Rotlings

They shouldn’t be alive.
And yet… they won’t stop coming.
The Rotlings are what happens when the smallest, most disposable creatures in the game are touched by something far older—and far more patient. Swollen with corruption and giggling through broken teeth, these Nurgle-blessed snotlings stumble onto the pitch in a shambling tide of rot, filth, and unstoppable enthusiasm.
They don’t feel pain the way others do. Limbs bend the wrong way. Eyes weep. Bellies split… and still they run. Still they laugh.
Individually, they are nothing. Weak, clumsy, barely held together. But together? They become a crawling swarm of disruption. They clog the field, trip up plays, cling to opponents like living parasites. Where they fall, they fester. Where they gather, the game slows to a diseased crawl.
And then there are the “larger” ones—bloated horrors stitched together by decay and blind devotion. These lumbering guardians clear space with reckless abandon, sending bodies flying while their smaller kin scatter and reform around them like a living plague.
There is no clean way to play against the Rotlings. No elegant solution. No quick victory.
Just a slow, grinning descent into chaos.
Because the Rotlings aren’t here to dominate the game.
They’re here to infect it.