Machina Dei/Writefaggotry

This is writing associated with the game and associated setting of Machina Dei.

Brother Anatole

Brother Anatole wiped the sweat from his brow as he kept watch on the narrow defile. The cliff fort, a long-abandoned brigand stronghold that was more cave than building, had served them well. They'd held out against the Romans for three days, and, Jehovah willing, they had supplies to continue doing so for several weeks. Brother Elezar emerged from below and joined him on the battlement.

"Any change?" "No. Since the assault last night, there's been no sight of them. Perhaps they're content to wait us out." "Then they may know the location of this place, but not the nature. The grain stocks are full, the spring sweet and ever-flowing. So long as the Romans do not breach the walls, we are as safe here as anywhere." Elezar chuckled. "Far safer than the streets of Jerusalem." Anatole shot him a stern look. "Do not underestimate the Romans. That they even found our stronghold shows that they are resourceful." "Or that we have a traitor in our midst." Elezar spat. "If so, may he burn in Sheol for all time. And may our blades send him swiftly." "Peace, Elezar. Did our Lord not say, 'Blessed are the meek,'? If Jehovah wills it, it will be so."

Anatole returned to his vigil, and Elezar turned to go and tend the wounded, then froze. He'd heard - no, he'd felt something, a vibration coming up through his feet. Like an earthquake, or many men marching in step. He turned back to Anatole. "Do you feel that?" Anatole's mouth hardened into a grim line. "They come again. Warn the others."

Elezar raced below, and returned several minutes later with the contingent that manned the battlement. In the meantime, the vibration grew ever stronger, until it could be felt deep within the rock itself. The men prepared their weapons, as the priests prepared poultices for the inevitable wounded and blessed the fighting men. Finally, after an eternity of creeping dread, the first glint of steel could be seen at the mouth of the defile. Then the battle standard came around the edge and into full view. Anatole gasped and drained to a ghostly pallor.

"Iesu save us, it's the Legio VIII Mechanicus."

Several men groaned aloud as the realization of their imminent death hit them like a hammer blow. Now the monstrosities were in plain view. Twice as tall as a man and emblazoned with the Imperial eagle, these were some of the least of Rome's mechanical works. Still, they were more than a match for anything the Christians had at-hand, and would hew through them like a scythe through wheat. And the men that controlled them were battle-hardened veterans known for their savagery. They had just returned from the sack of Persepolis and had nothing but contempt for the undisciplined Christian partisans. There would be no resurrection for the men here; their bodies would be dismembered and burned, their sanctified tombs defiled. On they came at a near-parade march, as though this were a tree-lined Roman avenue and not a killing field. Behind and around them were the legionnaires, looking like so many armored children beside the steel behemoths.

As they closed, the defenders let loose with arrow and javelin. They wounded a legionnaire or two, but plinked harmlessly off the thick steel carapaces of the great armored suits. The legionnaires threw a return volley of javelins, and now it was the defenders' turn to bleed and die. A few men were struck, and a priest went down with a javelin in his neck, gasping like a fish in a net. The armored units had reached the wall and began hacking and battering it into rubble. Brother Baram, the leader of the men on the wall, saw the direness of the situation and ordered the use of their most precious weapon: several amphorae of Greek Fire. The legionnaires scattered before the clinging liquid fire, but the armored units stood unfazed. One armored suit took a direct hit from an amphora and was set ablaze. It became a nightmare beast, a burning demon who implacably hammered upon the slowly crumbling wall. As the steel heated, it even began to glow and make an unearthly shrieking sound. Some of the defenders broke and fled at the sight. Eventually the armor fell and was still, but a dozen more still methodically went about reducing the wall to so much broken rock.

Anatole stopped in mid-draw. A strange peace settled over him as he dropped his weapon and strode purposefully away from the face of the wall. He grabbed the highest ranking priest by the shoulder and turned him around. "Gather the elders. We must begin The Ritual with haste if we are to have time." A look of horror and shock crossed the priest's face. "Surely, brother, the situation is dire, but not so dire that we might need summon a Herald." Anatole shook his head no. "There is no choice. If we do not, not a man here will survive, nor rise again. We do this, and we do it now." The priest ran to pass word, and Anatole turned and shouted to the men. "Hold fast! Fight to the last breath, and you shall rise again to serve our Lord! Glory to God in the highest!" The men shouted back as one, "And to the risen Iesu!"

The old stronghold was well-fortified, but even thick walls of stone could not resist the pummeling of the armored units forever. The wall buckled and fell, crushing defenders and opening a wound through which the Romans could pour. The Christians fought valiantly to defend the breach but were no match for Roman steel and the monstrous suits, which crushed man and rock alike in their effort to widen the hole. The defenders refused to fall back and were slaughtered where they stood. As the Romans gained the breech, the commanding centurion surveyed the scene before him.

The wall and the cliff face created a courtyard that backed onto a cave. Christians continued to throw themselves fearlessly at the legionnaires, fighting men and unarmed clerics alike, singing the praises of the risen Iesu as they died. Beyond them were a group of defenders, obviously elites, their battle scars declaring their hard-earned martial prowess. And beyond them, in front of the cave mouth, stood a single cross with Anatole crucified upon it, surrounded by chanting priests. The centurion shouted orders to his men to kill the man on the cross, but he was too late.

Even as he spoke, Anatole screamed and pulsed with a blinding inner light. His flesh seemed to melt away and vanished, replaced by a pillar of white light. The light coalesced and took on the form of a two-story tall armored man with four wings, beautiful and terrible of visage. He reached into the empty air before him and drew forth a flaming greatsword. His mouth opened, and a voice like a trumpet thundered from everywhere, shaking the very foundations of the mountains and cracking the mortar of the stone wall. "YOU WHO WOULD SEEK TO DESTROY THE FAITHFUL, SHALL DIE TODAY!"

The Herald lashed out with his sword and killed a half dozen legionnaires in a single blow. The rest broke and attempted to flee, but were stopped by the bulk of the armored units pushing through the gap. The first armored soldier charged the angelic form alone and was neatly cleaved in two, sparks showering in all directions. Three more came on together, landing hits but not perceptibly slowing the Herald before being similarly dispatched. The remaining living Christians rallied at the sight and threw themselves into battle with a renewed fervor, all the while singing hymns of thanksgiving.

When the battle was won and the Romans had all died or fled, the Christians gathered around the titanic angel. The eldest cleric spoke: "Thanks be to you, servant of Jehovah, for your effort has saved us all." The Herald, in a far quieter boom, replied, "THE THANKS BELONGS TO ANATOLE, AND IT IS BY HIS SELFLESSNESS THAT YOU STILL LIVE. REMEMBER HIS NAME FOR ALL GENERATIONS, AND THAT HE UNDERTOOK THE GREATEST SACRIFICE IN SERVICE OF THE RISEN LORD." With that, his gaze turned skyward, and he dimmed and faded from view.

Elezar fell to his knees, weeping openly. Baram placed his hand on the man's head and said, "Weep not for your lost friend, for he sits now at the right hand of Jehovah. Weep for we living, who must continue to struggle against the might of Rome." He then turned and walked away, joining the priests in the duty of entombing his fallen men, that they might rise again.

Attila

Attila sat down by the river. Bleda was playing at politics again. It irritated Attila, for Bleda was given to error in this arena. No matter; Attila had a greater purpose for this time. The river would bless the tribe. Attila knew little of shamanism, but he knew more than Bleda, and one of them had to do it. Attila tossed the strip of horseflesh into the river. He said the words that Rugila had taut him before his death. The river spirit would come. Then, on sudden impulse, Attila stood, and cut his wrist, letting blood fall into the river. Stupid. Why had he done that; that was the wrong thing to do. Then a blade arose from the water, curved and cruel. It was followed by a sinuous black tentacle with a single eye. The sword and tentacle writhed forward to Attila. "Augh," Attila stepped away from the thing. A mouth formed about its midsection. "Please.. your world burns me... Give me shelter in your form! I'll bring you power in battle like no other man.." The thing was like no river spirit, but victory in battle was what Attila had prayed for. "Very well." The thing slithered forward, and with great sped it leaped into the Hun's body. It was gone for a moment, and then the curved blade sprung outward from Attila's flesh, forming in his hand. Attila heard that voice once more in his mind, "I shall henceforth be... the Sword.... of Attila."

That was centuries ago. Attila had more of the spirits within him now. All the warriors had at leas one. The sword remained at Attila's hand - what was left of it. The arm had lengthened, becoming whip-like. The hand no longer had fingers, but was fused to the blade. And yet, it was the most human part of the body. The Blade still talked to Attila, of course. It was his greatest companion. And Attila was the Greatest being. The Romans would fall before his might. Soon.

Modun

Today was the day that Modun would become a man and join the likes of his father out on the battlefield. It was the day that he would be blessed by a spirit-kin of his own, a creature who would become his companion for the rest of his days. Needless to say, the boy was more than a little nervous. He'd heard many things about the merging - that it would hurt, that he might lose some part of himself - but, standing there surrounded by his kin, there was no backing out now.

Modun gripped the ceremonial blade tightly as he slashes his wrist, letting the blood spill onto the drawings that had been made in the sand. He kept his gaze fixed forward, not daring to look down at the pool of blood that was forming at his feet, but, even so, he still saw *something* move at the edge of his vision. It was his spirit-kin.

He felt something warm wrap around his leg. As he clenched his eyes shut, he could hear a voice speaking to him softly, as though from across a great distance. The voice was soft and feminine - surprisingly so. "Don't be afraid. I will give you glory."

He opened his eyes and looked down, seeing a girl who looked to be about his age hugging him. He knew his eyes were lying, that this wasn't her true form, but he felt soothed nonetheless. In part because what he saw was familiar, but also because it was a good omen to see the kin's spirit and not their form. He knew then that he would become a great warrior, quickly outshining his father.

So, while the merging hurt, as expected, it was a good pain.

Modun (Part 2)

As expected, Modun had become a proud warrior. He had fought many times against both the Chinese and the Romans, and they had been forced to reconcile with his formidable strength. In addition to being a skilled warrior, he was gifted with the truesight of a shaman - he could see beyond the flesh, into the souls of their spirit-kin.

Of course, not everyone could appreciate his mysticism or his strength. Especially his third wife, Xiuxiu. She had been given to him as a gift from a nearby province that had recently sworn fealty to the Huns, and neither Modun nor Xiuxiu had been particularly happy with the arrangement. Modun because he had wanted to go to battle against them, and Xiuxiu because she found her new husband to be disgusting. Though, perhaps more accurately, she found his spirit-kin disgusting. The way the mass of flesh moved around his bodied and writhed just beneath his skin was something that deeply disturbed her.

But, it was her duty. Not that she had the luxury of objecting anyway. At her young age, all Xiuxiu could do was to took comfort that her womb bought the lives of her people. So, there she lay, naked on the bed of a tribal warrior, waiting for him to consummate the contract between their peoples. Her mind wandered to the two wives that came before her; she had yet to meet either of them, and the girl idly wondered if they would get along.

The door opened and she saw her new husband. Just as before, during the negotiations that sold her away, she could see that thing moving underneath the skin of his arms and neck. An unsettling bulge lay under his leather chestpiece, and she shuddered inwardly at how it would feel against her own body. She sat up, pulling her legs up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them uneasily. Now that he was here, she felt much more anxious.

He didn't look at her though. From what she could tell, he didn't even notice her existence, and, worst of all, she wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. She could see him muttering something under his breath - was he displeased by her appearance? Or maybe he was just unused to politics and courtly behavior; she had thought his home was remarkably simple for a man so high up in the world.

Suddenly he burst out laughing, while he started to strip his clothing away. It was as though someone told a joke only he could hear. Then she saw it. For the first time, she was able to see clearly that thing attached to his body.

Circling around his chest and back, as well as running up into his arms and legs was a moving mass of flesh. The skin over it was stretched taut, and she could see how Modun's skin hung slightly loose where the bulge wasn't present. She clenched her eyes shut and buried her face in her knees. "I don't want to be here," she said quietly to herself.

She felt the bed shift. "Me neither."

She looked up to see Modun sitting next to her.

"I'd rather be atop my horse, bow in hand, leading an attack on some city or fort." He looked up and down her body. "You don't have lotus feet."

"The practice only recently started in my province... do you disapprove?"

Modun shrugged. "I don't particularly care. It's just that the other Chinese wife has them."

"Oh... how is she?"

He shrugged again. "I don't talk with her. She belongs to Yuoh more so than to me, anyway." Modun saw the confusion written across Xiuxiu's face and sighed. "Yuoh is my companion, a spirit-kin."

"I... I belong to you, right?" Xiuxiu asked, hoping she wouldn't have to bring pleasure to the growth that writhed under Modun's skin.

"Yes. I'd have let Yuoh have you, but she said your breasts are too small and your body is too frail. She said she'd break you if without trying. I wouldn't care, but Yuoh said it might lead to an unnecessary confrontation."

Xiuxiu blanched at the thought.

"Anyway, goodnight. I'm going to sleep." With that Modun lay down and turned away from her.

"Err... it's our marriage night. Aren't you going to ... erm..."

"I'll do it tomorrow. Now be quiet."

Suddenly Xiuxiu heard another voice, or, at least, she thought it was a voice. The sound was harsh and made her cringe while covering her ears. She saw an eye open in Modun's back, its cyclopean gaze fixed on her pained expression.

Sleep did not come easy for Xiuxiu that night.

Marcus

Marcus hated living at the edge of the Empire, and had quickly come to regret moving to Armenia. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. As a retired soldier, he'd be given a rather large tract of land he could live on and pass down to his children.

But Marcus had no children as all the local women were too ugly to even consider the act. The land, while spacious, was difficult to work, and, worst of all, being at the edge of the empire meant he was last in line for the benefits of being Roman. This was especially salient now that there were reports of nomads from the steppes coming down from across the Caucuses.

Nomads that ate the flesh of the conquered, and performed strange blood rites. Evil men whose hearts burned black with disease and death. They were subhuman scum not fit to see the splendor of the Empire.

But they were ferocious fighters, and the Legionnaires were no where to be seen. Marcus considered packing his things and heading back to the Inner Empire. Maybe signing back on with the military as a mercenary. But, for better or worse, Marcus couldn't bring himself to abandoned his hard won land, as damnable as it may be.

Early one morning, when Marcus looked out over the terrain as he did every morning, he saw them. Or, more accurately, he saw the smoke. The local township was burning, and the stench of death filled the air, carried to him by the wind.

Hurriedly, Marcus went inside to fetch his sword and armor. If he were to die this day, he'd die with a fight - with Roman honor and a Roman flame burning in his heart, but something was off. His home felt oddly alien. Everything looked the same, and everything was in the right place, but he couldn't shake the feeling of wrongness. Ignoring the sensation, he quickly put on his armor, tying the clasps tightly before reaching for his sword.

Then he felt it. Something latched onto his wrist. He saw it as well, but his mind refused to register the things appearance, so he wondered mutely why his hand had stopped short of the hilt. Outside he could hear the frenzied yells and blood curdling screams of things that should not exist on this world.

"Yessss..." he heard someone speak. Their voice was painful to listen to. "I shall take you, but do not worry, human, I shall not devour your flesh like I did the others. You are more interesting than that. I shall make you mine." Marcus could feel it moving across his body, under the armor he had put on - armor that quickly proved useless against this assailant.

He wasn't sure if it was fear, or something else that prevented him from moving, but Marcus was sure of one thing. He was not going to die this day, and, for the first time in years, Marcus began to cry.

Eric

A large group of men were sitting inside a cabin. Women brought them large mugs of mead and carried away the emptied vessels. At the head of the table was a large beast of a man wearing rune covered armor, and he sat on an equally impressive wood and stone throne.

A man to the chieftain's right was speaking. "We should accept the job, Eric. They're offering us more gold and jewels for a single battle than we could make in an entire year working for either Nero or Boudica."

"Has the glint of gold made you mad, Harald?" Another man at the table quickly interjected. "Eric, you know we can't work with those ... things."

"Come off it, Ingvar. As unpleasant as they may be, you can't deny that they're giving us the world on a silver platter."

"Yes, and I can see from the tarnish on that platter that this deal is poisonous."

"Poisonous? Ha, have you had too much to drink?"

Ingvar looked at his friend incredulously. "I should ask the same of you."

"How is this deal poisoned? We're on for a single battle against a Roman fort in Georgia. We know just how poorly equipped that fort is because we've been inside to accept Caesar's coin. We won't even have to work with that many of the dirty bastards, since their main force is going to be preparing to besiege Tbilisi. We'll just be there long enough to get the Romans riled up and away from Attila's real target."

"What you're leaving out is the risk to our minds and souls. You have seen those things. They aren't right in the head, and I don't want to catch whatever it is they have."

"That's enough." Eric finally spoke up. His voice was soft, but it carried a sense of authority that instilled silence across the entire building. "The Huns may be peculiar, but they are still human... if only barely. We shall accept this job, and we shall carry it out with pride. Caution is admirable, but we are the Sons of Odin, and we will not shy away in fear like children afraid of the night. Prepare your things, we'll begin marching as soon as the snow has ceased."

Roman Patrol

A Roman patrol was marching through the forest. Several legionnaires wearing the unfortunately named lorica faulta accompanied by a dozen Man Machines. The path was narrow, but, for the most part, the men were able to remain in formation.

"I hate this damn forest."

"You and me both."

"Eh, I don't mind the forest, but the women are ugly."

"The wine tastes like piss, too."

"Hey, that just means all the more for me!"

"Why did a fan of Bacchus like yourself join the Legion in the first place?"

"Yeah, shouldn't you be back in Rome or Athens?"

"What, you guys didn't hear? Arturius got himself in trouble with the law. It was either Legion work or the arena."

"... so why the fuck is he here? I'd sooner be in the arena than this hell hole."

"Yeah, women love gladiators."

"Alright, that's enough." The commander shouted out before giving a sigh. "I understand that no one wants this assignment, but we have a job to do, so act like Romans and show some discipline."

"YES SIR!" The entire group responded in unison.

The group of men continued their march, with the clanging of their armor and the occasional animal as the only sounds. But soon a large creaking sound broke the monotony.

"Stand sharp boys! It seems we may have some company."

Suddenly a tree burst from the side of the path, and a large wooden hand came crashing down, scattering the Roman soldiers around it.

A call came out. "STAY. IN. FORMATION!" But, it was too late, as men covered with blue pain poured out from the forest. Their swords and axes quickly burying themselves in Roman flesh.

The Man Machines were the only things to remain in their proper formation as legionnaires below them were divided, surrounded, and cut down. The men piloting the machines stood firm against the Celtic attackers, their resolve left unbroken by the sudden attack and damning odds.

One of the pilots muttered under his breath while swinging his massive sword at an oncoming Woaden. The man's body being thrown against a tree where others would have been cut in two. "Oh, Jupiter, Romulus, Mars, Caesar... one of you help us!"

A sharp snap rang through the air as light flashed in the shadows of the forest, and the large treeman who had been terrorizing the dwindling legionnaires exploded. Wooden sharpnel flew threw the air, piercing through Roman and Celt alike. Soldiers on both sides of the conflict turned their heads to the source of the light to see a collosal bronze man striding towards them, and behind the God Machine were a number of reinforcing soldiers.

Byambyn

In the distance Byambyn could hear his fellow Huns at work. They were packing their things, and preparing to march. He'd have to rejoin them soon enough, as he had preparations of his own to make;however, for now, he decided to take a leisurely stroll through the nearby field. It wouldn't take long, anyway.

Byambyn walked slowly but purposefully, taking care not to step on the numerous flowers that were in bloom. Their vibrant colors seeming even more beautiful in the sunlight, he couldn't help but kneel down and pick on. Bringing it carefully to his face, he breathed in its pleasant aroma before sliding the stem carefully into his clothing. Hopefully it would stay, but he couldn't help but expect it to fall out before he made it back to camp.

Continuing his stroll, Byambyn eventually came to a small pool of water. He could see his reflection staring back up at him from across the surface. He was a tall, well-muscled man with a chiseled appearance, the sort that sculptors strive to create. His hair and beard were both long and well groomed. Byambyn took great pride in his appearance, to an extent that would rival the most narcissistic Roman. He wore a simple, but clean and well made leather clothing. The traditional garb for a man of his station, with plenty of beads, feathers, and flowers attached.

Standing beside Byambyn was another man, his arm wrapped casually around Byambyn's shoulder. He was slightly shorter than Byambyn and far more lithe in appearance, but just as, if not more, handsome. He wore brightly colored silk clothing in stark contrast to Byambyn's more traditional outfit.

"It's times like these, my old friend, that I remember why we fight."

"How's that, Byambyn?"

"Just look around you. Isn't it beautiful? It's not about the glory, the wealth, or the rush one feels in combat. It's for this."

Byambyn's friend smiled, "Indeed. It wasn't that long ago that this was a barren dreary place, but now it's been made into something wonderful."

"Only a few hours ago, in fact. Though, I think I have you to thank for being able to actually see it."

"Partially. If a man is merged with one of our kind long enough, then he'd come to see this. But, you are special. For normal men, it'd take several decades to be able to see this sight. You and I have only been companions for ... oh... twenty years."

"Eighteen." Byambyn grinned at his friend's reflection in the water.

"Bah, close enough."

Byambyn breathed deeply, inhaling the smell of the flowers. "We've spent enough time out here. It's time to prepare for the march, in two days there will be another battle, and we'll transform another wasteland into a garden."