Mech Pilot who has eschewed the blade, for that is the weapon of fools, fops and the founders of tyranny. Hark! The rotary wand armature is the fulcrum of this era’s battles.
One day, Rutger the miller had enough.
Enough of those gods-damned entitled, vapid knights on their overpriced, flashy mechanical mounts using his place for their stupid little games, just because it was the closest to the palace. To that vipers' nest of parasites and their sycophants, sucking up all the resources, all the lifeblood of the country. Stealing food from everyone's table. Destroying his livelihood each time they wanted to have an afternoon of 'harmless fun and games'.
They wouldn't know what their much vaunted honour was if it spit in their faces.
Well, he'd repaired his windmill for the last time because of them, as far as he was concerned. As the blades creaked into motion on this moonlit, still night, his knuckles whitened. He threw another lever. The building rumbled around him, blades gaining speed.
Foot down.
Shift gears.
Pray.
The giant blades were going fast now. Round and round. Faster than they ever had before. Belts whined on their axles, smoke billowing from the strain of the extra weight he'd added. All the modifications he'd made.
Come on.
Please.
All or nothing. To be free from this undeserved purgatory he was forced to live in. They were all forced to live in. One way or another.
It has to stop.
Someone needs to stop them.
The windmill groaned and shuddered as it took its first step. Towards the capital. The palace. History.
Rutger smiled.
Let's see how they like it...
