After the civil war started, the elven crown funded the production of warforged; humanoids contrived from metal and wires, born for oppression and battle. My creation occurred in the first wave of prototypes, and, after testing, I was assigned to a division in the vanguard. The young men in that division would become my brothers, and we would eventually call ourselves the Gears Laguerre.
— - —
The robot stood unmoving in front of a large tent, only the subtle whirring of its fabricated heart revealed its consciousness. It was equipped with only a large clip sheath and a sword of equal height to the robot across its back. Its silvery body gleamed in the soft light of the cloudless sky, and subtle winds blew around it. A chorus of hearty laughter echoed across the plains, muffled by the heavy canvas. Eventually, the robot's escort, a stiff man adorned in armor as bright as the shining dreams of a young farmhand, exited the tent flaps with a serene and wiry individual in tow. The elf wore the standard pure white uniform with a long white cloak, a family crest ornamented on the cloak's pin. He also had a dark belt around his small waist with an empty loop fit for a scabbard. Trailing a casual look over the robot, the elf spoke after stretching his gaze up to the robot's face.
"My name is Samir, I am your new owner. What should I call you?"
The robot kneeled to the elf, an unfortunate stone crumbling under its bent leg.
"My identification is 00050–"
"Stop. I asked for your name, you have one, don't you?" The elf yawned, his ears twitching.
The robot raised its head, tilting it to the side.
The elf blinked. "Oh boy. Well, we can let the boys handle that one. Thanks for the delivery, you can run along now." The elf waved his hand at the escort, smacking his lips, who gave a curt bow and stomped off.
"Not the friendly sort, I see. Come with me, nameless robot."
The elf held the canvas open for the robot, who stepped through. The impossibly large space inside was filled with long tables and the music of celebrational cheers. Wading through the mess of clean and neat uniforms and bright young faces, the robot drew some curious gazes as the crowd slowly quieted. The elf tapped on the robot's arm and motioned. The robot turned to him and picked the elf up, placing him lightly on the robot's shoulders. The elf raised his fist to the air and spoke into the silence.
"This big guy here is our new friend! Our first priority is naming him! There are three options, you idiots, raise your hand if you like what you hear! First name: Andrea!"
Deliberations went around, and, eventually, some raised their hands, their palms calloused and as smooth as the bottom of a traveller's boot.
"Second name: Barrett!" This one earned some boos and chuckles. The elf slackened, before reclaiming his luster and raising his fist once more.
"Third name!" The elf paused and glanced around, seeing excitement growing. "Astartes!" The many faces slowly lit up, and soon all hands were raised.
The elf alighted from his perch and turned, looking up at the robot. "Astartes, it is, welcome to the 1st Vanguard Division, the newest and strongest group of elves around!" The cheers turned into yet another celebration.
— - —
Indeed, the Gears Laguerre were quite the crew. Though baby-faced and fresh from the training grounds, they were fearless and showed unity beyond anyone else. Even the scared ones fought with all their might with the support of their companions around them. We never lost a battle. As time continued, our success did not go unrecognized, and our accolades filled the houses of those who had them. Every city we stopped for supplies and rest, welcomed us with a grand celebration. We met nobles from across the empire and shared stories in pubs, we were heroes. The battlefields we spoke of in pubs were very different from reality; indeed, our first battle was a harrowing venture for the minds of those young men.
— - —
Astartes stood as stone, his unique position put him in a column of his own. The rest of the band, also standing in formation, looked towards Samir, who marched up to a pedestal.
"Our first job has just arrived. Scouts report that a town Southwest harbors the enemy, and our good pals up the ladder have decided to annihilate them. 'No prisoners when dealing with traitors,' they said."
The excited faces faded as those words sank in. A question arose, "Children can be traitors?"
"That's how it is, don't want them growing up with revenge in mind. Pack up, it's time to move, we have to be fast, so at least we're killing soldiers too."
Astartes trod back to the tent he shared with Samir and the other band's brass, and pulled the canvas aside. A woman lay on her bed, pointed ears twitching as she read a book. Astartes turned his head towards her, his blue bionic eyes flashing.
"You weren't at the meeting."
"Was I supposed to be? I already know the 'mission'." She continued reading, not sparing Astartes a glance.
"No, you weren't required to be there." Astartes continued into the tent, turning to look at the woman. "But attending anyway shows respect to the leader of the band, Samir. Do you not respect Samir?" Astartes's bionics flashed twice, and the woman turned her head to him.
"Since when does a tool like you have the right to speak our leader's name so unprofessionally?"
"I was given express permission by my master, Samir, to use his name when referring to him, as well as anyone I deem unworthy of formality, Carla." Astartes's eyes flashed once more, three times, and his arm started rising, his hand reaching toward the hilt of his long blade. Carla's eyes followed, and she started reaching for her own.
"Your master is not Samir, it is the king, you soulless trash, warforged can't choose their own master."
"That is incorrect, I was created without that restriction." With the hilt of his sword firmly in his grasp, he lifted the giant blade from its clip. It was long, and dense, sharp as a cat's gaze, and as long as an ox. The blade had no point, the edge squaring off to a chisel. A sword meant for chopping rather than stabbing.
At that moment, several bodies pushed through the tent flaps. A short, tan man strided in first, his ears twitching constantly as he spoke jovially and confidently, an ax strapped to his back. He wore studded leather armor, pure white, and heavy boots. He pulled his long hair back into a messy braid, and his face looked as though he hadn't shaved or cleansed himself in a fortnight.
"We're goin' to war! Finally! I been locked up in this goddam camp ichin to sink my blade into something, glad the boys up top finally releasin us to the–" He froze at the sight of the unsheathed blade, dark eyes darting between the parties as the rest of the small party walked in.
"What's goin on here, Astartes, you betrayin us already?" The small, dark man's pointed ears twitched excitedly, his hands squeezing open and closed.
"Carla showed disrespect toward the leader and hostility toward me. I gave three warnings, but she continued her behavior. Carla is a hazard to the band's unity and must be disposed of." Astartes never removed his hollow gaze from the frozen woman on the bed.
"Carla, s'this true?" The other residents paused next to the small man, composed of seven young men. One man stood chillfuly still, wearing a pure white robe that covered every inch of his body, only his head poking out of the mass of cloth. His hands were bound together in prayer by a beaded necklace, a pendant of a blind man hanging from it. His head was completely bald, his eyes were sewn shut, and his mouth seemed stuck in a permanent, soft smile. To the right of the blind man was a pair of identical twins, two boys with blond hair and dark eyes. They wore white leather armor and carried a pair of daggers at their waist. Mischievous smiles danced across their lips.
Two men stayed near the back, one clinging fearfully to another. The victim stayed stoic. He had a bow strapped to his back, a shortsword on his belt, and throwing knives and daggers fastened around his body. His pure white studded leather armor protected him from the clawing hands of a second dark skinned elf. Decked in the standard pure white, he had calloused fingertips and a smooth, handsome face. He had a well-kept, button-up, collared shirt, an embroidered vest, and a shoulder cape with a strap running under his armpit. A large, dense man pushed through the small gathering at the tent flaps. He had copper skin and hair tinged green, dressed in a pure white traveller's robe, carrying a large staff, made way for Samir to address the warforged.
"What's the issue here, my dear Carla?" He then passed his calm gaze to the robot. "And you put your sword away." Samir strolled into the conflict, reading their faces closely. The bow wielder clicked his tongue and pushed the well-dressed man off him.
"We don't have time for petty quarrels, we have a mission to do."
Astartes stayed still, then sheathed his blade and turned away. "Kert is correct, I apologize for interrupting the packing process." The group breathed a sigh of relief, and they all got to work deconstructing the tent.
*******
Several days later, the company approached a village in the dark of a cloudy night. Torches from the village outposts sparsely lit up the surrounding forest. There were guards in watchtowers and soldiers making rounds within the light, and an army dressed in white approaching from all sides. Suddenly, a horn blew, the half-asleep guards, startled awake, were too slow to even scream as the army pounced. A flurry of blades and arrows descended on the quiet town, and the panic spread from the soldiers to the civilians. Blood pooled in the dirt as bodies piled high, cries of fury and pain awoke the forest, and the fires from torches took hold along the houses. With the flames spreading, the villagers could no longer hide away from the battle, and soon their bodies added to the pile too. Finally, the last door was broken down, and the enemy commander was taken into custody.
The fires were quelled, and the bodies burned. Men dressed in white were stained red and green from blood and their own vomit. They shook and cried, gripping each other for comfort. Astartes pulled the enemy commander to the town square, pushing him to his knees. The other leaders followed closely behind. The blind man was still smiling despite it all, his fists still bound, but covered in blood, and the rest kept calm and steeled their jaws, besides the well-dressed man. Samir stood in front of the now kneeling prisoner, narrowing his eyes.
"You will give us information. Our orders are to kill you, but you may duel him for a chance at freedom." Samir pointed at the man's captor. The man shivered as he looked around at the destruction wrought on the place he had been calling home.
"What were your orders?" The man's voice trembled as he spoke, tears beading at the corners of his eyes before he blinked them away.
Samir took a deep breath, struggling to hold his breath steady. "To annihilate everyone, to leave no survivors to take revenge."
The man scoffed, "So the chance at freedom was a lie." He then paused and looked around once more. His shivering stopped. "I would like to take the duel, I have no information to give you, however. Groups are only told where they are supposed to go, we are not provided with any knowledge of our comrades." The man met Samir's frustrated eyes, who sighed and turned away.
"Very well then. Come one, come all to bear witness! The enemy leader has requested a duel with our newly appointed executioner for an honorable death in battle! Gather round!" The band slowly congregated. They started mumbling and eventually chattering amongst themselves, and gradually, the emotions from the night faded and settled. Excitement to watch their mysterious robot companion fight grew, and their excitement was about to be satisfied.
*******
Astartes and the enemy leader stood across from each other in a large circle, surrounded by the band, now able to holler and cheer, with the band leaders mingling around, taking part, and embracing the festive atmosphere for the most part. The well-dressed man sat among a group, already several drinks down, the twins played dice in another group, and the bronze elf with green hair arm wrestled at a table that managed to survive. The bald man, still smiling, stayed quietly at Samir's shoulder, along with Carla, who never cracked a smile. Kert was nowhere to be seen. Samir spoke up once more, addressing the crowd.
"Looks like everyone's having a good time, so why don't we get this show on the road! Combatants, exchange greetings!" Astartes turned his soulless gaze towards the speaker, before remeeting eye contact with his opponent.
"I am called Astartes. I have the position of executioner in this band."
"Well met, pitiful machine, my name is Henry Docier. I am a father of three with a loving wife. My children's names are Kendra, Luke, and Winnifred; my wife's name is Lindsey. I am a commander of the revolutionary front and a swordmaster. You represent an oppressive force of tyranny, so I must end your life, and as many others as I can, before I meet my end."
Astartes's bionics flashed, and he drew his sword. It was much too long to be wielded by a normal man; the tip carried such weight that such a man would swing and be swung, but Astartes controlled the unwieldy weapon with ease. Despite never facing a battle before, his steps were steady and confident, and his precise practice swings left the crowd amazed, and nervous. Henry drew a basic, reliable longsword from his belt sheath. He took an honest stance and charged forward with a roar, slipping a powerful strike towards the robot's neck. Astartes leaned the stab, sneaking his cold blade to parry the weapon away. Taking one hand off the hilt, Astartes punched Henry's fingers and kicked him in the gut, throwing Henry away with a hollow thud. The man stayed on the ground, wheezing air back into his lungs, as Astartes stalked forward. Everyone knew what was next, many watched with excitement, cheers filling the air, some watched with trepidation, some with guilt, some with fear and amazement, all watched in terror as Astartes swung mercilessly, and lopped off Henry's head.
Blood spilled to the ground, the cranium rolling. The man had managed a smile before his death, likely remembering his children and the life he led. Once a proud and famous warrior, now cold and lifeless, too early.
There were no cheers for a moment, everyone shocked at the unhesitating brutality, until the dams broke, and all who attended provided even meager support for the robot's victory. All except the lone woman and the man in the shadows.
— - —
The war continued, and the band continued with it. Our orders were always the same: simple slaughter. We made it our tradition to leave our symbol at each town we massacred: a gear cog background with my blade, eventually named Belegurth, and the scythe of death in a cross. Our band's name rang pride in our homes and fear and wrath in our enemies, we became specters of death, as well as harbringers of glory. At every slaughter, we would capture the enemy leader and force him to duel me for entertainment. Many lost their lives in the conflict, some disappeared, Carla and Kert among the latter. One day, I woke up as well. I saw that those who had been individuals with interests, quirks, hobbies, and flaws lost themselves along the way, somewhere in the dirt with the blood and grime. I realized that if the minds of men could deteriorate into nothing but war, then the conflict would never end, and the war wouldn't improve the lives of those at home. I realized that war begets war, because those who fight never leave the fight.
So I made myself disappear, and I ended the conflict myself when I encountered my long-time companions once more, on the other side. I used my blade for slaughter one last time and cut down each and every person I once knew as brothers. Samir was the last to die, following the tradition he created. I dueled him, and he fell, ending the life of the man whom I once called master and friend. I donned Samir's cape, the coat of arms of the band had long replaced his family crest. I then buried their bodies at the theatre, each one given a grave of their own, and their swords used as headstones. Thus fell Gears Laguerre, to be forgotten in the annals of time.
After the crown's core force was defeated, so too fell the crown. During a hundred years or so of this civil war, other races joined in, and I took up arms with the changelings after my desertion. Once the crown itself fell, I became useless and a hindrance to the changelings. They captured me, losing a few hundred men in the process, and took the memory chip from my nape. Likely for information on supply routes, so they could control the aftermath, but none of that affected me, for I was cast out and forgotten as a covered-up disaster, rather than a central figure that ended the war. Though I doubt I deserved any form of celebration, I remember now nothing but death in my long, long life.