Photorealistic, cinematic masterpiece, ultra-detailed. A female Nurgle cultist
Photorealistic, cinematic masterpiece, ultra-detailed. A female Nurgle cultist stands in profile amidst the damp gloom of a rotting underhive corridor, shrouded in cloying mist and buzzing flies. Her skin is pallid and slick, marbled with veins of corruption and blooming with pustules and cracked boils that weep slow trails of greenish ichor. She wears a sweat-drenched sports bra, stained and torn, stretched over a mutated torso where ribs bulge asymmetrically and fleshy protrusions pulse with sickly light. A bandolier of rusted plague grenades crosses her chest. Her left arm is swollen, ending in a crusted claw sprouting fungal nodules; the right is wrapped in oozing bandages where a tentacle pushes through ruptured skin. A cracked rebreather hangs from her hip, long since useless, while her legs are bare save for uneven patches of corroded armor fused to scabbed-over skin. Spore clusters sprout from her shoulder and back like parasitic blooms, releasing faint glowing spores into the air. Her face, half-shrouded by a torn hood, shows one bloodshot eye and a lipless grin crawling with motion. A rusty, barbed cleaver rests against her thigh. The ground below her is slick with ichor, her reflection distorted in its rippling filth. Every texture: rotted, slick, alive with decay.
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Photorealistic, cinematic masterpiece, ultra-detailed. A female Nurgle cultist stands in profile amidst the damp gloom of a rotting underhive corridor, shrouded in cloying mist and buzzing flies. Her skin is pallid and slick, marbled with veins of corruption and blooming with pustules and cracked boils that weep slow trails of greenish ichor. She wears a sweat-drenched sports bra, stained and torn, stretched over a mutated torso where ribs bulge asymmetrically and fleshy protrusions pulse with sickly light. A bandolier of rusted plague grenades crosses her chest. Her left arm is swollen, ending in a crusted claw sprouting fungal nodules; the right is wrapped in oozing bandages where a tentacle pushes through ruptured skin. A cracked rebreather hangs from her hip, long since useless, while her legs are bare save for uneven patches of corroded armor fused to scabbed-over skin. Spore clusters sprout from her shoulder and back like parasitic blooms, releasing faint glowing spores into the air. Her face, half-shrouded by a torn hood, shows one bloodshot eye and a lipless grin crawling with motion. A rusty, barbed cleaver rests against her thigh. The ground below her is slick with ichor, her reflection distorted in its rippling filth. Every texture: rotted, slick, alive with decay.
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