"Attention, Flesh-beings! The time is now Sun-High-point-five, towards dark, 180 Units Past. Curfew in 30 Units. You are welcome."
Disagreements between the tribes are sometimes settled with Megamothoid battles, and during war they are almost always used.
I have never been happy with the way that magical constructs were presented in games. Admittedly, a large statue stomping the surrounding countryside is an impressive image. But the logic (or lack thereof) involved has always bothered me.
“They just keep coming. You cut one down, two more are right behind it. We can’t win, they just keep coming…”
- Unnamed soldier, overheard at the battle of Caele Aran
“Why should we send our young men off to die when we can manufacture the War Walkers for the same purpose?”
- War-Theurge Ceylon of the Fourth Dynasty Army
I would have never had thought one could come to like a rattling pile of walking bones, but Tohm simply grew on me. Watching him play checkers with Formuro was always amusing - whenever he took one of Formuro’s pieces he would rattle his jaw in joy.. From the diary of Professor Ethric, faculty of Divination.
Wytchwolde-Under-Ash, once a great Thorpe, was razed to the ground by the ruthless, and truth told more than slightly deranged, Porcelain Princess and her henchmen, the Purifiers. When the flames had at last subsided, and a kaleidoscope of swirling, dull-gray ash choked the sky, nine hundred acres of old growth iron spruce, black larch and weeping birch, was burned to utter cinders, along with the entire coven of witches comprising the Sisterhood of the Silver Teat.
Now, centuries later, the forests are somewhat re-grown, and the town of Foolswater stands where Wytchwolde-Under-Ash once did. It is said that even to this day, one can still find ashes in the otherwise potable well-water of this village. Once a year during the Winter Solstice, the “Ash-Wind” comes to Foolswater, a suffocating black cloud that passes quickly but leaves dead birds and animals in its wake, darkening the trees, and staining the sky with black snow. The inhabitants of the village know better than to be caught outside during the day-long Ash-Wind. Everyone is locked snugly inside, singing old hymns that curse and re-curse the burned witches who once called this place home.