This was done for a ConceptArt.org activity called Environment of the Week. The topic for this particular week was "The Sacred Grove of the Machinae." Here's the description I wrote to go along with it:

It had been three days since Nezzax had entered the Grove. Three wandering, confounding days. At first, Nezzax was taken aback by the uneven surfaces of the grove, baffled by its irregular textures and inconsistent noises, almost offended by its overt lack of order and designed ease of use. Temperature and humidity shifted constantly, requiring near constant recalibrations of inner metabolisms. What, he wondered, was so sacred about this place? It, more clearly than anything he had ever experienced, explained the necessity of The Change. How could anything have ever been accomplished in such a world as this? There were no set schedules, no regulations, no stable itineraries. It was chaos. It was a wonder that civilization had progressed to such a point to make an endeavor such as The Change possible, having to deal with such uncontrollable variables at all times. Why had the Primaries decided to keep this one last pocket of irregularity? Nezzax supposed it was kept to illustrate the necessity of the Primaries' actions, oft criticized for their extreme strictness. The Primaries were wise, for there could be no greater argument in favor of their cause than nature itself!
At the beginning of his third day, though, Nezzax found himself inexplicably softening to this place. The structured regimens of the outside seemed farther away, and the unorganized flows of the Grove began to seem more commonplace. Nezzax suddenly had a strange, but nonetheless undeniable, thought that he was coming home for the first time.
On his fourth day Nezzax approached the center of the Grove. Mists crawled between the sinuous trees, and mounds of rock, rounded with time, loomed from the underbrush. Nezzax knew that that as he neared the innermost parts of the grove, he approached revelation. He also, perhaps, approached his doom. For within the nucleus of the Grove dwelt the most chaotic, and most dangerous, relics of the pre-Change age. And as he neared the crest of a large boulder, he saw it. It was something so simple, yet at the same time utterly incomprehensible. It was a small pile of boulders which mimicked the shape of the huge mounds of rock on which Nezzax stood. Parts of it were colored, but not by nature. A hand put those markings on those rocks, and a mind conceived those blue shapes. Why? What was the purpose of changing the colors of those objects? Nezzax's neurons reeled with confusion more profound than any he'd yet experienced in the Grove. He'd heard of this before, yet he'd never before grasped the enormity of the concept concealed here within the Grove. Those markings were of the thing called Art.
When Nezzax noticed the robot crania on poles on either side of the rock Art-thing, his confusion turned into another, equally powerful emotion: fear. Only half of those who ventured into the Grove returned, for the shadow-beings known as the Artists still lurked there. Yet Nezzax had to go on. He had to solve the mystery of this thing called Art, for himself and for all Machine-kind. Gripping his staff tighter, Nezzax moved deeper into the heart of the Grove.