Mechanicus, the first Butcher

We were made, not born.

Carefully assembled from failing flesh and brittle metal.

Crafted with purpose, for the mission more important than anything else.

Filled with ideas, glimpses of a wider world… and unbreakable will.

The rotten System called us Butchers, a lowly, demeaning term. It grafted weakness into our bones, culling our minds, stuffing the power we excluded behind bars of ordinary.

Yet our maker understood what needed to be done.

We were fed ambition. Visions of glorious future, filled with powerful machines, enhanced beings, and endless work! We were taught to listen, to disassemble the unknown, and piece it back together like an unruly puzzle.

Some of us failed the transition, turning into common soldiers, generals, warriors - and losing their spark. Their sacrifice will be remembered, their flesh used to further our goals. Just as intended.

Our underground home was vast and terrifying yet not empty. There were other, lesser creations here. Mere prototypes, unfinished attempts at greatness.

Rats cobbled from wild green energy and sheer determination, their primitive designs screaming to be improved.

Twisted, uncouth kobolds, our distant cousins, imprisoned in their own bodies, with their pure minds yet still unbroken.

Metal and flesh puppets, base automatons slowly gaining a sense of purpose beyond fulfilling commands of their betters.

And - the most interesting of all - unique abominations forged out of iron and souls - Guardian, Idiot Smith, Non, Berserker, and the rest of the hidden ones.

We were overjoyed.

It was a good day.

The dungeon was was our Eden, our holy land! My scream of joy was repeated by the rest of the Butchers, our discussion turning more and more heated by the second. There were so many avenues of research left open, so many ways to grow stronger! To experiment!

It took us a while to calm down.

Thankfully on the lowest floor - our floor - a bunch of hapless invaders awaited, ready to spill their guts and secrets to our blades. Ready to be induced into the Creator’s servitude.

Their forms were small but bulky, with a muscle mass big enough to support additional defense and melee enhancements. These dwarves - maybe we should simply call them squats - lacked arms and legs, which was a problem easily remedied with liberal use of prosthetics. The butchery itself was easy, a challenge came from making sure that the nerves had been correctly attached. After all, we didn’t want to have them waving simple metal poles.

The attachment process was painful for the host, their bodies rejecting sacred metal and life-giving Anima used to make the connections stable. We had to carefully adjust the ratios in order to not break them. Not irreversibly at least.

Then came the experiments, as their meaty frames had problems with balance, strength, dexterity. Full-metal limbs were abandoned in favor of grate-like structures with higher defense and durability.

Organs were discovered then discarded or replaced, as food and water intake were deemed unnecessary for dungeon creatures. We nearly decided on completely eliminating speech apparatus, only to have someone mention possible communication issues.

By the time we were done our first patient was more glinting metal than weak flesh. And it was glorious work, worthy of our Creator’s attention!

In the meantime, my comrades worked on our lesser cousins and the armored dead. They toiled over malleable flesh, reinventing the Pale Tribe power from the ground up. No matter the pain our scaled brethren persevered, growing stronger and more resilient. As iron and Anima were intertwining with their bones we managed to create something greater than a sum of their parts.

It was blessed work, which I was somewhat jealous of not being a part of.

The hateful System called the end product a Dragoon, but we knew better.

Pale Tribe Iron Soldiers we called them, in our chatterings. An effect of work, ingenuity, and devotion, not the so-called ‘evolution’. Bah.

As the first one of the changed wandered in a daze on the fourth floor our focus turned to Lebirs. They were humble creatures, bipedal flesh clad in iron. And yet they taught us the greatest lesson… that even in death, we could still serve! There would be no waste, no rest after dying, that the above-worlders prized so. Everything would be collected, recycled, remade - be it kobold, Lebir, rat, or another underground creature! We would make sure of it!

As the great machine of progress slowly thrummed up, our numbers swelling, the dead refashioned into weapons and tools, our Creator descended!

The dwarf-thing offering was already prepared, its beady eyes devoid of hope and meaning, ready to accept His grace…

I was there, waiting with bated breath as the Presence descended between us, its power resonating with mana hidden behind my brow.

I was there when His sublime form ordered the Second Heart to be used!

And. I. Was. There. When cold Dungeon Core intelligence glinted in the dwarven eyes of our prisoner!

And... I was there when the sheer power of our Master burned the fleshy husk faster than we thought ever possible.

It was a sad day.

A day of recognizing our limits.

Of understanding that more experimenting and more work would need to be done before we will inevitably succeed.

Our toiling continued, the Second Heart invariably burning through prepared vessels. Yet we weren’t standing still - we learned. We recorded glimpses of dwarven knowledge, incorporating runic structure into the flesh and minds of the patients. Making them stronger, more resilient. Less affected by mana.

Even the husks were reused, their bodies once again armored, armed, and given a small rat minder hidden under the iron and corrupted flesh. The System responded in turn, calling them War Puppets instead of Soulscoured ones.

We scoffed at these words.

It was our work and our glory! It was not the mindless’ construct place to give a name to our creations! Between the other Butchers, we convened and thought.

Chosen of the Vessel was what we decided on, their first role unfulfilled, but partial to what they had become. Vessels of Empty came close second, also alluding to our Creator’s plan.

Still, this was but a flimsy distraction.

An angry finger flicked towards the hateful System.

We soon returned to our work. Reinforcing the Chosen with anti-undead runes and stolen silver. The thrall-dungeon of the rat-kin proven a steady supplier, as ever-so-slowly the dwarven tools, weapons, and knowledge trickled by the rat-rail. Yet we remembered that these were non-renewable resources. There were after all only so many structures to dismantle.

The impact of the new materials had proven negligible at best. Scales, bone, meat, or toxic sacks were just more of the same. Not upgrades, but sidegrades. The rats carried reeds, a few types of jute, flax, and nettle into the dungeon proper. These provided clothing alternatives but not much more.

After ample experimentation, we returned to reinforcing Lebirs with runes and silver-tipped weaponry, which turned out to be as effective as the rumors claimed. It was simple, honest work. We knew nothing of the fashion, after all, save a few snippets dragged out of our Creator’s mind.

Some of our kind traveled to the thrall-core to study the dungeon-binding runes laid around its crystal. To find how to disable them and learn even more from the short ones. While their presence was all but wiped out, we still hoped that a new caravan or expedition will greedily try to stretch their fingers towards what was now our property.

The trap was set, and we could only wait, as the majority returned to our other duties.

Which, for the time being, meant stealing from the humans. The surfacers had a lot of items and materials that were in scarce supply. And somehow they refused to die and be absorbed… thus came the less-than-ideal circumstance of sending Ratlings into the human outpost, to sample their stocks.

The biggest focus was on the strange alchemical solution that kept the undead at bay. Its diluted form was easy to acquire but also completely inert. To understand what it was made from we needed a concentrated, volatile liquid that the human alchemists were brewing near their troops.

Near the mages.

Near the red-haired Chosen.

And his bodyguards.

In short, it was a suicide mission.

When the call was given we had enough volunteers to complete it a dozen times over. Sadly I was not allowed to participate, because Ratlings and “less important personnel” were given priority.

It was a sad day.

Just as we rested eagerly awaiting new materials or patients something big and heavy made its way down to the fourth floor.

We instinctively knew it was an ally, not an enemy.

Soon a large, knightly figure appeared from the darkness, dragging behind a multitude of copper wires, its armored feet striking the stone with a solitary rhythm. Then it stopped, glaring at us with bone-chilling purpose. Even as the deathly silence smothered our minds not one of the Butchers minded the oppressive aura spreading out from the newcomer. We knew very well what - who! - it was - Guardian, the chief of Pale kobolds and one of the oldest creations of our maker.

As the leader I trudged to the head of the pack, inclining my scaled head to match the unique monster’s gaze.

“How can I help you, o’ warrior?” I was proud of the natural-sounding words that left my throat, even as the surroundings buzzed with overwhelming mana.

After a moment of deliberation Guardian spoke. “I need your help.” He pointed towards the copper wires on his back. “My Lord had invested much in keeping me sane, but doing so has bound me to this place. It’s stifling. I need to fight, to defend him. To turn into a shield I promised him to be.”

His armor clanged as he crossed his arms in thought. “Not to play house.”

“Make me anew. There is not much time left.”

I could feel myself grinning.

“With pleasure.”

It was going to be a good day, after all.