Digital: Arcus Decimari
by Beauchamp Art
The Arcus Decimari, one of the lesser deformations that reside in the nuclear wastes. Pressed heavy under fallout, bestial and hunch backed, the Caliban cast from the Castra, cursed to crawl beneath its eternal irradiating iridescent incandescence.
Once wholesome and fair, such Decimari as this were demonised by their unfortunate circumstance, the lottery of their willing sacrifice for the preservation of a civilisation which would no longer recognise its foul form far from the familiar faces of the saved citizens of the Metro, amongst which it may very well have once resided. But such forlorn memories must seem forsaken fantasies, haunting hallucinations of a previous, impossible existence, seen as this pitiful form may be burdened by its resemblance to human form, which this seeker of sanctuary and asylum to incarcerate its maddened mind and broken body, to reclaim its upright stance beside the noblest and naive of its former kin.
Yet, when one is demonised by such circumstance, when home is wrought from one’s grasp and solitude and insecurity is thrust into the heart of even the boldest of men, they may still be ruined, and in the eyes of their brothers and sisters, the burden which they would have placed on them must be overturned by their forceful extradition into the wastes. Some find refugee with the plight of the Precariari, but as they too have had so much stolen from them, their will to help even those suffering the worst of fates may often be so undermined as to make any foundations of salvation an impossibility.
So they must forever wander the unwanted ways of the world, finding what little refugee available to them, amongst the wrecked landscapes of upturned landscapes, in the new caves of old cities, the underground topologies of twisted metal, crumbling concrete and the cold ash of Prometheus’ flames, the ruinous decimation of technology’s infinitively flexible tendrils, entangling and taming every atom, bent to inflict merciless will onto the masses, marauding against the gates no more – though barbarity had not been eliminated, but worked into a fine art, distilled into its raw components, and refined once more.
Those beyond the walls of civilisation, the vast fortifications of force that make the great barricades of the Castra, with their awesome brilliance of solid light, they may exchange violence in fists and fire, but with their means even one dedicated to a life of malevolence and intent on harm may only kill those within their immediate grasp. Whereas from the highest towers within the domes high civility, those with the power of a word may cull a continent on a whim, they may cast their sons against the rocks, and throw their daughters to the darkest depths, without the faintest syncopation of their heartbeat.
Behind glass screens there is a vacuum where not even the greatest scream may penetrate. Safe. Safe from the shouting mod. Safe from mixing air with the great unwashed. Safe from the demons one has made. Safe from the sacrificed, the sentenced, the consequence. Safe from sound, only the music of one’s own reasoning reverberating in the secure and calculating mind, far from all those things which would wreck the layman, the professional barbarian knows absolute certainty will prevail; unrelenting, unquestioned, and absolutely irresistible when propelled by insurmountable power.