The Automaton Knights
The earth quivered beneath each measured step, a slow, deliberate drumbeat heralding an unstoppable force. Through the murky haze of dust and acrid smoke, they emerged—hulking figures of steel and forgotten craftsmanship, their presence shifting the battlefield's rhythm.
Their armor, once dulled by time and war, now gleamed in the dying sun’s fractured light, as if the years had been stripped away. Their eyes, no longer the merciless crimson of executioners, pulsed with an eerie teal glow—cold, calculating, inexorable.
They moved in perfect unison, a spearhead of metal and discipline, cutting through the shambling dead with ruthless efficiency. Their pace was unhurried, yet every motion carried the weight of inevitability. A blade swept in a clean arc—rotting limbs severed mid-motion. A spear thrust forward—splintered ribs and necrotic ichor scattered across the ground. Each strike was precise, effortless, unstoppable.
Dark energy recoiled from their polished forms, tendrils of deathly fog swirling but never touching them, as though the corruption itself feared their presence.
The remnants of the AAC’s Caravan teams stood frozen, breath caught in their throats. Relief flickered in their wide eyes, but so did something else—reverence. These were no mere machines. They were war’s executioners, forged for battle and unburdened by time.
Yet the mercenaries and adventurers did not share their awe. Their grips tightened around weapons, knuckles whitening with tension. Unease slithered into their bones, a primal instinct warning them of something beyond mortal understanding. The machines did not hesitate. Did not acknowledge the living. They moved as if guided by a will unseen, answering a call only they could hear.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
And the dead continued to fall.
“By the Great Gear!”
The exclamation rasps from an old gnome’s throat, thick with disbelief. Scholar Pocket of the AAC stumbles forward, adjusting his brass-rimmed spectacles as if clearer vision might change the impossible sight before him.
“Old man Pocket!”
A voice calls from above.
Perched atop Gru’s massive shoulders, Tibbins waves enthusiastically, his small frame barely noticeable against the towering bulk of the ogre.
Pocket squints through the haze of dust and smoke. “Tibbins, my boy, is that you?”
“It is! I’m glad you survived!”
Pocket lets out a wheezing chuckle. “Likewise, my boy! Likewise!”
Then—silence.
The rhythmic tremors that had pulsed through the battlefield like a war drum cease. The mechanical warriors, frozen mid-step, hold their formation. Their stillness is unnatural, almost suffocating. Every living soul, save for the gnome and his two companions, instinctively steps back.
A shadow looms over them.
One of the sentinels steps forward, towering above the trio. Its armor—ebony metal adorned with intricate golden filigree—gleams in the dim light, the craftsmanship impossibly pristine despite its age. A relic of war, regal and unyielding.
Its gaze—pale, near-white—locks onto them.
“Friend… or foe?”
The voice grinds through the air like stone on metal, thick with ancient weight.
Pocket stiffens. The words lodge in his throat, the moment pressing against his ribs like a vice. He swallows hard, mind scrambling for the right response.
Then—
“COME AT ME!”
Gru’s warcry cracks the silence like a thunderclap.
The sentinels react instantly. Armor locks into place, weapons primed. Their stance shifts—predatory, lethal. The pale glow in their eyes deepens, turning to burning crimson.
“Oh, you absolute idiot—”
Tibbins, eyes wide with horror, raises his mallet and slams it into Gru’s ear.
“OW!”
“No, no, no—FRIENDS!”“We are most definitely friends!”
For a heartbeat, nothing moves.
The lead sentinel lingers, its searing gaze locked onto the gnome. Seconds stretch into eternity.
Then, at last, the glow fades. Crimson ebbs into soft, radiant white.
It raises a hand.
The ranks behind it respond in perfect unison, stepping back with military precision. Their rigid forms loosen, weapons lowered.
“Understood…”“Friend.”
Then, as one, the sentinels salute. A crisp, unified motion—silent, yet deafening in its significance.
They pivot sharply, falling into formation beside their commander. Their new directive clear.
To defend. To protect.
A beat of silence—then the AAC erupts into cheers.
Hope crashes over them like a breaking wave.
They might—just might—survive this ordeal.
A cold wind slithers through the inner ward of the keep, slipping through fractured stone and tattered banners like a spectral whisper. It carries the scent of damp earth, rusted metal, and something ancient—oil and dust, the breath of machines long at rest. The breeze tugs at the vast crimson mantle draped over the tallest figure in the courtyard, sending it rippling like a war banner unfurled.
At the head of the sentinel formation, the Commander stands unmoving, wrapped in that deep red cloak. A forgotten monarch among silent warriors. As the wind shifts, the embroidery on the fabric catches the dim light—an insignia revealed in golden thread:
The coat of arms stands before him, a striking emblem of both strength and precision. A giant gear
Resting on the gear’s edge is a shieldtwo smaller gears
A swordhilt
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On either side of the great gear, reeds
rise, their thin stalks curling upward toward the sky. They seem fragile, yet they stand strong, bending in the wind without breaking. Their movement is soft, fluid, a stark contrast to the rigid precision of the gear. Still, they are part of the same whole—nature and technology, growing together, adapting and reaching for something greater.
Pocket’s breath hitches. His gnomish eyes widen, reflecting the ethereal green glow of the sentinels before him. "No… it can’t be."
The words slip from his lips in a whisper, more prayer than statement. His hand rises, fingers trembling, drawn toward the ancient fabric as if by instinct—to touch, to confirm, to bridge centuries with a single moment.
"Oi! Old man Pocket!" Tibbins’ sharp voice cuts through the hush. "Don’t think that’s a good idea!"
Pocket flinches, reality snapping back into place. The weight of history pulls away, leaving only the cold wind and the watchful stares of the Automaton Knights. A flicker of disappointment crosses his face, like a scholar denied the final page of a long-lost manuscript. He exhales through his nose, lowering his hand. "Right you are, my boy."
Beside him, Gru shifts, her massive frame settling into a squat. She extends a broad, calloused palm. "Hop on," she rumbles, voice as unshaken as the stone beneath them.
Tibbins grins. "You’ll get a better look from up top."
Pocket strokes his beard, considering, then nods. “A fair point.” With careful steps, he climbs onto the ogre’s outstretched hand, gripping her thick fingers for balance. With practiced ease, Gru lifts him onto her opposite shoulder, her movements precise despite her size.
From this vantage point, Pocket sees them in full.
The Automaton Knights stand like an unbroken phalanx, their marble bodies veined with golden moonstone, polished to a sheen that catches the dim light. More than machines—more than statues—they exude a presence, as if the very air bends around their existence. Jagged obsidian edges protrude beneath layered armor, their design both elegant and merciless, a marriage of artistry and lethality.
Transparent crystal panels expose the intricate workings within—clockwork gears rotating in synchronized harmony, pistons hissing with measured rhythm. Faint runes flicker across their forms, ancient sigils pulsing in time with some unseen heartbeat. Mist escapes from hidden vents, dissipating like breath into the night.
Their faces are smooth, featureless masks, neither welcoming nor hostile. Only the green glow of their eyes hints at awareness—watchful, calculating. Weapons rest in their massive hands, each one forged in the same forgotten era that birthed them: obsidian greatswords, gilded shields, crackling polearms humming with restrained energy.
Yet, for all their weight, for all their towering size, they do not move like clumsy constructs. There is grace in them, an efficiency that speaks of warriors built for a purpose beyond mere violence.
"By the Great Gear…" Pocket exhales, awe pressing the words from his chest.
"I know, right?" Tibbins grins, his voice tinged with excitement.
"Pretty stone men," Gru adds.
Pocket snorts, tearing his gaze from the sentinels to glance at her. "Really? And how, pray tell, do you know they’re all men? For all we know, they could be female."
Gru tilts her head, tapping a thick finger against her nose. "I can smell 'em."
Pocket blinks. "What…?"
Tibbins barely suppresses a laugh. "Yeah, best not argue with her. There’s a reason the Magister put her on our team."
Pocket rubs his temples, exhaling. "I see…"
The war drums pound, deep and relentless, like the heartbeat of some ancient, malevolent force. Their rhythm is a summons, a promise of carnage. But another sound slithers beneath—the skittering of countless claws on stone, a fevered, unnatural harmony, like nails tapping in anticipation of the feast to come.
"Alright!" Rin
Her words snap through the chaos, but the warriors are slow to move. They are spent
Then comes the shriek.
A piercing wail, raw and jagged, like steel drawn across slate, like shattered bones grinding against each other. It rakes through the ruins, setting nerves aflame, stripping away the last fragile threads of courage from those still drawing breath.
And from the shadows, they come.
A tide of twisted Kobold ghouls, their emaciated frames animated by seething necrotic energy. Flesh hangs in tattered strips, sinew exposed beneath fur turned patchy and gray. Their once-cunning eyes now burn with putrid green light—sightless, yet all-seeing. Some skitter low to the ground on all fours, others lurch upright, their too-long teeth gnashing in spasmodic hunger. Their movements are erratic yet eerily synchronized, an unholy swarm bound by a singular, insatiable will.
And behind them, the dead march.
The reformed ranks of the fallen, warriors who once stood upon these very stones. Rusted armor creaks over withered flesh, skeletal fingers tightening around weapons that should have long since been laid to rest. Some still bear the colors of forgotten legions, tattered banners clinging to hollowed frames. Others are fresh—bodies still warm, the slain from moments before, twisted back into service before the blood on their blades has even dried.
They charge, a relentless tide of the unliving, howling with voices stolen from the grave.
A lone mercenary slumps against a shattered column, fingers barely holding onto his sword. His body trembles with exhaustion, breath ragged and shallow. Blood drips from his temple, tracing a slow path down his cheek. His arms are leaden. His vision blurs. He cannot lift his blade. He cannot even lift his head.
But he sees it.
A Kobold ghoul, leaping through the air, jaws stretched wide.
Too fast. Too close.
His grip slackens. He is too slow. Too broken.
Then—impact.
Not his.
A Knight Construct moves, polished marble interposing between predator and prey with inhuman precision. The mercenary doesn’t even see it react—one moment, there is death, the next, salvation.
The automaton’s polearm slices through the air, obsidian tip spearing clean through the ghoul’s chest. The creature jerks, limbs twitching, necrotic energy spitting from the wound like dying embers. The Construct twists its weapon, wrenching free with brutal efficiency, sending the ruined corpse crashing to the ground.
It does not hesitate. It does not falter.
More undead surge forward.
The weary, bloodied warriors of the AAC remnants fight on, their movements sluggish, their blades dulled from overuse. Every swing takes effort. Every breath is a struggle.
But the Constructs do not tire.
Where the living stumble, they stride forward.
Where flesh wavers, marble stands unyielding.
Where blood spills, oil hisses in perfect, calculated motion.
They fight not with rage, nor fear, nor exhaustion—but with purpose.
A Construct raises its greatshield, absorbing a blow that would have shattered a mortal’s bones. Another steps into the fray, obsidian greatsword sweeping in a perfect arc, cleaving through three ghouls in a single merciless stroke.
Their ranks do not break.
They do not waver beneath the tide of undeath.
They do what they were made to do.
The mercenary watches, breathless, mind numb with awe.
The living fight to survive.
The dead fight because they must.
But the Constructs fight because they were built to stand against oblivion itself.
Pocket’s breath hitches. He has seen them before—not in the flesh, but in murals carved into temple walls, in crumbling tomes that scholars swore were myth. The Automaton Knights—immortal sentinels of a lost age—had been a mystery, a legend.
Yet here they stand.
Polished marble gleams beneath the eerie glow of rune-etched armor. Their clockwork hearts churn with ethereal energy, gears whirring, steam hissing from unseen vents. Not lifeless relics. Not echoes of the past. They are moving, fighting.
But why? Who reawakened them?
Pocket grips the edges of his robes, mind racing through centuries of fragmented history. These knights were said to have perished in the Great Sundering, their final charge a noble sacrifice. Their bodies lost beneath the ruins of an empire that no longer existed.
If they have risen, then something far greater—far older—has begun to stir.
A flicker of movement pulls him from his thoughts.
“Bah! Too stiff,” Gru grumbles, arms folded, moss-covered biceps flexing. She watches the Automaton Knights carve through the battlefield with unnatural precision, lips pursed in disapproval. "They don’t fight like warriors. They fight like… like wooden puppets!"
Tibbins snorts, side-eying the ogress. “That’s rich, coming from someone who once tried to headbutt a reinforced iron gate.”
“I won.”
“No, Gru. You blacked out. We had to drag your unconscious body for six miles while you snored like a thunderstorm.”
Gru huffs, planting a massive hand on her hip. “Still got through, didn’t I?”
Tibbins throws up his arms. “That’s not the—ugh, never mind.” He gestures toward the constructs as they continue their relentless advance, cutting down the undead with ruthless efficiency. "These guys? Now they fight smart. No wasted movement. No hesitation. Just precision."
“Smart?” Gru scoffs. “They got no smell. How am I supposed to trust a warrior I can’t even sniff?”
Pocket rubs his temples. "By the gears, what does that even mean—?"
"You heard me." Gru jabs a thick finger toward a construct. "No sweat, no blood, no stink of fear. That ain't natural."
Tibbins rolls his eyes. "Right, because what really makes a warrior great is their aroma.”
“Exactly.” Gru nods, entirely serious. “These knights got no heart, no gut, no spirit. They move like shadows. It ain't real.”
Half-listening, Pocket steps closer, drawn in by something deeper than curiosity—reverence. He reaches out, fingers trembling, and brushes the marble surface of a knight’s armor. Cool. Solid.
Real.
A shudder runs through him, the weight of history pressing down on his chest. His voice comes out a whisper.
“In all my years… I never thought I’d see the Knights of the Round Table.”
And for the first time in decades, tears well in his eyes.