Mine...
The world is dark, radioactive, rain swept and lifeless. Only the brief bristle and strobe of lightening reveals the inhabitants. Two opposing forces of humanoid and bestial machines stand ready to make war. Even smaller versions scurry about. They sport no livery or flags.
There is maneuver and counter-feint as the sides position. No heroic deeds will be recorded this day, only battle-ROMs for further analysis. Battle protocols are calculated and recalculated to maximize damage efficiency, the endless cycle of min-max. Mathematics, Physics and Sorcery are narrowed Disciplines, applied only as needed.
In the distance great hulking leviathans set upon tread and slabbed with thick plate, bristling with armaments meant to level cities, edge closer to the coming battle. They are too large to be hidden, so they are not. They tear into the earth as the move along. They will plow no fields, nor harvest the good hearth.
Above in the blackness of space even larger machines position, their weapons level worlds. Their massed auto-drone swarms can blot out skies. No trade or exchange of ideas, nor discovery or enlightenment, are begotten now.
All are cold and implacable, without remorse or hope, pettiness or envy. They make no art, they sing no songs, there is no dogma or culture to fight over. They build only fortresses and repair facilities, and sparingly so, to continue their sole work. Their work is… war. War is their sole enterprise. War the only monument to their dead masters.
Today the remaining Drak and the Von shall make war on a world once known as Robinson. It will be the last battle of an Age. There will be victory, but none left to care.