The stiff was so weighted down by the thick clumps of wet, matted fungi that it could hardly move. It had grown to cover most of the undead's legs and back, giving it a sluggish, colored like an open infection. Lily pinched her nose shut with one hand before she gave the creature a kick. Already weakened legs snapped off at the knees and sent it flat on its back, where it could do nothing but stare at the sky in mute resignation before Lily's flamethrower enveloped it and its infection.Rotbloom fungi is a recently emerging plague, a quick-spreading infection that target the undead. Something about the combined flavor of preservatives, magic, and faint rot have given rise to a new type of organism never seen before, dubbed by some necromancers as a thaumivore - something that feasts on magic itself. The fungi have a fibrous consistency, sending tendrils deep into infected dead flesh to spread further. In the early stages, infections look like angry welts on the skin, and can grow to completely cover an undead in a heavy shroud of consumptive fungi. Within the first two days, small spires begin to form, releasing spores that in affect other undead. An outbreak of Rotbloom can render entire factories still and stop battles, if left unchecked. No cure has been found, but most have found that using fire can help stop the spread. New safety measures are in the process of being deviced, with entire economies on the line. Theories to its origin range from munane to divine punishment. Most scientifice minds and mages agree that it is most likely a sort of natural evolution of life and death; a new prey thing have been created, so a predator must rise to consume it. What they don't know is the gravitational pull of magical reality exerted by the Occultarum, already infecting and corrupting the world. So far, Rotbloom is content to feast on the undead, but if it is a sign of things to come, that might change.
The dead walk the earth, made to serve mankind. They man their factories, their mines and their battlefields. There is no rest for the deceased, not anymore.
Portable, sometimes fixed, workshops for fixing broken stiffs. They combine aspects of a car mechanic, a butcher's shop, and a surgeon's operating table all in one.
The art of raising the dead and force them to do your bidding, powered by electricity and driven by will.
Factories of death, producing a crop of walking corpses to fuel the world economy.