There was a house in the great Metropolis which was older than the town. Many said that it was older, even, than the cathedral, and, before the Archangel Michael raised his voice as advocate in the conflict for God, the house stood there in its evil gloom, defying the cathedral from out its dull eyes.
It had lived through the time of smoke and soot. Every year which passed over the city seemed to creep, when dying, into this house, so that, at last it was a cemetery - a coffin, filled with dead tens of years.
Set into the black wood of the door stood, copper-red, mysterious, the seal of Solomon, the pentagram.
There is a house of decay at the centre of Nurgle’s Garden. Its wracked and twisted structure creaks and groans under the influence of baleful toxic winds. Shutters cling just barely to window frames only half filled with broken panes of filth-covered glass. Sewage drains spill forth beetles, maggots, and twisted centipedes with only tongues for their bodies and human fingers for legs. Paint continually cracks and peels away from the wood beneath, yet the house never loses it grey-green hue. Along the roof, hundreds of chimneys bellow out dark clouds that, upon close inspection, are composed of millions of floating, buzzing flies.
—Black Crusade: The Tome Of Decay
