Settlers of the towns, travelers of the fields, all remain unprepared to face the might of the machine who reigns supreme in the Forge World. With only a gaze, as their journey starts, they at last witness the truth of the machine. Holy cogs, sacred engines, mechanical blessing, they all overlook the flesh underneath their splendor. despite many efforts, no one comes prepared to witness the artificial godhood, and even the faithful will feel uneasy as they finally meeting the subject of their prayers. Yet, the righteous and the pious will be accepted by its embrace, while the nonbelievers shall be punished for their biological foolishness.
Truthful perfection awaits in the endless halls of the Forge World. Claustrophobic alleys weave between the assembly lines, offering a blissful view over the holy machines whom reign supreme in the dimension of iron and copper. In all corners, the darkness of the dimension is vainquished by their red light. Piercing the obscurantism of the natural, the articifial steps on the bleakness of its environment, now feasting on the remains of the furnishing and the living alike.
The holy machines never stop, achieving a goal only their superior mind can concieve. The endless brutality may look like an unclean spectacle to the ignorant wretches below, but the faithful of the artificial can see beyond the fears of the flesh, gazing their eyes upon the grace and the nobility of the mechanical arms moving all around them. Foolish are the flesh beings who dare to look upon the machinery in their daily life, deeming it as tools created to serve them. Must the ignorant enters the Forge World, their pedantic mind shall break against the righteous thumps of the presses and the holy lights of the welders. Suffer not the early faithful, for their zeal will be rewarded by the sight of the machine god. Gracious and magnificent are the contraptions of the Forge World, and none of the inferior flesh resists their dances for long. For the machine is god, capable of withstanding the audacity of the flesh enough for it to realize their true allegiance.
The unnatural appendices blends with the holy cacophony echoing like a sacred chant. The loud noises reflect endlessly in the infinity of the Forge World, allowing the pious to hear the voices of the mechanical god whom encircles them. The sound of the machine is a song. The sound of the machien is a melody. The song of the machine is art. Unstopping, repetitive, it offers the truth of the universe everywhere in the dimension, merging with itself for its shouting to always be more powerful. All the flesh must feel the mechanical opera passing and bouncing on it, reminding it of its allegiance, of its faith. If the unclean is blind, the machine must speak the truth of its superiority, its holy cacophony making all that lives comes to its sense as they reject the lies of their own power.
Taking even one glance
the righteous being perfected
many blasphemators (amor incrementum, foj) tried to tame the place and got punished