Flights of Fanciful Death
Jungles of Lustria, 2337
Juking and bouncing, the cart rattled to a disturbing extent as its two
very distressed horses pulled it along those rare routes where there were no jungle swarms seething about. Behind them were a number of ethereal screeching ghosts who flowed over and
through most obstacles in their way. Twisted creatures bearing similarities to the fell wolves of the Old World loped about as well, snarling and howling as they chased after them. But there, too, were cold ones, their eyes hollowed out and filled back up with unholy light as slouching lizardmen corpses lolled back and forth upon their mounts. Once, they had surely served a living master, but they had died, and thus had fallen into the clutches of another.
"I'LL HAVE YOU WINED AND DINED UNTIL YOU SWEAR TO SERVE ME EVERMORE!"
From the back of the cart, a pair of young wizards frantically fired back with handguns over the lip of the wood, desperately attempting to keep anything chasing them from actually succeeding in taking them down. Occasionally, when one of the undead got too close, be they animal, ghost, or otherwise, they swung out with a scythe which left purple and black streams of energy in the air where it passed. At the front of the cart was a grimy and heavily sweating Tilean, screaming and cursing as they thundered forward. The center of the cart was inhabited by another robed wizard of clear Imperial descent, her own scythe rattling from the charms and scrimshawed bones connected to it where it lay in her lap. She, compared to the frantic desperation which suffused the other three, was somehow calm enough to scrawl notes into a leather-bound journal with perfect legibility.