Valnir the Reaper, Scion of Nurgle
Valnir the Reaper, known also as the Scion of Nurgle and the Reaper of Souls is a great Champion of Nurgle, the Chaos God of Decay, and Pestilence. According to the sagas of the Crow tribe of Norsca, Valnir was once a great chieftain and warrior. His strength of sinew and skill at arms such that he was the equal of the mightiest warriors of the numerous Khornate Norse tribes.
Yet despite his power and glory, despite the multitudes of victories he garnered for his tribe, the chieftain is said to have felt no pleasure. He took no pride in his strength or appearance, nor did he partake of the luxuries his small empire of conquered lands could bestow. Why this may have been, none of the legends recall, but all agree that Valnir was ever a man of grim visage and heavy heart. Indeed, it was often said amongst the Norsemen that were Valnir's misery to flow as river, it would have enveloped all the North in its bitter waters.
Yet no defeatist apathetic was Valnir, for the chieftain had hated all the world with a passion, though none remember why, and was determined to impose his misery upon all the lands of men. In time, the chieftain left his tribe, swearing that he would not return until he had found a way to make to world suffer as he did. It was this purpose that led Valnir to sail across the Frozen Sea, travel through the lands of the Kurgans, and finally range far to the north to the Chaos Wastes, where he pledged his soul to Nurgle and became his mighty champion.
History
In the sagas, it is said that Valnir's desperation grew as it became ever more apparent to him that nothing could sate the bitterness within his heart. The sheer hopelessness of his state became apparent to him when he and his reavers prepared to descend upon an enemy village. With tears of frustration glistening in his otherwise dead eyes, the chieftain declared to his bondsmen that he no longer cared for the thrill of battle, nor the expansion of his lands, nor the joys of taking the daughters and wives of his enemies as slaves. All he wished now from war was to show the world how it meant to suffer as he spent every waking moment suffering, and no torture or action he could conceive of came close to making this a reality.
Valnir's fellow Norsemen were astounded by this grim declaration, and were then made more so when Valnir announced that he would fight no more battles until he had found a way to hold a mirror up to the world and show it the futility of its endeavours and the truth of despair. And with no further words, Valnir left the hall of the Crow tribe.
North he walked, the flickering lights of the Chaos Wastes his compass. His misery knew no bounds, yet his resentment of all the world drove him ever onwards. North he continued, until he entered the lands of the vicious Varg clans, and then he sailed east from there, over the Frozen Sea until he reached the lands of the Kurgan nomads. He then slaughtered his way through their tribes and holdings, for he was an outlander to them. Past their rolling plains he had turned red with blood, the warrior ranged north until he had crossed the steppes and entered the madness of the True North. Once he had entered that hell-stained realm, he came upon a wide plain stretching out as far as the eye could see, and it echoed with the baying of hounds. Any lesser man would have been unmanned by the sound, but Valnir cared not. Death held no fear for a man who hated life. Huge were the beasts who shadowed him, fully four feet at their shoulders. Valnir smashed them to the ground and continued on his way, never once breaking his stride.
Again and again the wolfish creatures came upon him, and again and again he cut them from his path. Eventually he entered the foothills beyond the the plains of hounds, and the attacks began to grow less frequent and then finally stopped. Yet the gaunt warrior of Norsca had not emerged from the ordeal unscathed. His entire body was crossed with lacerations and scarring, and it was clear from their growing heat that they contained infection. Still, Valnir did not care, and pressed further into the madness of the True North. Monsters of great horror lay waiting from beneath the black ice, and sought to drag him down to a watery grave, but Valnir was far too wily for them and avoided their clutches. A biting chill wind blew down from the north, carrying with it the power of Chaos, filled with magic and illusions to guide the weak-willed to their doom. Again, Valnir prevailed, and pressed onwards into the very borders of the Wastes.
Though he had slain many fell creatures on his quest, nothing that he had faced on his merciless trek could prepare him for the monstrosities lurking in the Chaos Wastes - foul Chaos Spawn, and worse things that awaited him. But even faced with this, the warlord would not abandon his journey. He fought his way through the warbands of champions, the packs of slavering spawn, and even the hosts of daemons in order to continue his search for the font of despair he sought. The denizens of the land were not his only barrier, however, for the very earth warped and writhed around him, creating deadfalls and chasms which deterred his path and sending up noxious fumes that sickened the chieftain. Worse still, Valnir heard the scratching whispers of daemons, mocking him for his quest and telling him to submit and falter. But the chieftain of the Crow Tribe drowned out the jeers - he would finish this quest one way or another.
Onward he staggered, to the great teeth of the Chaos Realm that would lead to birthplace of all decay; as he passed that dark rift he found himself upon an isle of corpse surrounding a massive, rotting tree. Upon its branches was a three-orbed fruit slimy with corruption and crawling with maggots.
As he approached, Valnir felt an overwhelming despair take his heart. A feeling so powerful that not even he, so used to suffering and always stoic in his misery, could overcome. Collapsing finally, here at last was the clarity of suffering he sought. Valnir had embraced defeat at last, but rather than giving up his life, he prayed to the Dark Gods to grant him the right to spread the truth of this despair throughout all the lands of men.
He had passed his final test, and before him appeared the dread Plague Lord, Nurgle, known amongst the tribes of Norsca as Neiglen, the estuary from which all despair flowed, and he demanded from his servants that they submit only to him while desiring to spread his holy word throughout the world.
Sources
- Liber Chaotica: Nurgle (Background Book) pg. 33 - 37
- Champions of Chaos (5th edition) pg. 22 - 24