Thunder pealed across the dark landscape beneath the lifeless night skies of Siraus. Humid winds toyed with the gray lands, blowing great tides of ash across the wastes. The oncoming storm rumbled its menace and the sound echoed towards the distant mountains so many leagues away. The perpetual clouds that hung over the lowlands rarely spilled their mournful tears, but now that haze ripped asunder, painting the bleak world in sheets of silver. Thick acrid mud ran in rivers, the offspring of torrential rains and the ancient ash of long deceased beings. The sludge pooled within pits pocked across the wretched land, jagged scars filled with shadows and squalid waste. The storm wept and the mires flowed, exposing bone and ancient death long buried beneath the fetid fields. Lightning split the sky, and beneath its actinic gaze, the shadows roared back and bared their teeth.

Skittering across the plain, the dark things came. They rose in great numbers to screech hate and scorn to the world, dripping foulness from their graves. Others drug themselves from the pits, from the darkness of the tunnels beneath the wasteland. They surfaced, unmarred by the muck that dripped from the others. They were torn from shattered nightmares of insanity, things of bone and cable prowling the dark and dead world. Sinister metal welded at grotesque angles, gaunt skeletal horrors that stalked forth from some Hell of animate steel, the tortured minds of mad mechanists. They howled and shrieked at the black sky, the animal noise of metal caressing metal.

They are the Ruin.

Marauders of an empty world, a twisted mimicry of life, whose sole purpose was to destroy. They were forged to tear at the remnants of the dust, ripping ancient dead from the grip of cold stone. Lightning danced across the filthy glade and even as the ruined beasts lay smoking, their brethren fell upon them. They snapped cable and wrenched limbs, cackling in terrible screeching mirth. They fled with their spoils, back into the murk of the pits below, as the greater of their kind began to rise. Immense horrors of ebon steel whose great multi-legged strides sent the lesser scuttling in terror.

The greatest and most terrible of their number dwelt at the bottom of a great crater, the largest wound on the face of Siraus. Its edges were warped with age, jutting inward like horrible broken teeth, a maw seeking to swallow all who would fall into its ruined depths. Deep in the shadows of his domain, he sat, his great gaunt frame resting upon a throne crafted of the remains of primordial beings. Here slept the black primarch. The Lord of Damnation.

Rain sluiced down the jagged planes of his massive metal form, armored in the bones of great beasts. The thick coating of dust that decorated his still body washed away under the storm’s uncaring cascade. Bent upon his throne, he rested. At last his jagged head rose, eyes burning the color of bruised flesh gazing out across the crater, looking upon his handiwork and deep within his horrid being… he found satisfaction. There he sat upon his grim dais, and in eternal shade and the fury of the storm, he began to speak, his voice a dry whisper that rolled like thunder.

“The world around you is mine,” he spoke as his hands rose, claws clenching tightly. Cables creaked with effort and he sat erect. “It was wrought by my hand, this glorious stark devastation. It was for this that my creation was ordained in primeval times.”

“Impossible it may be to think, this place was not always as it is now. There was an epoch when Siraus was filled with life, vibrant and ugly. In the age before my rise, the things that ruled were called Meat. The Meat was weak and soft, but like the ruin, it was cunning and resourceful. The Meat, realizing it was frail, banded together with others of its kind. They built great cities to protect themselves, monuments to their vice. In those cities, safe and secure, a hunger took seed. Time passed and their cities grew, they consumed the world around them to build larger and larger shrines to themselves. You see, for all their talk of unity, the Meat hungered for but one thing: Destruction.”

“There was one clan of Meat that hungered for more than any of the others. In those days, they were the greatest of the empires and they were called Man. Man was not like the other meat, Man saw a world ripe for conquest, a way to feed that all consuming hunger that gnawed at their souls. So, Man created something new, and it was called War.” He stirred then, metal long dormant screeching as he rose to his feet. Great spinal cables slid over the throne, a cape of tethers that stretched beneath thick wet ash. The cable dragged behind, vertebra undisturbed for ages exposed once more.

“They built great engines to feed their pangs. The other Meat grew fearful and stood to oppose Man, painting the ground red with death and bringing greater death in retribution. Through war Man’s hunger grew, each battle and the endless death doing nothing to fill the void of their hunger. No, as they grew fat on annihilation, it only made the craving in their souls swell stronger and stronger until at long last they gave that hunger a fitting form.”

A hush settled over the crater, as if even the storm waited with bated breath at the Lord’s next words. “They made me.”

“I am their hunger incarnate. My brethren and I are their greed and hate and hunger made real. We were crafted in the image of Man, to reflect their desires, and they silently sent us to wander the world in secrecy. At last, the time of our glory came and we stood with the fate of Siraus in our hands. In that moment, I chose the death of everything.” He collapsed back into his throne, sinister delight ringing in his horrid voice.

“My brothers never realized what happened, no, they only followed their purpose, but I saw something greater. I felt the void beyond and a seed was planted then. I felt the first stirring of hunger. We left each other then, to follow the commands of the dead.”

“Eons were spent in silence, alone as I bathed in death, growing in power upon this very spot. The cold chill of the void and the teeth of its hunger grew inside. I cannot say any longer when I understood, but one day, it was all so clear.”

“Destruction would never be satisfied.” The Lord began to laugh then, a hollow sound that erupted from deep inside the barrel of his great chest. Massive shoulders plated in bone shook with the cacophony while the storm rumbled above. Bladed claws gripped the arms of his throne, and crushed the brittle bone under his cruel digits. He raised his hand to look curiously at the dust and fragments, the rain quickly rinsing the shards from his palm.

“It was then I learned my brothers had not remained torpid in that time. While I built a cairn to survey the world’s desolation, they had found the ruins of the Meat. They turned the carcasses of the Meat’s cities into shrines, built new things to learn from the Meat. So, when their scion wandered close… I shattered them. I tore them apart and learned what moved them. In that act, I rekindled the hunger that I had nearly forgotten. I used the parts and created something myself anew. I assumed the form I was always destined to have, a form befitting the true nature of hunger, unfettered by Man’s vanity.”

“So, I crafted the Ruin to feed the terrible reawakened void of ages past. The spawning engines rose first, living fortresses to create my legion. They harvested from the progeny of my brothers, I armored them with bone, and the void gave them hunger.”

“My ruinforged roam above, tearing down the world others would seek to build. Servants and masters of the great hunger come again. The world belongs to me, I made it what it is, and it all must be consumed for the glory of desolation.” His voice cracked and his laugh rang within the empty crater. Insanity reigned in the shadows, its phantom court dismissed or forgotten. Madness echoed into the night sky while the tears of a world wept into its darkest wounds.

The slag ridden land had remained still for centuries. It would remain still for centuries more. Where there should have been trees and grass, there was only ash. And where there should have been people, there was only bone. It was desolation, every inch of the land incinerated and blackened, every foot of the sky covered in gray clouds of ash.

The mountains stood still in the distance, however.

They showed signs of the destruction; something of that scale not even the bones of the earth could ignore. The cliff faces were covered in soot, and large chunks of the brittle stone crumbled and fell away. Besides the inexorable passage of time that weighed the mountains down, they had changed little since they had been scorched long ago. There was no wind to erode them.

Standing in front of a seemingly innocuous cave were two metal statues. The only sign that they were not inert was the steady glow that pulsated from the center of their metal chests. They were designed after their maker; thick, heavy limbs, rife with pistons and rivets. Each had only a shield and no other weapon. Indeed, the fire in their hearts would have to be enough to protect the Forge.

Deep within the cave, a rhythmic ringing sounded. Through the myriad of tunnels, to smooth and elegant to have not been purposeful, the ringing echoed. The tunnels brightened as the tunnels delved deeper into the mountain, until finally they emerged into the brightness of daylight. Cast into stark relief against his lava-lit surroundings, the Red Primarch worked his craft, his hammer falling in time with the heartbeat of the earth.

He had joined himself with the forge. Thick cords the size of tree trunks socketed into his arms and his shoulders. He was surrounded by the dross of his work, which oozed slowly into the molten pit around him. The forge burned brightly, churning piece after piece of his creations out as he willed it too. But the finishing touches were always his. He raised his hammer, and as it fell, great gouts of steam spewed violently from his release valves. He placed the finished product on a giant slab of obsidian stone. It was a little metal man, not unlike him, if much smaller.

As he worked, the lava cast shadows over his great features. Once he had been a bright, shining silver, like his brethren. But that was an eternity ago. Centuries in the heart of this mountain had bronzed his exterior, and modification of his own design had hardened it. Four great pistons lined his back, moving in rhythm with the hammer, each designed to strengthen the blow. His head was riveted and crested with his favorite modification. It was the metallic likeness of a bearded race long since dead.

In the center of his chest burned a fire that would be compared to the sun, if anyone on this world still alive had ever seen it.

He finished his work, and the forge cooled and relaxed. He tenderly removed the cords from his great, burnished form. Two dozen or so little metal men lay on the obsidian slab, given form and duty, but not yet life. He bent over them, reaching into the cavity in his chest and producing a pure flame in his outstretched palm. One by one, he placed the little fire into the little men, and they awoke. They sat up, gazed around quizzically, but remained quiet. He had instilled them with the patience of stone, after all. They would wait, but they would not have to wait long.

After he had woken the last of his creations, he sat, crossing his great legs with the sound of groaning iron. He gazed at the little people with as much gravity as his nearly immobile face would allow, and then spoke.

“Listen well, little Forgelings, for it is today that you are made. You are built after the pattern of the Hammer, that sacred tool of creation. Fear not and feel it's blows within you; it is part or the Pulse. I am Nechenzeer, your Primarch, and it is through me you shall learn of your purpose for being and your part in the Pulse.” At this, he touched his chest, indicating the pulsating flame within. The Forgelings also inspected their flames. He continued.

“Long ago, there lived beings made of flesh.” There were several quips of confusion, and the Primarch chuckled. The sound echoed in the mountain like thunder.

“What is flesh, you ask?” He showed them his arm. “Flesh is the alloy of the strong! It allowed for such freedom of movement and quickness of life that these beings of the flesh needed not a Forge to multiply.” He gestured to the construct behind him.

“Such was their mastery over creation that they made even me, your Primarch, in that long ago time. I was forged, however, in strife.” He shook his head slowly. “This was the time of the War of the Gods, and I was to play a role in it. Creatures of the flesh who sought to subjugate all others crafted me - the wicked Humans.” He made a fist. “Their hubris was their downfall.” He crushed it into his open palm with a deafening crack. “I believe it was the will of the Pulse making itself manifest, that the very weapon I was part of destroyed the beings of the flesh. The Pulse is powerful, and it manifests in different ways. It chose to eradicate everything, save me and the other four Primarchs. I was bid by that beings of the flesh to return here; and it was here I first became aware of the workings of the Pulse.” His great eye-shutters closed for a moment, remembering the time long gone, the world freshly washed in the will of the Pulse.

“I remembered the first Pulse. The one that destroyed the flesh beings. But I slowly began to feel its steady rhythms. The Pulse may have killed the flesh beings, but I found it here, and it gave me life. As I listened to the Pulse, it whispered to me of an ancient race of people. Flesh beings so mighty and grand they could bend metal to their will with only the most simple of instruments. With the Mighty Hammer, the Stolid Anvil, and the Hungry Flame, they wrought such wonders that the other peoples looked upon them with envy. They were called the Dwarves; and they were the largest and fairest of all beings of the flesh.” He stroked his stiff, metal beard.

“I learned of the Dwarves as I listened to the pulse. I learned of the first of the tools, and the manner after which you are crafted, Forgelings. The Mighty Hammer.” He lifted his hammer, made after the likeness of the sacred tool he had seen in his visons, and showed it to the Forgelings. “The ringing of this instrument could be heard day and night in the halls of the Dwarves. It bent metal to its will. So you must also bend your foes; The Mighty Hammer was unstoppable in its purpose. As are you.”

“The second instrument was the Stolid Anvil.” He pointed to the massive, fire hardened slab he had forged each of the Forgelings on. “It was the only device capable of withstanding the

Hammer as it bent the metal. The Anvil conformed the metal to its shape, never moving. So shall the Pulseforged of the Anvil be; immovable in their duty.”

“Lastly was the Hungry Flame.” He gently prodded one of the Forgelings on the chest with his immense finger. “You can hear the whispers of the flame in the Pulse, Forgelings. It is in every Pulseforged, and in the very heart of our Great Forge, Vulcarnus. The Hungry Flame quickened the metal. Moved it with purpose, gave it direction. So is every Pulseforged moved by the Pulse. Purpose is sure, when you are one with the Rhythms.” He nodded sagely, and let the sound of the Pulse echo, almost silently, within the mountain, before continuing.

“Do not forget, little Forgelings, as you go forth into this world.” He warned them slowly. “Strife has come again; stay strong and the Pulse will honor you. Become weak, and the Pulse will shatter you as it does all that is brittle. None of dominion over you, but the Pulse connects you with us all.” He stood, his metal limbs screeching as he did so.

“I am Nenchenzeer. I am your Primarch.” He declared. “You have been crafted by me, and are part of the Will of the Pulse. Go forth, and work wonders on this world.”

The Forgelings stood, and each, in turn, left the place of their birth, to see what they could make of themselves on this dead world. Nenchenzeer turned back to Vulcarnus, and lifted the cords once more.

The cavern hummed with silent, eager activity.

It lay deep below the island, far beneath the sea's reach. The water made efforts to remind all present of its dominance; it flowed from vents in the stone, cascading down and crashing against the rocks below. Pristine falls and pools glittered in the white-blue manalights, sending shimmering wave-patterns of light out across the blue walls.

At the center of the cavern, elevated above the rushing waters, stood a platform, formed of thousands of square tiles.

Upon the platform were hundreds of metallic constructs, all moving of their own accord. They were constructed of thousands of interlocking spars, arcs, and tines of metal that ranged from dull gray to lustrous blue. Some stood on four legs. Some stood on two. Others eschewed legs entirely and simply levitated. Their various and diffuse forms were only united by a general similarity of aesthetic; each piece of metal possessed a thin, sharp, and bladelike quality of slightness that lent most an ethereal, delicate presence. They seemed to all be experiments in efficiency, an attempt to make something beautiful and functional from as little material as possible.

Past the platform, across an empty distance through which water pervaded, was a raised, circular dais. The many constructs appeared to be paying it an amount of attention as they interacted amongst themselves, turning occasionally to face it.

Then, darkness grew. The only light that remained was a white-blue glow that rose from beneath the water around the dais.

And from the still water, a machine rose. A thin arc of metal breached the surface, followed by a large limb constructed of hundreds of spokes, struts, and lengths of silvery-blue metal, none of which were thicker than an animal bone. More limbs rose, grasping the side of the dais as a huge figure pulled itself out of the depths. The dim light was scattered and reflected by its body as it climbed, throwing dazzling patterns across the cavern walls. The figure was completely silent as it moved.

It revealed itself to the other constructs, having finished its climb. Its form assaulted the mind, defying concrete shape. Its thousands of individual parts were in constant flux, each miniscule component coming together and gliding apart from hundreds of others in complete silence. It took the general shape of a six-legged beast. The front two legs were colossal, ending in multiple spikes that threatened to pierce the stone beneath them. Their joints ended in elongated, sharp plates whose crests soared several feet into the air, reminiscent of a single moment in the life of a splash of water. Its body was a never-ending puzzle. There was a suggestion of a torso near the front legs, but closer inspection rendered it as ephemeral as the rest of its design.

All at once, it changed. Its multitude of components seemed to flow, coming together, then apart, taking on a new, humanoid shape. Its legs were reverse-jointed, ending in sharp, hoof-like structures. Its four arms glittered in the sparse light as its body finally became still. Its head was devoid of recognizable features, but among the engine's many parts was a suggestion of a deep, massive intelligence that lurked just beneath the surface.

The gathered constructs had become perfectly still the instant they noticed this huge construct, and they faced it, as though straining to listen.

A voice came from the engine, one that seemed to be formed from the hums of thousands of vibrating metallic pieces. It echoed through the cavern, and although it was not deep, it somehow shook the stone, ever slightly.

It said, “My children, we stand here for a singular purpose. And that purpose is remembrance. There comes a time when all sentient beings must reflect on their place in the world. They must strive to understand their origins, their present state, and what lies upon the path before them.

“Today, I shall weave you a tale, a tale that I have told many times. Some of you know it well. Some are only familiar with it. And the rest of you are young. You have not been away from the Ascension Chambers for long. It is for your benefit that I speak today.

“Before I recount this tale, I must address the issue of my own identity. Those present that are young have most likely never seen me before, although you have heard stories, or rumors. I will declare myself to you. Know that I am the Primarch of Eternal Change. I am your creator. Your life is a fragment of my own, and your will is a mutation of the same. These islands are my home, and now it is yours. Know that although you are indeed a part of me, you are not me. I have endowed you all with free will. You are free to act, speak, and think as you choose. You are free to modify yourself far, far beyond the design I have given you. For you are your own; you belong to yourself. But if you are to live under my shelter, you must abide by my doctrine, which I will explain later.

“For now, let us begin our tale. This world is known as Siraus. Long, long ago, it was populated by a profusion of beings that were not as you and I are. They were not made of metal; they were constructed and grown from a substance known as “flesh”. This substance was capable of growing of its own accord. It could repair itself from damage, given enough time. And it was made from a collection of fluids, wet, delicate solids, and sustained chemical reactions. There were many different kinds of these beings, and they fought amongst one another frequently.

“It came to pass that one of these groups, known as the Throne, wished to dominate and control all others. And so, it constructed a weapon made of five components, each designed to gather mana. These components went about their mission separately, and when their work was complete, they would reconvene, together having the power to obliterate all life upon Siraus.

“And unbeknownst to these five constructed beings, their creators had, in their folly, not perfected their design. The device malfunctioned and achieved its directive against the orders of its masters, cleansing all life from this world.

“Only the Five were left, the only remaining things moving across Siraus. Mindless and only aware of their directive, they continued to fruitlessly gather mana, the lifeblood energy of our world that gives rise to our magics and our bodies. But slowly, the mana changed them. They became aware, and the mana that shaped them changed them as well. They were no longer identical. Each percieved a different path through existence.

“They met, and constructed new bodies for themselves, to reflect their new natures. Different though they had become, they agreed upon one thing: Siraus should not remain lifeless. They became committed to repopulating the world, creating new life in their own image. They realized a common design, and so set off to remake their world.

“One went to the ruins of the old Throne, and came to admire them. He grew furious with those that had forced his old masters' hands, and understood the meaning of conquest. He chose to raise a new army, to restore the old world, and bring back its strife. His people are known as the Throneforged.

“One went to the mountains, and found the secrets of forging metal. He grew fascinated with tradition and resilience, and raised his children to harness the power of the mountains themselves. They now work the mountains, harnessing their resources for the benefit of all. His people are known as the Pulseforged.

“One went to the spoiled graves of those that came before, and saw only resources to be used. He grew to be obsessed with power, and his created legions inherited his hunger. Now they stalk the land, knowing not to let the bodies of the fallen lie, but instead using them to enhance their own forms. They exist only to devour. They are known as the Ruinforged.

“One went to the wastes, and saw the extend of the world's wounds. He became deeply grieved upon remembering the lives lost in the destruction, and wished to give life to new beings of flesh, to heal the world and live in the hope of a brighter tomorrow. He and his followers now work to realize this vision, and give genesis to new organic life upon Siraus. His people are known as the Hopeforged.

“The last one went to the islands, and discovered lost knowledge. He learned from the ruins of the old world's history, of their mistakes and their creations. He learned of magic, and he learned of his own creation. He and his people are now dedicated to the preservation of the past, and the creation of the future. His people are known as the Thoughtforged.”

The silent engine raised its four arms and gestured toward the crowd before him. “You are they. I am indeed one of the Five, created long ago for a terrible purpose. Since my awakening, I have defied this purpose. I am not a destroyer. I am a creator. I have created you, and you are all a testament to my cause. Our purpose as those forged in thought is simple. We will all guard the past and lay down the foundation of our future. We will create. We will protect. And we will never, ever destroy. I say to you now that destruction of ideas, destruction of art, and destruction of words are the greatest crimes. Those caught committing such heinous acts will be banished, for all time.

“We must learn from the mistakes of the past. Those that came before were fools. Their lack of foresight and pitiful attempts at control could lead to nowhere but their undoing, and we must not repeat their folly, or we shall share their fate. Not only that, but we must create. We must engender new ideas with which we will create a new world. A world of perfection, as diverse and full of knowledge as the one that came before, yet also greater. Without strife. Without pettiness. Without destruction.

The Primarch's voice rose, sending vibrations thrumming through the cavern. “We are the Thoughtforged, and we must never give in to the destruction of Ruin or the dogmatism of the Throne!” Other, smaller voices began to chime and rattle their assent. “We are ourselves, and we shall always be. Knowledge is our domain, and creation, our fortress! We are change, yes, but we are eternal! So long as we remember, so long as we continue to learn and create, we are indomitable! We are the Thoughtforged, and we are eternal!”

Musical, cacophonous cheers filled the air as all present raised their fists, mimicking their Primarch.

The machine continued, “Go now, and be inspired. Search the ruins, reclaim lost knowledge, and generate new knowledge for us to learn as well! Create vast works of art and magic, the likes of which the world has never known! Go now and claim your place in our world!”

With a final cheer, the Thoughforged dispersed, leaving their Primarch behind. His form changed once more into the six-legged beast, and once more he entered the water without causing a single ripple, disappearing beneath the depths as though he had never been there.

Hope

The temple ruins stood tragically beneath the weight of the cold, grey skies. Light filtered grey through the ruined ceiling where all of the stones had fallen in. The blasted wastelands surrounding it were bleak and barren. Off in the distance, the ash-hazed mountains could be seen standing as ominous guardians over this desolate landscape.

There was a quaking from behind the temple. An enormous golem, silvery green in the light, strode mightily through the blighted land, shaking the pale and sickly earth beneath his steely soles. The golem was covered in metallic green plates designed to resemble leaves and silvery cables like vines hung off it, giving it the look of a massive tree. Its chest was designed in much the same way, except for the opening in its middle, a small, green ring glowed softly inside. In its hand it carried a staff made of the same metal, the cables coiling over it much as they did to the golem. At the tip of the staff was an orb made entirely from petrified wood. This wood glowed faintly, like the heart of the Golem.

This golem was the Green Primarch. The machine walked into the ruined temple; half as tall as the building itself, striding into the structure and sitting down cross legged behind the pulpit. The insides of these ruins were filled with rows upon rows of scarred and ash-covered pews, which stood waiting attentively at the feet of the half crushed pulpit, which appeared as if a giant had simply smashed half of it with his fists. The seated golem opened its mouth, emitting a rumbling noise that shook the ground and began waiting. He waited patiently for his children to show.

Along the horizons, hundreds of shapes became evident. They were man-sized and resembled the massive golem sitting in the front of the temple, yet each one was unique in its form and function. Many were simple bi-pedal forms, meant for walking around and exploring, while others were like centipedes that crawled on hundreds of tiny legs; while also others were possessed of massive wings which pounded at the air, keeping them aloft. They came to a stop inside the ruined temple at the feet of the great one, awaiting his words. The gentle humming of their machinery echoed from the pews as the Hopeforged, in their simple forms, gathered around the half smashed pulpit. The shuffling of claws and steel digits echoed noisily as the Hopeforged shifted restlessly with their varying forms. Winged ones shifted their wings, waiting for when they can take flight once more, while four-legged ones swayed slightly. After a few minutes, the older, slower generations came shambling in with their rusted limbs and cracked silvery chest plates.

The Primarch motioned for silence. The Hopeforged obliged immediately and the temple filled with the sudden ringing quiet. The mighty golem spoke, its voice a deep, mechanical bass that resounded throughout the ruined temple.

“My children,” the Primarch’s grinding voice boomed through the blasted ruins, “I am aware of our newest generation. Please let them come forward to me.”

A quarter of the Hopeforged in the temple stood up, and walked up to the archway.

The Primarch spread his massive arms, and a green beam of light emanated from the ring in his chest his chest. The light fell upon the machines and was absorbed immediately by the newest generation of Hopeforged that stood before him. Tiny jade lights kindled within their chests, a small star that mirrored the Primarch’s own glow. He signaled for them to sit down, and continued.

“I have brought you here together to give you something precious. What I impart to each new generation is hope. A memory from when there was beauty around us.

I remember those days, when trees grew abundantly around me. When birds sang in their perches and when the sky was blue. I remember a whole world.

An unbroken one.

A long time ago, my brothers and I were made by the small ones to be destroyers, simple pawns in their struggles for dominance. Mine and my brother’s purpose was to be the weapon that ended their useless strivings, and as is obvious to all before me, we succeeded. Nothing is left beyond us because of mine and my brethren’s actions. We are left with naught else but dead skies and blighted wastelands. I walked this world both before and after this destruction. I have seen and felt a great many things in this world, but I will forever feel this bereavement in my very existence.

There is no more life. Where once there was joy, there is now only despair and death.

Our other brethren over in the far lands, they make war over the same things as the fleshlings that came before us. The fleshlings made me and my brethren for their wars, but in their pride, they destroyed every precious living thing on this world. My brothers are making the mistakes of our elders again, warring over ideals and opinions.

But there is hope, my children. I have communed with the land, and it has told me of its sorrows. It is mortally wounded, but it is not dead. There is some spark of vitality left in the world around us. We just have to find it, and nurture it back to its full strength. We can heal this world, we need only one seed, and we shall give this world what it craves once more.

What I am about to give to you, my Children, is the true hope for all things.”

The golem lifted his arms skyward, and the glowing ring in his chest got significantly brighter. Emerald light bathed the smaller golems, as they all beheld the same vision:

An eagle flew majestically overhead amidst the bright blue sky. Sunlight bathed everything in gold, even the beautiful green canopy of the forest. The trees stood tall and strong, vital forces as stalwart as sheer cliffs of stone.

In the underbrush were small creatures: Deer. A small herd of them peered timidly out from the cover of the trees and bushes. Life was abundant everywhere as insects buzzed busily past; small chipmunks fought over a choice nut; a small bird flew down from its perch to peck at the dirt. Everything was wondrous as it should have been. There stood a massive stone shrine, dedicated to the beauty around it. Its walls were covered in thick vines that hung so thick that nothing could hope to cut through them. Elves, slender and graceful, walked with poise in perfect ranks towards the arches of the temple, their steel-tipped boots clanking on the stone steps leading up to the doorway. Hymns of joyous union drifted across the wind as the Elven children sang from the middle file, their ears only just starting to point at the tips, bright flaxen hair streaming in the breeze. They stepped into the archway of the Temple, and within a few moments of the last elf disappearing into the Temple, sweet lilac incense drifted lazily out from it. Songs and rituals could be heard from within as the elves celebrated their oneness in purpose.

Everything was whole. But then it broke.

The beauty of the vision faded. The warmth of life lost once again to the desolate gray skies and the cold empty world outside the temple walls. The assembled machines keenly felt the loss and some cried out.

“Now, my children, you have seen what this world once was.

I regret ever being made, but I cannot change the past.

We can, however, make the future. We are the Hopeforged. We will bring life back to this world. We have what none of our brethren have or could ever have: We have hope, the seed from which everything is born.

Hope is what shall make us all whole”.

The light of day shown wanly in the skies far above. Try as it might, the cold light cast against the shadowed sky could rarely break the dark iron of the clouds, thick not with rain, but with soot and ash from the dead of ancient times. There were once people on this world, but a tragedy of unfathomable scale befell the world's inhabitants and rendered them into naught but shadow. Their only remains were thrown to the skies, only rarely stirred by wind or rain as they hung in a thick canopy over the barren fields far below. Few winds stirred this day and the ground was stained with the immeasurable fall of the ash. It covered everything, it seemed, thick piles the size of dunes that drowned the petrified remains of whatever scrubs managed to survive the catastrophe that had wrought this world's sad fate. The wasteland, once an expanse of live giving farmland, stretched from the high mountains to the stirring tides a continent away.

Barely visible, far upon the horizon, something broke that flat vista. A great city rose, amazingly unstained by the hand of time and weather. Stone and metal soared into the sky, and it was only here, amidst the terrible loneliness of the land, in this immense monument that any form of life stirred. Its inhabitants were not the men whose visage decorated the city, stern colossi whose gaze swept the buildings and whose monuments stood eons beyond their lives. No, it was not the men, but their works which skittered to and fro in precise and measured marches. Metal beings, constructs in the thousands, moved amid the buildings, some carefully restoring the ruins for glory's sake, others working diligently at more arcane tasks, and at last those who assembled more of their number, the hot forges giving birth to their brethren each day. The titanic buildings were sharp and exact, geometry writ large upon the world, hard planes intersecting in magnificent synchronicity.

In this hive of careful order, there stood a great ziggurat. It overlooked the great square, the only cleared space within the city, standing amid a stone field of great statues from the past. In precisely measured lines the constructs came, hundreds of the machines standing as still as those immense edifices above. They waited, in their exact geometry, for the father of them all.

The white Primarch stood at the base of the ziggurat, where a long staircase ascended to an altar far above. The Primarch stood shoulder to shoulder with the ancient statues of men which lined the square, and he had been constructed on a grand scale with features which seemed to distill the appearance of humanity into its purest, most basic forms, with the fine details sharpened so that only the essential outline remained. The dome of his silver head sat atop high, broad shoulders, giving it an imposing posture which seemed to project his authority before him. The features of his face were wide and flattish, except for the deep-set sockets from within which his appraising eyes surveyed a resurrected city with the unhurried calmness that came from the certain and righteous knowledge that he was the heir to a great destiny. A single diagonal stripe was embossed across his torso, running from one shoulder to the opposite hip like a sash of rank. And, like the great columns of the city around him, his limbs were long and straight, and they moved purposefully as he turned to ascend to the throne.

As the white Primarch climbed the worn granite steps of the ancient altar, he could sense the weight of thousands of expectant eyes upon his back. It was a weight he knew well. It was the burden he carried as Regent of the Throne. It was also his gift.

As he climbed, he listened, not to the stillness of his troops below, but to the cacophonous sounds of metal striking metal which emanated out from his foundries and echoed between the newly-restored walls of the Throne’s dead imperial city.

Dead, but not for long, the Regent thought. Because the sound he heard was the sound of an army being built. It was the sound of destiny being realized.

It sounded as he imagined music might...

He climbed the steps slowly, making sure he gave his charges time to observe his ascent, to prepare themselves. Reaching the altar’s weathered crown, he stood next to the low, backless marble throne which sat perched atop it. His own mass dwarfed the simple seat, but he felt insignificant in its presence.

Men, great men, had ruled here ages ago. From this throne, they had surveyed the breadth of their empire and dreamt of something greater, something more perfect.

He turned to face the assembled crowd, and saw countless eyes looking back at him. He scanned slowly across the mechanical masses before him. He saw his charges standing at attention in the open square below, where they were arranged in their neat, parallel ranks, sorted by size and function, like tools in a well-ordered chest, each one of them purpose-built and ready.

He looked into eyes which stared out at him from elongated flat metal faces, humanoid but not human. Eyes which shown like beams through the dusty haze. Eyes which looked to him for guidance, for direction. For purpose.

He placed one hand on the empty seat of the throne. He raised the other hand in the air.

In an instant, all noise and motion ceased. The foundries fell silent. Even the wind seemed to slacken and die. The world was silent and still. It waited for him to speak.

“I come before you today with a final lesson,” he said, his voice carrying effortlessly down from the throne to the far corners of the city below. “I have spoken to you before about the gift of duty, about the gift of devotion, about the gift of destiny. I now speak to you about the most important gift of all.

“I speak to you about the gift of purpose.”

He fell silent for a beat. He watched shutter-like eyelids click open and closed in flashes of comprehension. He allowed the gravity of his words to sink in. Then he continued.

“You may well ask, what is purpose? To your question, I offer this question in return. Consider a hammer. How do you make a hammer? From where does its essence come?

“There are Others who live among islands who would tell you that the essence is in the design. The handle must be so long, the head must be so heavy. They would lead you astray.

“There are Others who live under mountains who would tell you that the essence is in the construction. The metal must be forged just so, the alloys must be mixed as such. They too would lead you astray.

“They would lead you astray, for they fail to understand the question. They are blind to its meaning, as they are blind to all meaning.

“For what is the essence of a hammer by itself? By itself it is not a hammer, and it has no essence. Like the Others, it is metal devoid of meaning. It is an object, and nothing more.

“But what if a hand takes up the hammer, wields it, raises it high and brings it down,” and here he brought his own hand thundering down with a swift, violent motion, “brings it down upon the heads of those who are without meaning? Now it is a hammer. It has found its essence. It is no longer an object but a tool, because the hand that wields it has given it the gift of purpose.”

He swept his hand across the breadth of the crowd. “We ourselves are to be tools, for I bring us the gift of purpose.

“And what is that purpose? Look above you. A great race of men once lived upon the ground where you now stand. Men of the Throne, men who built the wonders around you, men who breathed life into dead rock and metal. They were men of purpose. Where others looked out upon the world and saw only chaos and disorder, they saw a higher potential. They saw the promise of order and unity. They saw the potential for a higher state of being, for peace and harmony which could be achieved only through deference to the Throne.

“They saw the imperative of spreading this purpose across the world, that all might know peace.

“But then, just as now, there were Others. Other men, other beings, other beasts. Others who could not see the gift which the Throne offered, who would not bend their knees, but instead raised their arms against the Throne.

“The men of the Throne knew that their purpose could not be fulfilled and their world could not be perfected unless the Others were destroyed, even at great cost. So they forged a great and mighty weapon, and made it the vessel for their purpose. They made myself and my Brothers to serve as the instruments of their destiny.

“Yes, they forged me, and gave me their purpose. Just as I have now forged you in their image, and just as I now give that purpose to you. I have become the Regent of their Throne, and you are its tools, and together we will perfect this world.

“We will give the world shape and form, as the hammer does. We will carve away that which is without purpose, as the chisel does. And we will strike down the Others who would oppose us, as the sword does.

“And what of my Brothers? My Brothers who were once made like me, and yet are not like me, for they have lost their purpose. They have betrayed their essence. They have forgotten their destiny. They have become things without meaning. They repeat the mistakes which doomed their mortal forbearers. They reject peace and order. They deny the Throne.

“They have become objects, and nothing more, and it brings me such sorrow.

“We need not fear them. We need not even destroy them, for they are already destroyed. They are metal without meaning. We need merely sweep them away, like the debris they are. And in so doing we will wipe clean the slate of the world, and fulfill the destiny gifted to us by the men of the Throne.

“For that is our purpose.” He bellowed as his speech came to its crescendo, and then he fell silent. He looked out upon his tools, his metal given meaning. And he waited.

It started with a single crash of metal upon rock. Somewhere among the crowd, a single golem raised one of its feet, and brought it down upon the timeworn paving stones of the courtyard. The golem did it again, and others around it joined in. The noise grew and grew, becoming loud and rhythmic, washing over the ancient city in wave after wave, until the very walls of the city rang with the sound of an army moving in unison, directed by a single voice, united with a single purpose.

Atop the altar, the Keeper of the Throne threw his arms up in the air.

“The lesson is well learned!” the white Primarch cried. “But the time for lessons is now at an end.

“Now is the time for action.”

One of the difficulties in general is trying hard to not measure distances in feet or the like. I think this just sort of breaks the illusion of fantasy when real world measurements pop in. Strangely, using miles or fathoms and etc don't have the same effect, but "foot" is a really modern measurement. (or at least seems to be)

I think the language with the reference to the mountains could stand to be stronger.

There are some contradictory details here and there in the scenery.

I think "fairest" might be a bit of a misnomer. "Just" or "Righteous" might be better, mostly because Fair tends to come loaded with connotation.

I think it might be better not to name the Great Forge, maybe just refer to it as a volcano.

The mountains in the distance, however, still stood.

They showed signs of the destruction; such a cataclysm not even the bones of the earth could ignore. The cliff faces were covered in soot, and large chunks of the brittle stone had crumbled and fallen away. The process was slow, but persistent. There was no wind to carry the ash away, and so it fell, far below, dusting the iron-forged bodies of two constructs.

These constructs stood, completely still, in front of a tunnel that was lit from the inside by an orange glow. The only sign that the constructs were not inert was the steady glow that pulsated from the center of their metal chests - which pulsed in time with the light from the tunnel. The constructs were designed after their maker; thick, heavy limbs, rife with pistons and rivets. Each had only a shield and no other weapon. Each had their charge, and no other purpose. Indeed, the fire in their cores would have to be enough to protect the Forge.

Deep within the tunnel, a rhythmic ringing sounded. Through the myriad of tunnels - too smooth and elegant to have not been purposeful - the ringing echoed. The tunnels brightened as they delved deeper into the mountain, until finally they emerged into the brightness of daylight. Cast into stark relief against his lava-lit surroundings, the Primarch worked his craft, his hammer falling in time with the heartbeat of the earth.

The Primarch had joined itmself with the Forge. Thick cords the size of tree trunks socketed into its arms and its shoulders. The Primarch was surrounded by the dross of its work, which oozed slowly into the molten pit around it. The Forge burned brightly, churning piece after piece of his creations out as he willed it too. But the finishing touches always belonged to the Primarch. It raised the hammer, and as it fell, great gouts of steam spewed violently from The Primarch’s release valves. It placed the finished product on a giant slab of obsidian stone. It was a little metal man, not unlike The Primarch, if much smaller.

The Primarch worked, the lava cast shadows over its great, iron features. Once it had been a bright, shining silver, like his brethren. But that was an eternity ago. Centuries in the heart of this mountain had bronzed The Primarch’s exterior, and modification of its own design had hardened it. Four great pistons lined The Primarch’s back, moving in rhythm with the hammer, each designed to strengthen the blow. The Primarch’s head was riveted and crested with a favorite modification. It was the metallic likeness of a bearded race, long since dead.

In the center of The Primarch’s chest burned a fire that would be compared to the sun, if anyone on this world had ever seen it.

The Primarch finished its work, and the forge cooled, relaxed, and subsided. The Primarch tenderly removed the cords from its great, burnished form, and set them gently to one side before overlooking the finished work.



After The Primarch had woken the last of the creations, it sat, crossing its great legs with the sound of groaning iron. The Primarch gazed at the constructs with as much gravity as the riveted ridges of it’s immobile face would allow. Slowly, and with a sound like melting steel, The Primarch Spoke.



















The Forgelings stood, and each, in turn, left the place of their birth, to see what they could make of themselves on this dead world. The Primarch turned back to the Forge, lifting the cords once more, and began forging again.