So Erik's announcement comes while the scenery is thick and white still with fog before its ramshackle shape appears visible before their eyes and the trucks momentum slows. Lucius has no outward senses to go by - no tasting the metal in the air, iron and steel both, nor knowing the absence of anything life-like within the structure - and whatever spells he can cast to compensate are somewhat swirly for the confines of the truck, but he is content to simply look.
"Not unfeasible," he comments, although he doesn't state that little is probably built, out here. More than likely grown up through the ground.
As they near, however, it is clear the shapes aren't buildings. Stretching across the road like something broken, the underside of one train carriage is a bizarre thing to witness, not generally seen by those who don't work railway maintenance and even those that do, ruined metal and exposed track wheels looking scorched and blackened. It rests on its side like a beached whale, and angling off and attached to it like a broken joint would be an identical carriage, sitting at an awkward angle like an immense discarded toy.
Its make is unusual, a certain foreign quality to its angled windows, faded colours of gold and green where it hasn't burned black. Broken glass glitters on the ground that it has laid tracks in from some violent path its coursed through the fog, sans rails.
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A whole bunch of it.
So Erik's announcement comes while the scenery is thick and white still with fog before its ramshackle shape appears visible before their eyes and the trucks momentum slows. Lucius has no outward senses to go by - no tasting the metal in the air, iron and steel both, nor knowing the absence of anything life-like within the structure - and whatever spells he can cast to compensate are somewhat swirly for the confines of the truck, but he is content to simply look.
"Not unfeasible," he comments, although he doesn't state that little is probably built, out here. More than likely grown up through the ground.
As they near, however, it is clear the shapes aren't buildings. Stretching across the road like something broken, the underside of one train carriage is a bizarre thing to witness, not generally seen by those who don't work railway maintenance and even those that do, ruined metal and exposed track wheels looking scorched and blackened. It rests on its side like a beached whale, and angling off and attached to it like a broken joint would be an identical carriage, sitting at an awkward angle like an immense discarded toy.
Its make is unusual, a certain foreign quality to its angled windows, faded colours of gold and green where it hasn't burned black. Broken glass glitters on the ground that it has laid tracks in from some violent path its coursed through the fog, sans rails.