When the light of dawn came, Technus could wait no longer. He had attempted to be patient and unyielding, as any Tech-Cleric should be, but he could only delay the calling of his god for so long.

So the absolute nanosecond that the timer Ruberix's homunculus drone had given him ran out, he started out of the tourney grounds and back towards Thalmont itself.

Even at daybreak, the temperature was already rising – he could feel it on his forehead and see it on the display housed within his robotic eye. All around him, the knights and other organics were unconscious, the pig-like snorts that their lungs made during the night muffled only by the fabric of their tents. The noise ground Technus' gears more than it should, for he had been forced to endure the mewlings of organics for so long that his circuits were fraying.

Following the incident involving the Hammer of Gregor du Vache, he had returned to the tourney grounds alongside the knights – those being Logan, Romain, Stalk and Finnan, as was now aware that the latter two had been raised in rank by Romain's hand. From there, he had simply observed in the background, continuing to optimize the workings of his mechanical parts and allowing himself to be forgotten about by his newly-raised... associates.

After all, they were now merely higher amongst organics. So, they were a higher status of vermin, nothing more. From among the tents, he had watched in silence as the unfolding chaos of Sir Logan losing his temper and shattering another knight's did more to prove his point than any holy sermon ever could.

Technus had felt his level of contempt – not just for Sir Logan, but for all organics – grow even more in that moment. And more than anything, he loathed the organic parts of his body which still remained to him.

The profane, slowly-decaying remnants of his unholy former body. The parts of him that still felt because they had not been purified by the will of Erathis.

However, as he thought that, a grim sensation began to wash through his body. He was not yet perfectly machine – not yet truly holy. And a few lingering traces of organic life still clung to him, refusing to be cast away. Chiefly, he had been blighted with the sensations of frustration, both at having to wait for Ruberix and for being unable to demonstrate the supremacy of the machine at the Hammer of Taureau.

Worst of all, the briefest of attoseconds, the fact he had failed to lift the weapon had brought on... something he would dare not even think of, let alone allow his mental drives to process.

'Have faith the machine, for the machine is eternal...' he told himself in his head, a shudder passing through his circuits and his audio receptors hearing the workings beneath his carapace rattle ever so slightly.

He repeated that mantra again and again all the way through the tourney grounds, the words echoing inside his neural tank until they drowned out all else – the clanking of his footprints as they came down upon the blades of grass, and the shouts from the occasionally half-asleep organic yelling blithely for him to 'Stop that racket' as he passed. He paid their mewling no mind, however, and soon came before the gates of Thalmont, the portcullis raised high and manned by nothing more than a few guards in pot-helms and colourful gambesons, slouching against their halberds as they dozed through half-lidded eyes.

Technus supressed the urge to roll his eyes. Again, this was why machines were superior. A few were a cut above the rest and had their uses. But when one has hit rock bottom, one can only proceed upwards.

The guards didn't stir as he clanked past, much to his relief. He didn't want to have to deal with any of them again after he was accosted yesterday about needing a HGV license. After he passed beneath the gleaming spikes of the portcullis, he followed the route he remembered back to the Temple District. On his way, his feet now even louder upon the cobblestones, he passed by slews of houses with their painted wooden shutters bolted firmly closed. The only movement came from the trees in parks and on the street corners gently swaying in the breeze, the leaves whispering with each move they made and their sound mixed with the chipping and chirping of the birds that hugged the branches; the creatures had feathers of beige and brown, all of them looking to the rising sun with reverence glittering in their near-black eyes.

Technus had seen these birds all over Faerun, and their presence had stirred enough of an interest in him that he had bothered to look up their taxonomy in a library once.

'Know your enemy' he said. Or at least, that was how he justified looking into a living creature to himself...

They were Alaudidae birds. Commonly known by organics as 'larks'. And the sounds they made were... tolerable.

Technus had grown up within the fire-churning, smoke-spewing factories that a Turning Cog member was always reborn in. He was used to the heaving and crashing of pneumatic forging hammers, the hiss of pistons and hydraulics and the humming and crackling of electricity. Every day he spent away from it all made him long for it more, hence the nostalgia that hit him when he walked among the forges of the Craftsman's District.

Even the heat on his skin was different here. He was used to the choking, stinking scorch of furnaces and factories plastering the remnants of his flesh, the sensation of the fearsome burn giving the sensation that his weaknesses were being forged away, seared clean from the metal that was his true and future form.

The heat of the Milisevran summer was entirely unlike that. It was gentle instead of harsh, seemed to come from all directions instead of a particular place... and instead of blasting into him in a gout of orange light, it caressed him, tracing across the surface of his skin and armoured carapace like the dance of a lover's fingernails. Faint but always there.

Much like the birdsong.

A snort blasted from behind his facemask – it was the closest thing he could think of to home right now. To banish these thoughts from his... drives.

Before long, he was back within the Temple District, and his eyes locked upon the small structure dedicated to his own god. As he approached the heavy mechanical doors, watching and listening as they slowly scraped open, he saw the Temple of Erathis' interior appearing much the same as it had been before, the furnaces blazing and the homunculus drones slowly hovering around, unfalteringly continuing their work beneath the ever-watching gaze of the Goddess' statue.

Also just like yesterday, one of the drones came over to him, scanned him and took his rank and number.

"Brother Ruberix presently available?" Technus asked the hovering skull, meeting its empty sockets as he spoke.

"Affirmative," a robotic voice replied, and then immediately rotated around, the four pulsing white thrusters that held it in the air flaring brighter as darted across the central chamber. As it did so, the glow illuminated the far reaches of the room, bathing a second door that was embedded in the back wall, next to the left foot of the Erathis statue. It was less grand than the main entrance, but of similar construction – two interlocking metal panels with jagged edges, imitating the teeth of a cog, but on a flat surface rather than a curved one.

The drone then made a hissing sound before spewing the words 'Brother Technus present. Audience requested' from the speaker housed beneath its browning teeth of ancient bone... whereupon the door immediately began to creak open.

From within came a shape – nothing like a man, moving across the floor like a floating spectre as the rattle of a thousand scuttling legs echoed from behind it.

Brother Ruberix was a marvel to look upon; a miracle of Erathis brought forth by Her grace. His body was a looming, hunchbacked mass of silver-grey metal plating, covered in so many cables, wires, conduits and vents that barely any of the rivets or welds beneath could be seen. Six spindly, skeletally-thin arms of chrome steel, each with three masterfully-moulded fingers tipped by dextrous claws, emerged from the front of his torso, and a cog-toothed crest of bronze ran from the summit of this mound of machinery down his back to his lower half - a bulky, cuboid-like shape of interlocking metal parts wrapped in a net of power conduits that stretched up under the plates of Ruberix's carapace and periodically pulsed with pale blue light.

Said cables and conduits also twisted, stretched and contracted with every move that the master of the Milisevre outpost made. If Technus had dared, he would have compared the movements of the wires to the muscles and tendons in an organic limb. But he would not shame his brother in faith by even entertaining such an idea...

Most impressively, from the sides of Ruberix's lower body protruded an enormous menagerie of spindly, segmented metal legs that arced outwards and town onto the floor, arranged in rows and ending in blade-like metal claws. As those legs rattled across the ground, their tips tinkering on the bronze panelling, the rest of Ruberix's body seemed to glide effortlessly forward, as though he didn't touch the ground at all.

Still, he was clearly not a lightweight creation; the heaving mass of his metalwork was evident in the momentum of his body, which lurched forward slightly as he moved to the centre of the main chamber, creaking and groaning all the while. As he stopped before Technus, Erathis loomed behind him, both seeming to tower over all around them like titanic monuments to progress and civilization.

As Ruberix leaned down and peered closely at Technus, it could be seen that even his face and eyes were mechanical – two pinpricks of red light peered out from above the usual Turning Cog facemask and beneath a draped hood of turquoise cloth were features composed of segmented metal plates that occasionally folded and clicked – not with expression, but simply from the pulsing energy that flared and glowed from his metallic interior.

He was like nothing human, or even vaguely humanoid. Even his insides were not of flesh.

A hissing rasp of a voice addressed him, the sound slow and steady but sharp, like steam escaping a boiler valve. "Confirm identity."

The junior priest of the Turning Cog reply came without delay.

"Brother Technus. Model AM 2187. Rank of Tech-Cleric."

"Brother Ruberix. Model 40. Rank of Artifice Archdeacon." The illustrious titan of metal told him, eyes surveying Technus as his ocular lenses clicked critically. "Sent from the Castellum Machina to locate and claim the relic of Erathis? Confirm mandate."

Technus stood in stunned, buffering silence for a few seconds before something about Ruberix's speech pattern clicked inside his head. It had been so long since he had walked among his brethren that he had forgotten the proper manner of speech.

Clergy of the Order of the Turning Cog spoke nothing like organics did, with their inefficient drivel and courtesies. Verbal exchanges, when they happened in person, were quick and so to-the-point that they could puncture steel plate. Questions in particular were phrased in a certain way; they were often closed and extremely directed, more often that not with only two responses allowed – 'affirmative' and 'negative', or equivalent.

Technus had gotten so used to having to tailor his speech for organics that, now he was here, he felt lost. And worst of all, it was before who appeared to be the sole Tech-Cleric in the whole of Milisevre.

"Confirm. Mandate." Ruberix repeated, his words slower and more stern.

Technus felt his heart pulse inside him in that moment – a disconcerting feeling indeed. One that he crushed as quickly as it came.

"Affirmative," he said as quick as was possible. "Accept apologies. Facing... difficulties,"

That was all he could manage to say without feeling more inefficient – more 'stupid' – than he already did.

Ruberix then followed up his first question with another. "Speech synthesis functions damaged? Repair drones available of needed."

"Negative, brother." Technus replied. "Merely... readapting to the present situation. Duration spent among organics has... eroded my functions."

Ruberix's reply was a silence so encompassing that even the groans and hisses of the temple's foundry seemed to quieten at his long-drawn apparent refusal to reply. Holding his gaze, Technus glimpsed the flickering of code cycling through Ruberix's red eyes for several seconds before the hissing, raspy voice was heard again.

"I was assured this would not happen..." the senior priest said at length. "I was informed by the Archmagos that you are still partly organic. Not yet totally one with Erathis..." he said icily, his red eyes like a pair of piercing daggers. "Assumption that the Archmagos sent you because you are the most faithful and competent Tech-Cleric is now seeming... questionable."

When he heard that, Technus' circuits prickled as defiance briefly shot through him. The Archmagos – Quinterax, though none ever dared to address him by name – was the sole and unquestioned leader of the Turning Cog. He had been among the original disciples of Korish, founder of their faith, and was the one who had sent Technus on this mission from the Castellum Machina.

Technus had dared to hope it had been the blessings of Erathis which had granted him to opportunity to be sent on this most holy of missions. And he intended to hold true to that.

"Statement disputed, Brother Ruberix. Archmagos believed that this unit had advanced far enough along in augmentation to be considered worthy for this mission," he stated, referring to himself. "Also, the Order's database contains detailed information on my skill as a combatant. Recommend you download it."

"I already have," Ruberix told him. "Your combat ratings have been excellent. But what concerns me more is your understanding of our faith. The annals of Korish will not tolerate failure, brother. Least of all now, when we are so close..."

His voice seemed to tremble then – not with fear but with reverence. And it became flat and unerring once more as his enormous mechanical body rotated around, stopping only to make a sign of blessing over his chest at the foot of Erathis' statue, before he continued to turn and scuttled towards the back room he had come out of moments ago. "Follow. Immediately."

Said back room turned out to be Ruberix's workshop and design room – several stories of shelves, attached to the walls by sliding metal runners that could no doubt raise and lower them at will and accessed by twisting staircases that went right up to the ceiling. More drones floated about in slow, unchanging patterns, and various contraptions could be seen laid all around – the work on them no doubt ceasing until Ruberix was done briefing Technus on his mission.

To do that, the Artifice Archdeacon led Technus up one of the staircases to a domed skylight through which the pink glow of the rising sun illuminated the area. Beneath the panels of purest crystal glass sat a revolving sphere of metal that had a massive ocular lens protruding upwards – a design not dissimilar to the robotic eyes that the Order used. The device was also connected to a flickering green computer screen which had a control panel underneath.

Technus couldn't help but feel a pang of admiration as he gazed upon this. "A most incredible creation..." he said aloud.

Ruberix's features seemed to twitch then, almost as if he was... feeling something at those words. Pride, perhaps? His superior was rather enigmatic when he wasn't chastising him.
"Automated celestial observation device..." the Archdeacon told him. "In anticipation of the comet's fall, our order's outposts constructed these and kept them for many years."

His words caught Technus' attention, and he asked a question – one he had been aching to ask one of his own order since he had been imparted with this mission.

"Order knew the relic was a comet? Confirm."

Ruberix didn't look his way – instead, one of his six long arms extended forth to press a green button upon the celestial observer's control panel. "Confirmed," he replied, his tone one of stating the obvious, which made Technus' heard pulse again as doubt and shame shot through his circuits like an errant jolt of electricity.

Then, Ruberix began to read the prophecy aloud, the words more than familiar to Technus by now after he had repeated it to himself a thousand times on his journey. And he soon joined in, both of them speaking with due reverence for the words of their Goddess:

'After the three ships have sailed, the first sign shall appear in the heavens – a streak of emerald light amidst the sea of stars. Death given form shall fall upon the mortal world, and order and chaos shall collide. This shall call forth the true faithful, and the Age of Iron shall arise – to be built or destroyed by the dark poison within."

Ruberix only looked at him when he had read the prophecy correctly. "So you do know it..." he said condescendingly. "Good. Now mute yourself, brother. There will be no further inquiries – only action in Her name."

Technus felt something prickle in his gut as he heard such condescending words, but chose not to react. In many ways, he understandings of their Goddess' will was lacklustre, he had to admit.

He still had much to learn. He was not a Cyberseer - a member of the Turning Cog augmented for the sole purpose of interpreting the often-cryptic passages of the Lectio Mechanicus, their holy book. His understanding of the annals and prophecies were more surface-level – after all, unlike Cyberseers, Tech-Clerics were not supposed to question. They were supposed to act in service of Erathis' will – nothing more.

If the seers were the mind of the Order, then Tech-Clerics were its hands.

Still, there were some things in the prophecy he could figure out. The 'three ships sailing' most likely referred to the present year of 1492 DR, which had been called The Year of Three Ships sailing by many organics – Technus had overheard them say as such during his journey here.

However, the mention of Death falling upon the world gave him pause for thought. Was some kind of cataclysm awaiting in the future? Would the Age of Iron arise from the ashes of the slain? And what was meant by 'the dark poison within?'

It was easy to assume that such a poison might be flesh or organic life, since poison could only affect that. Would it mean that the organics would attempt to oppose them? Or did it refer to a war against the so-called 'true faithful?' Would the Order of the Turning Cog turn against itself?

The very idea shocked Technus to his cybernetically-enhanced core – how could this happen when they prided themselves on being the epitome of order and unity?

However, as he felt Ruberix's gaze upon him, Technus stopped thinking and tuned his auditory circuits, acting on programmed instinct as he awaited instructions. Behind the Archdeacon, the screen flickered onto an image of green and black that depicted the Kingdom of Milisevre from above, the view panning over a range of snow-capped mountains that surrounded a vast expanse of coniferous and deciduous trees that covered the rolling countryside like a pelt of lichen-covered fur.

Then came the rattling as Ruberix's six hands all began to tap rapidly at the control, the sound like that of a coat of chainmail being torn open. "This is the last recording I possess. With the aid of the eternal wisdom of Erathis, praise be to Her, I have triangulated the comet's fall," he stated, a glowing crosshairs appearing over a point where the forest's edge and mountains met on the computer. "The most holy relic is located within the eastern reaches of Milisevre, beyond what the local organics call 'The Forest of Louen.'"

Technus listened intently. "A forest?"

"Indeed." Ruberix replied, his eyes clicking as they narrowed, his body parts grinding as if in disgust. "A filthy nest of organic life. Your faith shall be tested, brother, it seems..." With the press of a button, the screen then switched off as he said "Location is confirmed and shall be uploaded to your cerebral circuits immediately. Unless you intend to question the will of the Goddess any further, proceed with your task immediately."

His words were firm, their meaning needing no interpretation. And yet Technus could not follow them. For now.

"Negative," he replied. "Present modus operandi is to wait until conclusion of local tournament."

Ruberix's face suddenly seemed to harden even more, his steel features somehow becoming even harsher and colder. "Tournament is irrelevant. Proceed to location of objective."

"Statement can be disputed." Technus blinked his remaining organic eye slowly. "Permission to present explanation."

The entire temple then seemed to go silent, and any drones in the area suddenly jarred to a halt mid-flight. Brother Ruberix's eye-lenses clicked, narrowing to a dangerously small size as they surveyed Technus from head to toe. He was silent for a long time once more, still and unwavering as a statue.

Just like Technus, it seemed that he had no respiratory organs. Possibly not even a mouth. But all he need say was the word 'Heretic', and Technus would be done for. He would be destroyed – no, disassembled, and viewed as a failure.

But even in the unnerving quiet, the Tech-Cleric followed the commandments of Erathis. He did not move or relent, for his logic was sound and would not be cowed. Even if his own ideas ran counter to another facet of Her doctrines.

"Permission granted," his superior stated at length. "I suggest you do not disappoint me, Brother Technus, else I shall request a different aide."

Even without lungs, Technus felt like he had to take a breath to steady himself. And after a pause, he made his case.

"Arrival in Milisevre was accompanied by five organic companions. Despite their disgusting nature, they have proven very capable in combat, and are presently staying to compete in tournament," he explained briefly, choosing every word extremely carefully. "Hypothesis – these organics could be useful in retrieving the relic.

Immediately, Ruberix's red eyes widened. "Negative, brother!" he snarled, suddenly and surprisingly descending into a fearsome wroth that was unholy and terrifying. "You would blight our most sacred prophecy, the coming of the Age of Iron, with the presence of organics! Such an action would be blasphemy of the highest order, brother! Worse – it would be sacrilegious and heretical!"

Technus shook his head. "It is not heresy, brother. It is proselytization."

Proselytization - the policy of attempting to convert people's religious or political beliefs. The word seemed to stun Ruberix just enough that Technus could offer the rest of his explanation.

"Some of my companions are of other faiths, and cling to their false gods fervently like a drowning rat to a piece of wreckage. Others appear to have no faiths, and so are more open to conversion." In his brain, his cognitive circuits flicked through images of Ser Logan and Princess Arabella during his first sentence, then of Stalk and Finnan on the second.

In actuality, he didn't know if Finnan was mentally capable of understanding religion, but the point remained.

He continued to explain to Ruberix "If these organics, who may have public influence over the rest of Milisevre should they find success in this tournament, see the truth of the prophecy... they could be instrumental in assisting the spread of our faith to the other living beings. They could help us, the true faithful, in the end. To help the Age of Iron come to pass."

His fellow cyborg remained deathly silent, but this only compelled Technus to keep talking. A pulse moved through his body, and in a stroke of luck, the right words to bookend his argument flooded forth from his vox-grill.

"I am of no illusions, brother. Our faith is small beyond the confines of Castellum Machina – especially here in Milisevre, where the creed of the Platinum Dragon is rooted deep into the local culture and traditions."

"Culture?" Ruberix broke his long silence with a static snort. "The concept insults my auditory functions, brother. Organics possess no culture – only dark delusions that must be banished. And are easy to do so."

"If that is so..." Technus retorted. "... then explain why there are no other acolytes he besides you."

All speech between the two then dropped into oblivion, with neither Tech-Cleric seeming willing to give ground... and yet, even as his robotic ocular lenses seemed to rattle in their sockets in rage, Technus felt that Ruberix's silence was born more from defeat that it was from stoicism.

Clearly he took that statement as a personal insult, even if he would not show such a reaction outwardly in such a sacred place. But the words he had heard rang just true enough that he could not dispute or disprove them. Least of all, once again, in the temple grounds.

Within the Turning Cog, most of all within its temples and shrines, contempt for organics was the only emotion permitted. All else had to be cold. Logical. Unfeeling.

"The feebleness of organics can lead to stubbornness... but it is also malleable. They believe what they see, not what is true." Technus went on. "If my... present followers witness whatever lies at the heart of the meteor themselves, I am certain they will be overwhelmed by the unquestionable truth of Erathis and abandon the archaic rites that they claim to be their faiths. And – reminder; they will be folk heroes to the locals for winning the tournament in the first place. With such public figures openly joining our side, and with the power of whatever the Goddess has sent to us in Her infinite wisdom, the probability of gaining a greater foothold among the people of Milisevre will increase massively."

Technus then took a pace forward. "After all – is it not our mission to convert those who will abandon the wretched abomination that is flesh in favour of the sanctity of metal? And if such a delay has the potential to increase our chances of success on two fronts, the sanctity of logic would dictate we should do so. So the Platinum Dragon may fall and the Turning Cog will rise."

Drones hovered motionlessly. Machines worked onwards in the background. And brother Ruberix replied.

"Argument... sufficient, brother. My comprehension of your reasoning is... acceptable. Even if it violates our beliefs on a certain level, nothing can compromise the retrieval of what lies inside the comet and the fulfilling of the prophecy. And... possibility that your idea of spread our faith could work..."

If he could have smiled, Technus would have. But his mask hid his emotions and made him seem more in line with the commandments of Erathis. "Thank you, Archdeacon. You shall not be disappointed."

Ruberix fixed him with another stare. "That remains to be seen, Brother Technus..." he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "This convocation is at an end. You have permission to wait until local... superstition terminates. Then you will carry out the will of the Goddess, by whatever methods you deem fit..."

Technus nodded as his beliefs realigned with Ruberix's once more. Without a doubt, they could not pick and choose their methods here, as he had just proven.

The fate of the world was at stake – only the results mattered. The Goddess willed it to be so.