[center][h3][b][color=004b80]The Western Brotherhood of Steel[/color][/b][/h3][/center]


Night was falling, and with it, so too did the old order. For Charlie Wheatcroft, this was the ending chapter of a horrible story, a nightmare that seemed unending. Shivering in his grey anorak, he clasped the thin coat around himself, watching the herald on the stage reading out from a scroll, bathed in the white halogen glare of the fizzing lights all around them.

“Henceforth, all unapproved societies are suspended. Approval may be sought, all gatherings are furthermore now to be conducted in officiated halls only, and with a custodian on hand. This is to ensure, that all meetings are of a non-political nature, that no such gatherings may be used to ferment dissent and rebellion as has seized our great society these past months.”

The clanking of boots began to drown out the herald’s words towards the end of his speech, a shuffling line of emaciated figures clad in dirty robes and chains pushed forwards up the stairs and towards the waiting lines of the hooded executioners. A small rumbling of murmurs and whispers briefly threatened to break out across from the crowd, but by some unseen signal, the sudden shift from standing to attention to battle-ready stance of the line of power armour figures before the stage was enough to enforce silence.

Charlie found his eyes glancing around the square, at the balconies around, full of fur and leather clad figures, the many tribes of the Brotherhood. They had won the war for Gladstone in the end, the war against the Maxson Lodges, a front for the Circle of Steel. A bomb on the High Elder’s vertibird had knocked the man out of the sky on his way back from the convention, the Lodges had moved into the open, seizing the dams in an attempted coup. A resistance had been formed by the younger and more liberal members, but things had been bleak. And then, word had gone around, of a warlord in the south-east, riding towards Electric City with a horde of savages at his back.

At first, the Lodges had treated it as a mere raider group, sending out a few small parties thinking that a few lasers and power armoured gauntlets would be enough to quell it. Instead, those parties had been defeated, and more tribes had swelled the warlord’s ranks at that point. New tribes had been conquered, the warlord moving to the north, seizing lands and men there, and then back to the south, and then the east, and then circumventing electric city entirely to raise forces in the west. The resistance had been emboldened, and the exploded into activity when Gladstone’s image and voice had seized the airways, stating his return and intent to destroy the lodges and all who harboured them.

The last battle had been at Spokane, the Lodges had been forced to march when Gladstone had raised his banner over the city proclaiming him the one true High Elder of the Brotherhood and calling on the lodges to face him in the field or die in their bunkers. They had marched in full strength and had promptly been harried all the way to Spokane, wherein they found the city empty, and received the news of Gladstone having seized Electric City instead. They next few days, Gladstone didn’t meet the lodges in the field, instead, choosing to hit and run against their limited numbers until at last, forcing them into a small village whereupon he’d subjected the remaining traitors to a sadistic bombardment until they’d surrendered.

And now, they were gathered here, to witness the fate of the defeated. To hear the laws of the new regime. Gone was the calm tempered movements of the old order, in their place a tempest of war and seething anger. Something had happened to Gladstone out in the wilderness among the tribes, the old scholar had died, and in those aged ashes, a warlord had been born. Slowly, a snare drum was tapped, a drummer boy rattling out an execution mass. The prisoners had been seated and with a growing sense of sickness Charlie felt a stab of revulsion at what he knew was coming next, and felt he should turn away, but morbid curiosity stayed his gaze.

The drumbeat grew, a rampaging crescendo building and building, until suddenly it stopped, and was replaced with the flick of a switch, the crackle of electricity, the screams of the guilty, and the smell of acrid smoke. And then suddenly, it was finished, the dimmed flickering lights returning to their full baleful glare, casting down illumination onto the electrocuted dead. The herald steps forward, the ringmaster of the whole sickening affair, his voice loud and clear.

“So unto all traitors, to divide us is to be a heretic against the new order! Let their bodies be cast in gibbets across the land! A warning against those who would seek to divide this new unity!”

Eyes turned up to the sky as a flight of Vertibirds passed overhead, their engines roaring as them made their parade. The eyes keeping there as the herald saluted theretoward, a clenched fist to the sky the symbol of the new order.

“Glory to the Victor and death to the traitor! Strong as Steel!”

And suddenly, they were all moving, either out of fear or love, all moved, raising their hands up, clenching into tight fists, voices rending out that new cry.

“Strong as Steel!”

The shouting went on and on and on, the crowds pressing forwards, arms seemingly stretching higher and higher, as if seeking to prove that they could reach higher than all others, that they could claim to be the most loyal of all. And looking down on those huddled braying people, Gladstone turned away from his stand by a shadowed window, and back to the business at hand. The traitors were dead, order had been restored and eyes turned inward, could now turn outward. His voice was cold as it called out to the waiting squires, a harsh rasp ever since the assassination attempt, since the bomb had burned a third of his face and scoured his throat. 

“Have the envoys arrived yet?”

A shake of the head and the bowing of backs, eyes cast down staring at the shadow not the one who cast it, fearful of meeting this new man’s gaze.

“Yes milord. A legation from the Midwestern Brotherhood, they’re awaiting your admittance to the throne room.”

A pained grunt in acknowledgement from the words of the senior-most squire, followed by the rapping of a steel sceptre made walking cane cracked across the floor as the High Elder made his way to the centre of the room. He stood there, eyes resting on the tapestry opposite, of the busts of the High Elders of ages past, his arms raised as if martyring himself before the gaze of the long dead.

“Then armour me squires, for the dawn of a new age is coming, and we must be ready to meet it.”

And with that command, the squires dutifully set about armouring their Elder. The sceptre of the High Elder was gently prised from a scarred grip and lain aside on the table. Already clad in the dark grey recon suit, first to be clasped onto the High Elder’s person was the frame, the Squires working from the torso outwards until it was all fixed and bound ready to receive the armour. In silence they worked, the ornate ceremonial armour of the High Elder of the Brotherhood ever so carefully being fastened like the plate armour onto the knights of old. Dark grey steel traced with etched silver patterns, murals of the old days of Maxson. Here and there, the names of the High Elders carved into the very fabric of the armour, legendary names whose words beheld legendary deeds, upon his death, so too would the name of Gladstone be carved into it.

On this went, until at last, there came the final robing. A black cloak lined with fur bearing the seal of the Brotherhood in gold thread fastened over the armour by a bronze chain. Opened hands awaited their armaments, to one went the sword, and to the other, the sceptre was returned. The head lay bare, and onto it went the steel sword crown of the High Elder. Closed eyes opened and turned as his body pivoted, and with dread purpose moved towards the elevator and from there down to the throne room. Wherein he took his place upon the throne, the cloak moved by the squires around the High Elders body, over the knee with the golden seal of the brotherhood facing out.

Windows were closed, torches were lit, the guards stood at attention with their halberds raised high, at last, they were ready. A nod from the High Elder and the great chamber doors were opened, and in flooded the courtiers, gasps from the easily impressed at the vastness of the chamber, of the great arches above, with rafters holding musty banners from chapters long dead or gathered once again. Drifting pennants holding the oaths of war and battle honours trailed down and silently shifted in the air. The walls holding tapestry after tapestry, scene after scene of glory and honour, of power armoured warriors with their banners high and their enemies crushed beneath them. The stamping of halberds made silent the room as the herald called out.

“His Excellency, the High Elder of the Brotherhood of the Steel, Suzerain of the Mountains and Plains, Warlord of the Northern Wastes, Victor of the Steel Laurels bids you welcome to his court. May his reign be long and stand as strong as steel! All Hail the High Elder!”

Fists were raised, a single shout of “Hail!” ringing out through the hall, and then tribute was paid by the tribes to their Suzerain. The new order cared not for trinkets, henceforth, the tribes paid their tithes in manpower or material. In exchange, aid and protection was promised, patrols were dispatched to secure the borders and engineers to build generators to bring civilisation to a wild land. For hours this went on, until at last, the herald called out the names of the envoys of the Midwestern Order. A hush fell, dispelled by the voice of the High Elder.

“I would speak to these honoured envoys in private, I bid my court depart and gather again once recalled.”

The guards moved quickly, ushering out the crowd until at last, only the High Elder and the envoys remained. Looking down at them with a bored interest, Gladstone’s voice rasped out into the hall and down towards the legation.

“So, the Midwestern Brotherhood has at long last stepped foot inside the Western Brotherhoods halls. A momentous occasion for sure, so come, speak to me, what is it that Barnaky would desire? I think you will find that much has changed since our last meeting.”