Sing o muse of the lord of the 11th! Sing of the Cripple of Paradise, he of the upraised staff, Curesmith and wonder maker. Truly, Nurgle cursed the day our Primarch breathed his first! And how the plague god rejoices now that the Great Physician, Lord of the 11th is no more!

Long shall I weep for Aminos D’na, he who was purged by the Almighty God-Emperor. For no crime was he smote, for no treachery was his matter cast among the stars. Only the curse of practicality committed our great father to his fate, for only he was willing to see the great imperfections and limitations we humans carry in our very DNA.

Maker of Wonders! Through the Curesmith’s hands was Disease and Corruption combated throughout the Imperium, Nurgle checked at every turn. Through his genetic wonders was disaster scoured from Paradise, Death World bloomed anew, where the Wolf King crippled our lord at their first meeting! Under the Double Helix Staff were we led into battle, our tendon blades and lipid guns bristling from our limbs, singing praises of the Imperium as our gene-brothers, each lovingly hand crafted, cloned, and mutated by the Primarch himself, each for the purpose they were designed!

I beat my breast at the memory of the Emperor’s disgust at our visage, at his hateful words towards our Primarch as each of the Great Physician’s brothers turned their backs. I shudder at the memory of the Purging Crisis, as the Wulfen, ever our rivals, turned their fangs on us in earnest, as they cast our Great Father into space never to be seen again.

I weep with rage at the knowledge the Lord of the XIII, Guilliman called our Primarch mad, MAD, when he rediscovered him, and finished the Cripple of Paradise.

(I’m assuming by ur aside that Guilliman found the 11th and killed him.)