Art and Lore

And now I come to one of the most feared weapons in the Mechanos arsenal. The Mobile Fortress. They are the size of cites and citadels. They are ringed with layers upon layers of defensive works and cannons of all sizes. They can inflict terrible damage at ranges thought unimaginable. To all Bannor Generals, I implore you to evade these terrible fortresses at all costs. This war will not be one by destroying the enemies armies. Their black powder and cannon ensure that. We will win by attacking their farmland, and their people. In an open battle against of their armies lead by such a terrible monstrosity, only death awaits. You will hear and smell the enemy long before you see him. Black smoke will fill the sky, just as the sound of ten thousand gears and crankshafts and hammers will fill the air. The only advantage you retain is speed. Such dreadful enemies as the fortress are slow, and easy to avoid. A city cannot escape however. We must bring the war to an end before are people are slowly decimated by these ten story tall giants.

-A page out of a manuscript entitled "The Mechanos: Their Armies, Equipment, and Tactics"

A swathe of the Amurite people had gathered, many half-heartedly, into the Council Chambers to witness the inauguration of a new Arch-Chancellor. A young and ambitious mage, Naxus, had been spreading discord and discontent, conniving his way into the rank. He was a war hero, one of the finest mages the Amurite people had ever produced, and unlike many war mages, he was just as capable of writing about the esoteric edges of the sphere of Death as he was calling forth its creatures to strike down the foes of the Amurite nation.

It certainly wasn't Naxus' skill with people that had got him there. His smile was convincing enough from a distance, on the rare occasion he forced one onto his lips, but it was easily seen as false upon close inspection, and Naxus much preferred his usual glower. That was the expression he wore now, though a slight smirk occasionally glimmered at the edge, as he accepted the ceremonial wand. He spoke: "Some people are afraid of progress. Like those fools we used to have for leaders, afraid of letting mages truly tap into certain kinds of mana for fear of it. Well, fear of progress will rule the Amurites no longer, because now I rule them instead."

The crowd murmured; his terse acceptance speech was nothing like the intricate, somewhat self-aggrandizing speeches his predecessors had given. It was almost a given that a new Arch-Chancellor would compare themselves to Kylorin and, like clockwork, the Amurites would roll their eyes upon hearing it... but Naxus had not. And it was expected that he would give nothing worse than back-handed compliments to his predecessors; calling them fools was unheard of. Seeing their confused reaction, Naxus said, "I prefer to let my actions speak. If you wish to know why I am worthy, read a history book. Or perhaps you would rather a demonstration?" A few halfhearted claps began as the Amurites gathered realized that not having to sit through three-hour speeches was probably a good thing, tradition be damned.

The demonstration was traditional, but it was normally woven into the speech. Naxus had left it separate; this wasn't unheard of, but only those with the most impressive of skills did so. Naxus said, "I'll need... volunteers. Adepts and apprentices; I can't work with old fools and their superstitions. Only those who feel themselves worthy, and do not fear the unknown, need stand." A handful of the most ambitious stood and went to Naxus. And for the first time off the battlefield, Naxus smiled a true smile; it was the first horror of the day, but hardly the last.

"Do not run. If you run, you will die. Do not panic. If you panic, you will die. This is your last chance to leave." A few of the youngest apprentices skittered back to their seats. Naxus waited, inspecting those that remained, then began waving his arms above his head, muttering a spell none had heard. The ambassador to the Scions noticed that his motions were similar to those of the necromancers of the Risen Emperor, though no words of veneration to that man passed through Naxus' lips, so he assumed, correctly, that Naxus was merely imitating the magical components of some Scions spell, no doubt extracted from one of them during their brief war. The rest were mystified.

A foul cloud appeared between his arms, and he whipped it into a whirlwind, consuming himself and the volunteers. Coughing and choking could be heard from within. A few ran out, half-decayed, attempting to scream with rotted throats before falling and dying. Naxus' chanting could still be heard, still utterly calm. A few within the whirlwind began to laugh, while others started ranting like madmen. "No, mother, please, mother, I'm sorry..." "It was an accident! An accident! An accident..." "Why? Why? Why..." One had begun to sing a nursery rhyme, another broke into sobbing. But these soon turned into manic laughter as well, until all within, save the still-chanting Naxus, were either laughing, silent, or decaying outside of the cloud.

At least the cloud began to rise, until it finally disappeared into the aether from which it had been called. The eyes of the surviving volunteers were cold and hollow, and they had a grotesque pallor to their skin, but they were otherwise unharmed. Another wave of Naxus' hand, and his political opponents found a sickly purple glow surrounding them. "Now," Naxus said, "we deal with the traitors..."