The Freonian mech stood sentinel. Its body was like that of the Freonian’s themselves, beautiful, ornate. The mech’s body consisted of polished steel plates with silver trims over tin, clockwork, gears ticking in perfect time and precision around a central coil. Taller than the quaint, hand-wrought, feudal villagers that surrounded it and piloted by a team of size knights with the bodies of scarred alien Amazons with skin a deep blue-grey colour, alien and exotic to the outsider, yet a living murder machine to those who knew them. The crank on the mech had been turned by a team of two-hundred slaves, attached in teams of fifty to enormous chains dangling in pairs from either side of the crank. A half-dozen great cranks and a two-dozen slaves fallen under exhaustion and the lash later the mech had sprang to life in all its clockwork glory. Absent mildedly, the mech was piloted out of the village – scuttling several of the small, ramshackle hovels the slaves called home in its great smooth strides. For this great machine, the battlefield awaited.