As the revolution grew more desperate, the King was forced to yet more terrible means of defence. The peaceful Cyclops who had long dwelled in the kingdom were driven out of their isolated homesteads amongst the rocks and pressed into service. Though violence did not come naturally to their kind, they were still most valuable as bearers of burden, or maimed and driven to mindless rage before being cast at the ranks of the invading Penitent Crusade
Hitched to a great mangonel, this miserable engine of pain and desperation continues to rain death upon those who would trespass upon the Deadmire. No longer casting great boulders, it instead utilises the land’s most ready resource, the endless mass of restless dead.
Raining down it’s foul ammunition upon invaders far beyond its own line of sight within the thick fog, one must assume some shared consciousness or communication exists amongst the Deadwalkers, capable of relaying the location of interlopers amongst the waiting hordes of restless dead…
