gate, he will find himself lost in the increasingly wild gardens.
—The Gardens of Nightmare, Werewolf: The Apocalypse - Book of the Wyrm (second edition)
Before you is a garden washed with blood. A sea of petalled crimson. They say these particular exile's roses are of a variety cross-bred with a flower from Hell. That would explain the stench of brimstone, underneath the sweetness.
Winding paths lead to irregular rows of cages, each covered in tangles of thorn and vine. Some of the prisoners inside the cages call out to you, others mutter to themselves, or weep. A few simply stare, hopeless and silent.
When not labouring at his iron cauldron, Nurgle cultivates his garden with a tenderness and pride utterly at odds with his rank and loathsome appearance. As with all worldly things within the Realm of Chaos, Nurgle's overgrown garden is of a scale large enough to befuddle the mind. Within its bounds are the plants and trees drawn from a thousand worlds across a hundred realities. Bright sprays of red, blue, yellow and purple puncture the autumnal gloom; havens of splendid cheeriness in a dismal woodscape. Each strain of flora flourishes in its peculiar environment, though not all are immediately recognisable. Like any gardener, Nurgle cannot resist the recombining of his beloved strains.
Almost everything in the Plaguefather's garden is some strange hybrid of vegetable, fungoid and daemonic life. Perhaps as a result of this, the garden is alive with a kind of ghastly intelligence. It is not sentient as such, but has enough carnivorous instinct and drive to attack intruders, its plague-smothered vines bestowing all manner of deathly poxes on those who foolishly come within reach.
—Warhammer: Chaos Demons Army Book (7th Edition)
"My grounds... Where screams are flowers and pain their fragrance."
—Grumenael, Dawn of War II: Soulstorm
