She walked upon the platform, raised above the Ravine by columns of metal and stone. The Rave Voice, a disfigured little thing blessed with brass lungs within a cursed, craven body, slithered into the Loud, shivering, counting Her every step. The iron chains that held her children, her tadpoles, connecting their necks and hands to the majestic cock they bore upon their shoulders offered an echo to her movement; every step was thus a complex mechanism of might and beauty. The Rave Voice cackled, as he often did by virtue of a somewhat broken mind, and turned to the console, readying the Voice. The Womb Lord was upon them: he was to announce her arrival to the masses congregating far below. 

"Heed! HEED!" - he bellowed, and the many loudspeakers of the Voice magnified his every word until each was like a hammer strike from Heaven. "Heed, and bear witness: Imperator of the Arsenal of Breed! Dominator of the Tower of X-S! Chodemaster and Hole Breaker of the Arena of Sin! Womb Lord and Progenerator! Offer your lungs! Offer your air! Offer your voices for our War Mother, Duchess of the River of White!! BELLADONNA!!!" 

The air itself rumbled as they called her name; her masses, her warriors, her cravens. They shook hand and cock, they wreathed, a mass of naked flesh; they called for her, and she came. 

Her children laid her cock upon the Brass Lips and fell to their knees, offering prayer to the holy pillar of flesh, their own budging cockmeat locked until the War Mother would bless them one day to go out and conquer womb like she did. The meat colossus hanged beyond the platform, distended downward by its inhuman weight. The Imperator herself sat down. She was without a peer on all of Mars. She was divinity, an avatar of wargods: four heads above the tallest futa, thick with muscle, a face of purest genes. Her mark was power. It was in everything she did. Power was her musk. Power was the audible rush of air she took with every breath. Power was the movement of her limbs. And power was her cock - a symbol and instrument of pure, unreachable brutality. 

She called for silence with a glance, and spoke. 

"My daughtersons… my sperm and blood…" 

There was no Voice to amplify the Womb Lord. There was no need. 

"You called me and I came. What do you want?" 

"Give us the River!!" - the crowd roared. - "The River! The River! The River! The River!" 

The Womb Lord listened, for a moment, then shook her head. 

"You wish me to bequest the River." 

"The River, mistress!!" "Give us the River!!" "Offer us the River, War Mother!!" 

The Womb Lord shook her head again. 

"You ask. You know the taste of power. You CRAVE IT. YOU DESIRE IT!!" - she roared, within a moment silencing the crowd. - "BUT SHOULD I GIVE IT? HEED ME." 

A body dropped, strapped by chains to the gondola beneath the platform, the Meat Samsara. Three chains held it: by the hands and neck. 

The crowd was silent. They knew the perished. They all knew. 

The seventh Princess, the Ascended Daughterson of the War Mother. La Cruda. Killed by degenitalation and the resulting desanguination, a damning bond between a bleedout and a spermleak. She was remarkably like her mother, though nowhere near her splendor. She was, of course, restored posthumously: no daughterson of Imperator blood shall be ever forced, dead or live, through the shame of being cockless before lower eyes. They restored it to place with a crown of black nails. 

"Witness… my own blood and sperm. Born from eggs of highest gucci. And yet… a betrayer, who tried to give offense upon my form! Do you know why, children of the Arsenal of Breed?" 

The War Mother scanned the crowd. A single sound was not produced in the ravine before her. 

 "Because I taught you, orphans of Mars, the taste of power. The taste of womb. The warmth of conquest, the gentle breeze above the battlefield… and are now… addicted… TO IT. You want the River… so you can be ROID HYPERS. So you can go and take. SO BE IT THEN. I'LL GIVE YOU THE RIVER. BUT WITNESS MY DAUGHTERSON, MY BLOOD, AND KNOW. THERE IS…"

The Womb Lord stood up, and a low, subtle vibration shook the Arsenal and the Ravine around it. 

"NO POWER…" 

The vibration grew stronger with every moment, growing audible, a low sound that reverbated in the skull. 

"BEYOND MINE." 

The War Mother came, and thus, the River was given forth. 

From her cock, the white jetted. With loud and raw sounds, it dropped in such a thickness and mass that to be impacted by such a jet could knock a fighter out. And it wouldn't stop. The River was given and offered; for the full duration of the Progenerator's Orgasm, it will be given. And the crowd rushed. 

For a futa, to ingest enough of this holy liquid was to eventually grow into a Roid Hyper. The simplest pleasure: to be strong. To be mighty. To conquer. To take. To leave a mark upon a hundred wombs. To leave unto the Martian Wastes a hundred offsprings. This is why they loved the War Mother: this why they loved her even more than how they feared her. 

The War Mother looked upon the crowd with some disgust. She knew more than they did. She knew the many Truths.

And most of them were better left unspoken. 

… 

Along Roadside 69, an Aeterna 4X was roaring, speeding beyond two hundred kilometers per hour like a beast enjoying freedom. A lone figure was visible inside. 

Her name was Leda, and she rode towards the Tower of XS. There was a lot to say about her, but not now. Know this: that Leda was a futa, a fighter, a pure-breed first-born, an only daughter of a pristine womb. Her car was charged and roaring, her gun, an ancient semi from before the Great Arise, was gently strapped below her hands. 

She rode for many hours, yet she didn't stop to sleep. She had a goal; a mission. 

To break the War Mother, and learn the truth.