Collection: Putrids
THE PUTRIDS
The Dead That Do Not Die
The Sumaya, for all their hunger, were few.
The living were many.
And war… consumes endlessly.
As the First Cosmic Year neared its final cycles, the Sumaya knew their time was running short. The Oasis had begun to rise. The Alpha resistance was awakening. Even some Chaos Worlds had turned to silence. And so, the Architects of the Abyss devised a new horror—a fast, grotesque way to swell their armies:
Not by creating more soldiers…
But by corrupting the dead.
It began in silence.
A battlefield left soaked in blood.
Dozens—sometimes hundreds—of Alpha and Omega bodies strewn across the ruins of collapsed cities.
Most believed the war had moved on.
The dead were still.
But the Sumaya never truly left.
Their spirits slithered through the cracks in reality, whispering through the bones of the fallen, seeking corpses not yet cold, pineal glands not yet rotted. And when they found them, they did not bring them back to life—
they brought them back as monsters.
The process was grotesque.
The soul was gone, torn away or devoured.
What remained was an empty vessel—animated not by breath, but by sheer Sumayan will, pulsing through corpse-flesh like a parasite.
The first victims rose slowly.
Twitching.
Moaning.
Slumped bodies dragged through ash and oil.
But as the Sumaya refined their method, the horror accelerated.
Soon, entire graveyards of war casualties began to stir.
Collapsed cities became birthing pits for the undead.
And when they moved, it was not in staggered, clumsy shuffles—
but in swarms.
Frenzied.
Fast.
Unstoppable.
They ran with limbs torn, bones shattered, faces peeled away by fire.
They screamed without lungs.
They leapt from buildings.
They broke through gates.
They did not retreat, or pause, or feel.
They only spread.
The Architects of Eden named them with dread:
Putrids.
The rotting ones.
The fallen returned.
The unclean breath.
They were not mindless.
Each one carried within it a fragment of Sumaya intent.
They acted with chaotic coordination—an undead hive, a plague given purpose.
And the greatest terror: each time a Sapiens fell, if not burned or sanctified, their corpse risked becoming one of them.
The Putrids became the shockwave of horror that preceded Omega conquests.
Entire colonies fell not to soldiers, but to floods of the dead.
Walls collapsed under sheer weight.
Defenders torn apart in seconds.
Infected zones became no-man’s-lands of writhing, screeching madness.
Some Mutables defected into madness trying to fight them.
Even the Goliaths held the line with difficulty.
The only true defence: fire.
And prayers.
And running faster than your own friends.
The Alpha called them the Curse-Walkers.
The Oasis whispered of them as the Black Tide.
But every child in Tzion would someday learn the same lesson:
If you hear the shriek of bones in the night…
If you see the ground writhe with motion…
If the wind carries the stench of death and rust…
It means the Putrids are coming.
And if one reaches you…
You won’t die.
You’ll join them.
📖 Continue reading✨
👉Tap here!
🧟 PUTRIDS – The Failed Spawn of Death 🧟
The Putrids are not monsters.
They are mistakes—grotesque echoes of life, stitched together by failure and damned to rot in motion.
They are not alive.
They are not truly undead.
They are the blasphemous residue of dark ambition gone wrong.
Born of Satan’s twisted experiments, the Putrids were forged from the corrupted spirits of the Sumaya—attempts to mimic divine creation using death as clay. But the result was not rebirth. It was ruin. Stripped of purpose, void of soul, the Putrids stagger across battlefields as mockeries of existence, driven only by instinct and pain.
🪦 They feel no loyalty.
They remember no past.
They only consume.
Their flesh is decayed.
Their minds are broken.
Their hearts no longer beat—but they still kill.
Abominations with No Master
Unlike other forces of darkness, the Putrids cannot be reasoned with, commanded, or controlled. They lash out blindly, even at their own. Their presence is a curse, spreading corruption and madness wherever they crawl, bite, and tear.
They do not speak.
They do not feel.
They devour.
They are the failed children of a failed god,
a walking plague that hungers without end.
⚡ Step into the realm of rot, horror, and corrupted creation with the PUTRIDS – The Failed Spawn of Death. Where death was defied… and nothing sacred survived.
It is an age of decay.
An age of screams.
The Age of Putrids.
