SCREAMING ACROSS THE FUCKING WASTES WRAPPED IN RUST AND FUR AND BLOOD AND FLIES THEY DO NOT STOP THEY DO NOT STOP THEY COME THEY CRIPPLE THEY CIRCLE THEY KILL NOTHING BUT THE HUNT THE HUNT THE HUNT DO YOU HEAR THEIR ENGINES HOWL
Every army that ever was or could be finds themselves in the legions of the White Suns. Pristine and regimented despite disparate uniforms they are an endless chrome tide swallowing landscape and settlements alike. Behind them the slaves march, hoping to be elevated to the ranks.
Bound in leather atop machines designed to kill you and them alike. Nothing is real, they will show you. As both your corpses are cooked in the ruin of their deathride machines those who are left will drag you out, unzip their masks and eat you. Some will take the twisted metal and make their machines more deadly to rider and prey. Let them show you how to die.
Each machine is festooned with spikes, and each spike festooned with people. The people are hooked up to machines which pump they full of drugs. The people are all screaming. First victims, now a member of the choir, barely audible above the instrument engines. The riders are dressed in rotting meat, what remains of choir boys and girls without vocal chords to sing for them any longer.
A swarm of heavy industrial machines, smashing into one another and leaving the crippled beasts by the wayside. Each machine is loved by it's master and hated by it's peers, and the Reavers will do anything to prove their machine is the best. Slow, easily distracted but nothing will be left once they finally find your settlement.