[on the song of the nesting birds] That is the sound of my revenge, Ombbo! You will hear it, morning to night. And I may send you a plague of bark beetles to feed the birds and keep you constantly itchful.
—Masquelayne, The Friends Of Masquelayne The Incomparable
Claimed at last, the Seers' feet took root as their faces hardened into bark. Their arms split and twisted into gnarled branches, each finger hung with ripening Nurgling fruit. The Seers of Lugganath remain there still, a copse of wailing trees that brighten Nurgle's leisurely walks and strike a note of despair into the heart of Isha, his immortal captive.
Such is the fate of those who enter uninvited into the heartlands of Nurgle, for even the generosity of Grandfather Plague has its limits.
— Warhammer 40,000: Codex - Chaos Daemons
"You've defiled my farm, boy. You've spilt your seed where only mine should grow. Now you'll reap what should have grown."
Terrific pain and Jack felt the bones of his skull split, felt a heat where his eyes should be. He ran east, to the river and looked down at his face, only to see a Jack-O-Lantern where once had been flesh and face. Jack-of-the-Field. Gourdheart. Lord of the Patch.
—The Buzzing, The Secret World
Reston: Look at it. That's a... hand.
Davros: ...Vander's hand. That's his ID tag. This used to be Vander. Incredible. The infection must have acted with astonishing speed, he... he's almost completely transformed! Roots and spines - this is a plant!
Old habits of stillness, solitude, silence pervaded his bones, freed his mind from language. He drew green into himself, sharp, stubby needles, smooth waxy garnet, tough branch and trunk that clung close to earth and weathered the worst of winter. He drew its smell into his skin, let the needles prickle through his thoughts, his eyes, until he felt himself rooted to the harsh land around him, so deeply that he could have tapped its hidden waters while he stretched his thousand windblown fingers out for light.
—Od Magic, by Patricia A. MacKillip