Ice Breaker
Ice Breaker Lore: Please replace these components if use causes fatal damage: HEAT SINK. MAGAZINE. OPERATOR. The foundry is silent now. Shell casings litter the floor. They clatter away from the bootfalls of the Warlock Shayura as she weaves between the downed chassis of combat frames branded with the sigil of the Häkke foundry. “Security is disabled,” Shayura says over an encrypted channel. She’s quick to cross the foundry floor, checking the disabled frames one by one as she progresses to a sealed vault door. The door’s surface is marked with a glyph unfamiliar to her. It looks like a fish hook, or perhaps an anchor. “Is this what we’re looking for?” [[Confirmed. That’s the same symbol on the weapon the Vanguard recovered from Seraph Station. Golden Age, possibly older.]] Shayura extends one arm, wreathed in Solar fire, and manifests a searing white Dawnblade that she uses to cut through the door in a single stroke. Half of the vault door crashes to the floor and falls to the side, sizzling on a glowing hot edge. Shayura then floats into the air, drifting through the partial opening. [[We need any records you can find. Anything where BrayTech and Häkke overlap.]] Shayura dispatches her Ghost to scan rows of server racks containing decompiled engrams. Nearby weaponry is mounted on vault walls. Prototype firearms, alien weapons, unrecognizable technology from across Sol. A sniper rifle of Human design catches her eye; a red and gray body with some kind of thermal plating on the barrel. Her fingertips brush over the serial number stenciled on it: X-032782. It’s an Ice Breaker. She remembers when the Vanguard commissioned this design from Häkke, remembers when it was outlawed for being “dangerous and unfit for duty.” The design was later stolen and replicated. Hefting the Ice Breaker from the wall, Shayura turns to watch her Ghost scan and download Häkke’s archives. “Find what you’re looking for?” [[Skimming. I see some interesting details. Häkke’s Golden-Age predecessor had a terrestrial office in what was once the city of Chicago. They were involved in the development of gravity-based weapons. No BrayTech connections yet.]] Shayura freezes. “Chicago?” The tombs below Old Chicago haunt her periphery. Every ambient noise in the derelict foundry becomes a threat. She pushes past the fear, past the panic. That isn’t now. “What does Chicago have to do with anything?” [[I’m not sure…]] her handler on the other end of the comms says. [[But whatever it is goes back a long, long time.]] Discover More Weapons Here
Alethonym
Alethonym Lore: I know your name. “Oh, I’ve always liked this one,” Petra says. She reads: “They say Nedhi was the first to try and chart the world. Her descendants would later number among the Gensym Scribes and the Corsairs of the salt glades, but in those early days Nedhi had one reigning obsession, which was to exhort the sixth tenet of the Awoken. To know and love the cosmos, she must find and name everything within her universe. “Nedhi held a Sanguine faith in our own crystalline and enduring perfection, and in the nobility of the observer. To record the existence of the Other must, like a mirror, reflect the Self. And so, in naming all that comprised the world she would describe how best to be Awoken. “She gave names to flora and fauna, to tectonic forces and tidal currents. To new, immortal terrors, and to the hidden purposes of unseen actions. In the end she cultivated great fame unto herself, and visitors began to make pilgrimages. Any indescribable emotion, Nedhi could make plain for you. Your problems, your fears, your maladies—in speaking them aloud, Nedhi made them bearable. Constrained by ontology.” Eido chitters eagerly. “But this is all metaphor,” she guesses. Petra shrugs, smiling. “Hard to tell, isn’t it? How can we be sure, unless someone was there to write the truth?” Discover More Weapons Here – ext Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Donec ornare placerat interdum. Integer sollicitudin gravida sem quis tempor. In pharetra placerat molestie. Nam sodales finibus est sed gravida. Sed tristique semper mi, sed finibus ex vulputate molestie. Suspendisse mollis quam ut aliquam sodales. Proin elementum, odio in auctor volutpat, arcu arcu consectetur diam, quis porttitor nibh quam a lacus. Donec efficitur vitae erat at auctor. Suspendisse erat mauris,
Euphony
Euphony Lore: Perhaps The Final Shape is not silence, it is a symphony. The following text was found recessed into a stone wall within the Pale Heart. Translation protocol has done its best to equate the text to a modern language transcription, with nominal confidence. Words or phrases with <85% translation confidence within the transcript are contained in [brackets]. Values for bracketed words or phrases are listed after the transcript, with percentages indicated in (parentheses). TRANSCRIPTION STARTS We speak so often of knives and violence, but perhaps you would come to understand something… [softer]. Perhaps [beingness] is instead a [golden harp]. Forged tenderly, a complex, sweeping, beautiful shape with graceful curves and infinite potential, the exemplary [?UNKNOWN?]. Across its two florid [buttresses], the strings of time have been pulled taught. Tightened and [tuned] to a delicate [balance of distress], if wound much further, would lead to [rupture] and sting most unpleasantly. Pluck at any stretched string and [vibration reverberates]. Wavelength moves through [atmosphere], producing pleasing audible experiences, [they crest then fade]. If [plucked] at regular intervals, the waves rise and fall with such charm. This predictability is perfection; it is unmatched. We will compose such [sweet music]. We will control the ebb and flow. The final shape is the [golden harp], and [we are the hand that plucks]. TRANSCRIPTION ENDS Confidence Percentages: [softer] —- (72%) [beingness] —- (84%) [golden harp] —- (25%) [?UNKNOWN?] —- (0%) [buttresses] —- (46%) [tuned] —- (77%) [balance of distress] —- (4%) [rupture] —- (68%) [vibration reverberates] —- (18%) [atmosphere] —- (15%) [they crest then fade] —- (9%) [plucked] —- (34%) [sweet music] —- (37%) [golden harp] —- (25%) [we are the hand that plucks] —- (2%) Discover More Weapons Here – ext Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Donec ornare placerat interdum. Integer sollicitudin gravida sem quis tempor. In pharetra placerat molestie. Nam sodales finibus est sed gravida. Sed tristique semper mi, sed finibus ex vulputate molestie. Suspendisse mollis quam ut aliquam sodales. Proin
Choir of One
Choir of One Lore: A voice. A choice. An invitation. The Vex Goblin waded into the lake of radiolaria with the same unerring purpose to which it approached all things. As directed, as designed. Its own mass of radiolaria crawled and coiled through its body like worms through the thick soil of Nessus. Its Mind was elsewhere, the great roots of thought buried deep into it and every other Vex enslaved beneath it. The soft shimmer of white enveloped the Vex up to its knee joint. Then a hand reached out to it. The Vex felt a press against its cranium. A thumbprint. An activation code. Biometric data. The radiolaria inside it lit up with activity and noise, burning through its metal body. Then, disarticulated. It trembled and fell apart; limbs unjoined, chassis cracked and curled. A globule of radiolaria disseminated throughout the lake, reclaimed. But something called it to rise. Then, rejoined. Its pieces slotted together and moved flawlessly. It rose steadily, balanced, formed with utter perfection. The radiolaria slid from its body in droplets that separated, reformed, separated, reformed. Each one a mind. Each mind a thought. The Vex felt the soft split of its own mind as that thought sharpened in its cranium. A burst of light. A sharp spark. A choice. It looked to its creator and bowed. Discover More Weapons Here – ext Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Donec ornare placerat interdum. Integer sollicitudin gravida sem quis tempor. In pharetra placerat molestie. Nam sodales finibus est sed gravida. Sed tristique semper mi, sed finibus ex vulputate molestie. Suspendisse mollis quam ut aliquam sodales. Proin elementum, odio in auctor volutpat, arcu arcu consectetur diam, quis porttitor nibh quam a lacus. Donec efficitur vitae erat at auctor. Suspendisse erat mauris, mollis nec justo ac,
Still Hunt
Still Hunt Lore: There are too many ways to kill someone who needs killing. Cayde-6 spends the first night of his rebirth staring at the man who murdered him. The prince he once knew as Uldren lies with his back to Cayde, head on his arm, cushioned by soft grass. Under a sky without stars, granite boulders are scattered like vast marbles, nestled among the tall prairie grasses; a safe, silent valley born in the moment of their arrival. Time had grown oily without the familiar cycles of Earth, and after hours of half-conversations and stunted questions, the other man had excused himself to rest. Uldren sleeps soundly. Vulnerable. Cayde leans back against a boulder, arms crossed in the half-shadow of the fire between them. An impulse curls through him, dark and wild. It would only take a moment. He could put a shot straight through the Ghost’s shell. Then improvise a garotte with a handful of prairie grass and strangle the man while looking him dead in the eye. Or crush the Ghost with his hands, to stand tall and powerful over the sleeping figure, and relive his own death from his killer’s perspective. Better yet, he could capture the Ghost, set the man free, and hunt him in furious pursuit— Cayde flinches and looks up to see his murderer’s Ghost hovering in place, watching him, illuminated by the flickering coals of a dying fire. A motionless, protective stance. Cayde narrows his eyes. His hand slowly moves to his gun. Ghost and Exo stare through one another. The man beneath the Ghost stirs but does not wake. Then, in a fluid motion, the Ghost glides past his Guardian’s cheek, silently approaching Cayde. It draws close. “I’m sorry about Sundance,” whispers the Ghost. Cayde stills at her name. His hands and his gaze drops to the ground, pinned there now by a heavy shame. “Thanks,” is all Cayde can muster. He looks at the sleeping man nestled on the grass of the inside of a god and sees nothing of Uldren. Crow, Cayde reminds himself. That’s Crow. Discover More Weapons Here
Red Death Reformed
Red Death Reformed Lore: Vanguard policy still urges Guardians to destroy this weapon on sight. First is disassembly, taking extra caution for the well-honed bayonet. After disassembly comes cleaning. She gathers the swabs, the oils, the corrosive agents. Red Death clings to the grime of its past battles. She scrapes it with spinmetal wool for hours before the last signs of the skulls stenciled into the body finally vanish. The team had taken the butcher down before he’d added a mark for Ceto, Light of her Light. The weapon’s tally is one short. Even reduced to pieces, the Red Death is a malevolent presence. It knows its purpose. It wants to continue its work. After cleaning comes purification. She reassembles the weapon and cradles it as though to fire. Her Light boils up, turning radiant. The flare of Solar Light is the advent of warmth after a cold night, the healing power of life itself. Wings spread high on her back and paint scorch marks along the ceiling. In her arms Red Death glows red, then yellow, then white. It fights the change. She does not let go. Its shadows burn away, one by one, until none are left. After purification comes dedication. Slowly, she lets go of her Light. Her wings flicker, then fade. And when Red Death is cold metal in her hands once more, a kernel of Solar Light lingers within. Its purpose made new. She will find those who would strip Guardians of their final life. She will bring them into the light. Not for revenge, but for justice. For Ceto. Discover More Weapons Here – ext Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Donec ornare placerat interdum. Integer sollicitudin gravida sem quis tempor. In pharetra placerat molestie. Nam sodales finibus est sed gravida.
Microcosm
Microcosm Lore: We all owe our existence to one singular moment, long ago. Temperature: -65° C Weather: Dust storm Precipitation: 0% Humidity: 67% Wind: 25 mph Carbon Dioxide: 95% Time passes. Metal corrodes. Dust jams. Decay. Decay. Decay. Temperature: -100° C Weather: Clear Precipitation: 0% Humidity: 108% Wind: 30 mph Carbon Dioxide: 94% To alter the nature of an entire world is no small thing. Mortal hands struggle to affect it. Cyanobacteria, little toilers of the deep seas, take millions of years of the sun’s light to make the simplest and most necessary of changes: oxidation. Temperature: -54° C Weather: Fog Precipitation: 0% Humidity: 98% Wind: 0 mph Carbon Dioxide: 95% But there is a tipping point. A great explosion. Once achieved, there is a moment of balance. The rest flows freely and easily, faster and faster, as that which is built mounts and mounts and mounts. Atmosphere condenses, heat no longer escapes, rain falls, and bacteria born in a single lightning strike become multi-celled organisms, and on and on and on. Green and bright, and growing, growing, growing… Temperature: -10° C Weather: Cloudy Precipitation: 26% Humidity: 67% Wind: 7 mph Carbon Dioxide: 50% and dropping rapidly That is what it is for. That is the purpose—that moment of transformation and creation, of opening what was closed, of the first rain falling on untouched dirt. In that split second there is potential, there is the beginning of every life that will ever call this place home. From the singularity of the tipping point, a magnitude of futures spiraling outward forever, forever, forever. Temperature: 17° C Weather: Rainy Precipitation: 86% Humidity: 78% Wind: 14 mph Atmosphere: 20% oxygen, 80% nitrogen, trace amounts of other elements What a privilege to witness you, at that time and at that place, as you turn your shielded faces up to the falling rain. Discover More Weapons Here – ext Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Donec ornare placerat
Ergo Sum
Ergo Sum Lore: Silent. Silent. Silent. You are a child waking from a long and dreamless sleep. Is it still today, or have you slept into tomorrow (and tomorrow, and tomorrow, until the days buried you as much as the sand)? Gentle hands brush away the grains, but your voice is so soft that they cannot hear you over the sound of their own heartbeats. You are a moon. You feel heavy, so heavy, but to the stargazer you hang weightless in the sky. When the stargazers call out, you do not answer. They would give themselves up for you; abandon their own dreams to chase you. You love them too much to condemn them so. You are a lighthouse keeper. You are watching over a sleepy coastal village as the storm clouds roll in, and you are flashing the signal lantern, faster and faster and brighter and brighter, but they do nothing. You are trapped on an island, in a tower, signaling desperately that It is coming, and still they do not run. They are going to die—and if you do not run, you will die too. You are leaning out over the ocean. Sometimes the fish brush against your fingers and believe that they have felt the divine; sometimes the tide recedes, and the fish do not know you except by your absence. And today, you strive with all your might to reach the water, because It is here, the great dark shadow of the shark parting the water like a knife, and you cannot warn them, but you must. You must try. You cannot bear to lose even one more. You are carrying a tower of books. If you recited one title each second, you would not finish before the heat death of the universe. And every year, every day, every minute, Its hands add more to the pile. A man reaches for one of the books, for you, and you want so very badly to reach back, to take his hand and tell him that you must bear it just like he must, forever, the memory engraved in quartz—but your hands are full. You are a prisoner. The cage is so small that you can barely breathe. He screams at you to share your gift. You would not give it to anyone who thought of it so. It is a burden, a terrible weight that you have already asked too many to bear, to be crushed by. You could say all this, and more. You do not. You are reaching over a chasm, into which countless paths feed like arteries. You are trying to reach the people on the other side, but you cannot bridge the gap alone. You watch them turn, one after another, to walk down, down, down into the abyss, until It consumes them entirely. You are as surprised as anyone else when one of those wanderers comes back up the path, still reeking of decay, and reaches back to you. You are drowning. The water roils, dragging you down, and you are tired, so tired. The deep, dark ocean has gotten into your lungs, droplets of ink dispersing in silver blood. This time, you think, this time It has won. But when you look up, you see a figure diving toward you, fighting their way down through the suffocating waves, reaching out just like you’ve reached out to them, so many times before. You have so little strength left, but you do have it, that last gasp of air in your chest. You reach back—and in your hand is a sword. Discover More Weapons Here
Khvostov 7G-0X
Khvostov 7G-0X Lore: “You don’t know how long I’ve been looking for you.” Day 1. The world is dead, but there’s peace in the mortuary silence. I’m born into this dead world, where dandelions grow up through layers of ash blanketing miles of desolate road. Day 673. There is a stretch of land, a canyon through which water once flowed. A canal cut into the earth, bristling with derelict ships and countless dead. Flowers bloom in many desiccated carcasses. Each component of this world’s decomposition has a purpose: water flows, cities decay, flowers bloom. Yet still I search for mine. Day 1,857. Oceans are vast, lonely expanses. Though life flourishes in the depths, it’s not life that I’m looking for. I thrive on death—search for death. Perhaps my purpose lies below the water, but it’s dark, and lonely, and I… I don’t want to look there yet. Not when there’s so much more horizon. Day 6,231. I was careless and someone shot me from all the way across a field. The bullet only chipped my shell, but it spun me around and left me shaken. I don’t know who they were or even why I was targeted. I played dead, and no one came for me. I laid in the tall grass for nine days. It rained on the fifth. I acquainted myself with the ants. They are survivors. Day 36,725. This world is dead, but life is threatening a return. I don’t know when I’ll ever fulfill my purpose, but I know what I am. I’m a ghost haunting the grave of humanity. A Ghost with a calling. Discover More Weapons Here – ext Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Donec ornare placerat interdum. Integer sollicitudin gravida sem quis tempor. In pharetra placerat molestie. Nam sodales finibus est sed gravida. Sed
Whisper of the Worm
Whisper of the Worm Lore: A Guardian’s power makes a rich feeding ground. Do not be revolted. There are parasites that may benefit the host… teeth sharper than your own. Xol, the Will of Thousands, perished but was not destroyed. Death is a road, death is metamorphosis, the unsacred union between destroyer and destroyed. The might which defeats a god is also the ambrosia that god craves, the meat-sweet logic of Existence-Asserted-By-Violence, the binomial decision between two ways of being which deny each other. In dying, Xol fed richly. Now came Xol unto the Taken upon Io, who fed Xol with plunder and tried to make of it an idol and a commanding will. Yet Xol was bound joyously to the very logic that sustained it in its death. It wanted the sword proof, the single proof. It wanted to become a rule which divided the mighty living from the mighty dead. So it whispered the Anthem Anatheme, the temptation to dominate the objective universe with the subjective will. It said, I shall be an engine to make your desire hegemon over your conditions. It said, WIELD ME, AND USE ME TO TEST YOUR FOE. This was its worship. Aiat. Discover More Weapons Here – ext Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Donec ornare placerat interdum. Integer sollicitudin gravida sem quis tempor. In pharetra placerat molestie. Nam sodales finibus est sed gravida. Sed tristique semper mi, sed finibus ex vulputate molestie. Suspendisse mollis quam ut aliquam sodales. Proin elementum, odio in auctor volutpat, arcu arcu consectetur diam, quis porttitor nibh quam a lacus. Donec efficitur vitae erat at auctor. Suspendisse erat mauris, mollis nec justo ac, fringilla ultrices neque. Pellentesque vel facilisis ipsum. Interdum et malesuada fames ac ante ipsum primis in faucibus.
