u/Illustrious-Baker102

“Jemihan Opranoci, we meet at last.” The Speaker said, pulling the young man’s attention out from under him.

“Forgive me, Speaker, I didn’t know you were coming.” Jemihan said, careful to appear presentable before the head of the Consensus. He patted a wad of reports on his desk. “As you can see, I’m knee-deep in work at the moment.” 

“I thought you might be.” His voice trailed away, travelling with him through the room - ethereal, humble, soft. A voice that was never raised but still managed to fill a city. A voice that resonated in heads before it reached ears. A voice that made everyone, including Jemihan, listen.

Jemihan reorganized the papers on his desk in order of importance as the Speaker browsed the rows and rows of portraits along the wall. “Is your father well?” He asked.

“Confined to his home, I’m sorry to say.” Jemihan said with stoic displeasure. “Leading the design and management of so many of the Last City’s construction projects after the Battle of Twilight Gap has left him… disturbed.” 

“I am deeply sorry for you. I hear he was a brilliant man.” Came the piteous reply. “Just like you.” 
Jemihan gestured towards the portraits. “The price of prosperity is paid for by brilliant men, it seems.” 

“Brilliant men, yes. And, lest we forget, our mighty Lightbearers.” The Speaker said, gliding across the room to the window; a perfect view of the Tower, unobstructed by the skyscrapers that surrounded the office, had been installed there.

“Some have said your dynasty has defended our prosperity for as long as the Guardians.” He spoke, watching the Last City’s dark silhouette play against the evening sky. “Have you met any of them?”
Jemihan was about to respond, but the Speaker’s long white robes caught his eye.

“Aren’t you a Guardian?” The question was too eager, too reckless. The Speaker turned his body to face him, and felt the surprise from under the mask. He quickly added. “I’ve seen your face all throughout history.”

“I’m sure you have.” The Speaker said quietly. “But no. I serve the Traveler in other ways. As do you.” 

A statement? An accusation? A silence fell over the Opranoci office, dragging into discomfort as Jemihan thought of a response. “... I suppose we are all its servants.” He answered, finally. As the Speaker turned back to the window, he cautiously added. “But the Opranoci dynasty serves the city, Speaker.” 

“Yes.” The voice said. The word was spoken with a strange, faraway lightness. Jemihan wondered if the Speaker was trying to be cryptic, or if it was just the mask that made his intentions unreadable. The Speaker stepped away from the window, returning to the rows of photographs lining the office wall. Surveying the unique names under the many faces so similar to Jemihan's. 

“A legacy of brilliant men… Only ever men.” The mask inspected the latest portrait, and stopped.
“Men who serve their City with complete competence… even whilst their minds collapse.” His fingers reached out slowly, and gently touched the face in the picture. The window’s view of the Tower was reflected in the glass frame.

Hand still placed upon the portrait, the Speaker's mask turned gradually to look again at Jemihan's face. “The comparison between you and the Lightbearers is truly an accurate one.” He whispered.
Tension gripped Jemihan's body. He stood up, slowly, from his desk. “Do you have something to ask me, Speaker?” He asked, carefully.

The Speaker stood motionless, thoughts aligning and questions answering themselves in whatever depths were behind that mask. Then suddenly, the hand withdrew from the wall, and when the lipless face spoke to Jemihan again, there was a smile behind it.

“I apologize. I only came to visit one of this city's more important guardians.” Jemihan twitched at the statement as the Speaker approached the desk, his smile inside the mask an honest one. He placed the hand - the hand that had touched the portrait - reassuringly on Jemihan’s shoulder. 

“I feel safe in putting my confidence in you, Mr. Opranoci.” With delicate firmness, the hand pressed the shoulder into sinking back down into the Opranoci chair. Jemihan stared as the Speaker nodded reassuringly.

“And I hope the feeling is mutual," the voice said from inside the mask as it turned to leave. "Knowing your confidences are safe with me.”

“Everyone, reload your weapons!” The sound of metal sliding and clicking against barrels and magazines punctuated the smoke-filled air.

“Alright now,” the instructor announced, walking behind the grinning cadets, impressed at each other’s prowess and enjoying themselves.

“This time, aim your weapon slowly, with both hands - yes, even if you're holding a hand cannon! Then, when you pull the trigger back, keep your eye on the target! Piarve! Don’t close your eyes, this time! And for the Traveller’s sake: Don’t! Drop! Your gun!” He stopped next to the last Titan in the row.

“Kaoz,” He whispered, patting her on the shoulder. “You wait for my signal to retrieve your arrows from the target. No getting shot again, got it?” She nodded, embarrassed. He smiled approvingly, and stood back.

“Okay… Ready!! Aim-” Suddenly, he spotted a hulking silhouette appear through the smoke in front of them. “Wait! Hold your fire!”

The goliath that was Lord Shaxx came marching across the firing range towards them.

“Everyone, stand to attention!” The instructor called, and listened to the shouldering of iron and the shuffling of feet combined with the heavy footfalls of the old Warlord. He came to a halt, towering over the instructor. There was a pause, the horned helmet sizing up the trainees and their instructor.

“You’re training them?” He asked, finally.

“Yes, sir.” The instructor said, and then lowered his voice. “I heard that the Hunters spotted massive numbers of Fallen coming in the direction of the Last City. They said… They said it looks like they’re preparing to attack.” Lord Shaxx looked over at the assembled row of fresh-faced Guardians, searching for emotion in his helmet.

“You wanted to prepare them, just in case.” He said, just loud enough for the trainees to hear him.

“Most of them are New Lights, sir. They have to be trained regardless.” 

“Very well, then. Let us train.” Shaxx raised his head to the cadets. “How many of you have seen the Fallen before?”

Several hands were raised.

“You.” He pointed a finger at the Titan - Kaoz - at the end of the row. “What’s the biggest Fallen you’ve ever seen?”

“Gee, Shaxx, I-”

“LORD Shaxx.” He corrected.

“... Lord Shaxx.” The Titan uttered finally. “Someone in my last fireteam saw a really big Fallen. As big as a - well, she said it was as big as a house.”

“So you never saw it?”

“... n-no, sir.”

“But you have the courage to answer me as if you had?”

“... I…”

“Courage is important in war.” Shaxx said, and looked at the bow in Kaoz's hand. “So is a weapon. Let’s put them to the test.”

He strode out onto the firing range, and stood still, facing the Titan. The instructor twitched when Lord Shaxx unsheathed his enormous hand cannon, but waited for the Warlord’s intentions to become plain. 

“Listen close, New Lights!” He yelled out to the trainees. “I am a Fallen ‘as big as a house’. I am armed. I am a threat to every single one of you, and to the Last City we protect. The Titan standing next to you will stop me.” 

Kaoz looked to the instructor with eyes that wished for him to intervene.

“NOW.” Lord Shaxx insisted. Hesitantly, the Titan loaded an arrow into her bow, the others watching her with surprise and confusion. 

A thunderclap devastated the silence, followed by a piece of the ground exploding at her feet. 

“FASTER!” Shaxx cried, his hand cannon's smoking barrel aimed at Kaoz. Mind racing, the Titan wrenched the string back, hastily took aim…

… and watched as the arrow whizzed towards the Warlord’s head, missing it by only a few inches. The New Lights gasped. Shaxx hadn’t flinched.

“How disappointing.” He said ruefully. When Kaoz saw the Warlord pulling back the hammer of his weapon, still aiming in her direction, all knowledge of fighting abandoned her. She dropped her bow and turned to flee -

BANG!

The Titan screamed and fell to the ground. The trainees broke formation and rushed over to her, a Ghost materializing where she lay. 

“Out of the way! Move!” The Instructor said, pushing past them towards Kaoz. He knelt beside the body, and checked for a pulse. 

“Thank the Traveler. She’s fine, everyone.” He sighed. The Titan raised her head and sat up, the amazed Ghost checking her body thoroughly for damage. 

“You two.” The Sergeant looked at two Hunters, his voice even more stern than before. “Make sure she isn’t here when Shaxx wakes up.” He looked over his shoulder. It was too late. The Warlord’s Ghost had already dematerialized, and he watched the hulking form of its dreadful owner beginning to rise.

The instructor stood up and faced Lord Shaxx, who now really did look as tall as the biggest Fallen he’d ever seen. He gripped his service pistol, and loaded a sixth and final round into it, replacing the one that had burrowed into the Warlord’s head moments earlier.

Shaxx thundered across the firing range towards the Sergeant, his fists clenched, his weapon still in his palm. Some of the trainees took off running the second they saw the Warlord had been reawakened. Others stayed to try desperately to help Kaoz to her feet. But most stayed to watch what was going to happen next.
 
It didn’t matter. No matter how much distance they thought they’d put between themselves and Lord Shaxx, one thing was certain: when a Warlord is on the warpath, no-one is innocent, and no-one will survive. Of that, the instructor was certain.

Shaxx finished his walk of doom right in front of the instructor, towering above him, his mask burning with silent, indiscernible emotion. He peered over the instructor, observing how he’d positioned himself between his trainees and the Warlord. Then, Shaxx leaned in close, and the voice inside the helmet whispered:

“Well done, Guardian. There’s hope for these New Lights yet.”

Then, inexplicably, the form of Lord Shaxx holstered his gun, turned, and thudded out of the firing range. The trainees, too far away to have heard what Shaxx had said, would spread rumours of the kinds of threats or demands the Warlord had spoken to their instructor. But, as he watched the old Titan disappear, the instructor realized. 

Wars aren’t won, or prepared for, by being the best shot, or by having the courage to defend yourself. The courage to preserve oneself is one thing. But the courage to defend others, to protect something more vulnerable and valuable than yourself… that kind of courage is another thing entirely. Much more noble, and much more powerful. 

That is the kind of courage that defends a City at war, no matter their length or their trainees.

“... Look, I get it. You’re a Hunter, style is important, yada yada. But trust me, nobody’s gonna make you that thing.”

“Why?? Look at it! First off, the cape is ridiculous: it‘s too long, the fabric is too heavy, and white gets dirty too easily.”

“C’mon, how do you expect to sneak around if your face has more lights on it than a Dawning tree?... Yes, of course I know Exos have a ‘bright smile’ anyway, but... “

“And string on the knife handle?? What’s the string for?... ‘In case the knife falls out of the sheath?’ Seriously? And another thing, what’s with all those padded bits on the arms? You’ll look like a Titan!”

“What’s all this ‘fully integrated chest + legs + helmet mods’ nonsense? Ever heard of D.E.R? Hello?? I’m an outfitter, not some psychotic Braytech-”

“Yes, of COURSE I have the skills to make it!... I mean, sure, IN THEORY you’d survive the ‘integration’ process…”

“... How much glimmer did you say you’re willing to pay for it…?”

The Hunter raised the hand cannon, took aim, and pulled the trigger. Lord Shaxx listened to the echo of a bullet glancing off the target ring out across the firing range. Sighing, the New Light opened his gun and loaded another round into the chamber. 

“Your stance was off.” Lord Shaxx remarked, behind him. He added helpfully: “Perhaps if you held the weapon with both hands-”

“Cayde-6 didn’t use both hands.” The Hunter snapped. He flicked the gun close, levelled it with the target, and fired again. The bullet completely missed. Shaxx shook his head.

“Too much haste brings too little success, New Light.” He told the Hunter. “Don’t be discouraged. Try again.”

“I’ve been shooting this gun for the last three hours and haven’t hit the target once.” The Hunter whined, lowering the gun. “I’m bored. I’m tired. I want to stop.”

“These are common feelings for a Guardian to have.” Lord Shaxx said, patiently. “You must learn to push past them. Shoot again.”

“It’s not even my fault; it’s this gun.” The Hunter continued to moan, staring at his weapon with resentment. “It’s too heavy in the front. The grip slips in my hand. The sight is-”

Suddenly, Lord Shaxx’s gauntlet appeared out of nowhere, and closed around the barrel of the hand cannon. The weapon whipped through the air and took aim: BANG-PING! BANG-PING! BANG-PING! Three dents sat in the centre of the target board.

“The mind.” Shaxx said, pressing the gun back into the New Light’s hands. “That’s what challenges a Guardian most, not his weapon. Weapons rust, jam and break. But in your mind,” The old Warlord tapped his helmet. “Only there are your limits truly under your control. The less limited we are, the clearer we see, and the sharper we aim. Humility. Patience. Perseverance. Consider those traits, and when you’re ready… try again, Guardian.”

LOG 11 / 3

Derest is still afraid; he attempted another escape. I have tried to explain it to him. I let him observe the replication chamber and the reprogramming process. He doesn’t understand: truly intelligent endeavors are always automatically conducted on an enlightened path, having risen above such trivialities like “right” and “wrong”. 
He will understand soon. He is my dearest friend - he deserves to be the first to undergo the procedure. 
RECORDING: SIVA Mk. 2 GUARDIAN-INTEGRATION /// EXPERIMENT 1
Test Subject appears… alarmed, frustrated, demands to be released.
SIVA Mk. 2 Replication Chamber is now… unsealed. Test Subject recoils… wrestles against restraints… repeats aforestated demand.
SIVA Mk. 2 has reached the Test Subject and begun integration on arms. Test Subject has begun screaming - abortion of experiment considered? SIVA Mk. 2 integrating shoulders, neck - now underneath helmet. Screaming continues - seizing as well.
All behaviour has ceased. Experiment aborted - SIVA Mk. 2 deactivated. Experiment… failed. Test Subject… Lightless, and… deceased.
 Derest… I am so sorry.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

LOG 12/3
I finished my autopsy on Derest. The source of the failure? The test subject’s mind was overwhelmed during integration, and expired. The Nine visited me again in my dreams, and produced the solution to this dilemma - a divine helmet, reserved for me by Xur. Results should satisfy the proceeding experiment. 
No more victims of progress: this time, the test subject shall be… Machiav Ciopears. 
RECORDING: SIVA Mk. 2 GUARDIAN-INTEGRATION /// EXPERIMENT 1
Test subject is now donning the helmet - protecting the mind during integration. Test subject is… deactivating protective bodysuit’s SIVA-resistance - now vulnerable to exposure.
Test subject… I do this for science. For progress. For humanity … is unsealing, SIVA Mk. 2 Replication Chambe-
Um… that’s new. SIVA Mk.2 has… spread, and… reddened the test subject’s bodysuit? Must make a note… if the test subject survives. Hah.
Test subject’s SIVA-resistance Bond… is now experiencing integration… now… the… legs… the left torso… 
It’s fine. Helmet integrity remains uncompromised. Everything’s fi- wait. That’s… not right, tha-
DATA FILE CORRUPTED. END OF RECORDING.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Mors-7 should have waited for us.” Tey whispered, her shell twitching as they entered.
“Hunters wait for no-one.” Samson said beside her, parting the dust cloud with his fist. “Stop worrying. You said there weren’t any life signs.”
“I know, but- uah!” She’d almost floated into the cracked visor of someone’s helmet. Samson peered over the body and the restraints, and tutted.
“I guess this was ‘Derest’. But where’s the other guy?” He walked onwards, containment glass and metal splinters crunched under his boot. Suddenly, a white light shone through the dust. Tey stopped. Samson didn’t.
“It’s just Mors-7.” He smirked, as the light came closer. “Hey Mors, have you found our guy yet? Hey, you got a little something there on your chestplate-” 
BANG! BANG, BANG! 
Samson collapsed, and in seconds, Tey was out of the room, and hidden. She scanned for life signs again: none.

The last she saw of Mors-7 was a hooded, red and black creature, lurching out of the room, and away. Towards the Plaguelands.

The first raid I ever did was the Last Wish raid. I was unprepared for just how long the raid would last. The raid started at midnight in my time zone, and by the time it ended, it was 4am. I needed to be awake at 6am to get ready for school. Part of the reason the raid took so long was because our sherpa chose to teach myself and the other New Lights in the group how to host and teach the raid ourselves; so we had to master each encounter and lead the group through them, every time we did an encounter. It was very kind of the sherpa to teach us New Lights how to do the raid. The timing of his teaching was just unfortunate for me. Still, by the time the Last Wish ended, everyone was thoroughly aware that this was my first ever raid.

By the time the raid was over, I was falling asleep in front of my monitor. The Last Wish raid ends in a loot room filled with chests; each player can only select one chest to open. When the sherpa asked “Okay, has everyone opened a chest?”, I realised I hadn’t, so I had my character stumble forward and wander the loot room in a sleep-deprived drunken stupor. I paused dramatically in front of opened and unopened chests, and walked the length and breadth of the room several times. I think the sleep deprivation was making me go crazy.

Then, I chose to stop in front of one particular unopened chest. Dramatically, in my sleep-deprived drunkenness, I announced to the group: “This one calls to me”. I opened the chest. 

Now, you must understand that, as a New Light, the only Exotic weapons I’d acquired up until that moment were Fusion Rifles. I was pretty damn sick and tired of Fusion Rifles.

So, when I heard the exotic sfx go off in my headset, and I excitedly looked over to see what exotic I got, my instant reaction was to say aloud, in a really disappointed voice, to the raid voice call where the whole group was listening: “Aw man, I got a fusion rifle.”

Immediately, the sherpa, with shock and awe in his voice, asked me: “Did you just get One Thousand Voices? Did you get 1K Voices?”

And I turned my character to look at the sherpa, and once again, I said, in a disappointed tone. “Yeah, is it any good?”

I swear, half of the raid group rage quit the game and left the voice call before I’d even managed to finish my sentence. I had no idea how lucky I was to acquire a super-rare, super-powerful raid-exclusive Exotic weapon on my first ever raid. I was just unhappy that I got yet another shitty fusion rifle. I enlightened myself of the contrary relatively quickly over the following days.

So, to all of you out there trying to get One Thousand Voices… do not just fling open any of the chests in the Last Wish’s loot room, and cross your fingers in hopes of getting the Exotic. Wish Dragons feed off of desire. So, instead… silence all of your intentions to acquire the Exotic… and just listen…

If you do that, you will not need to seek out One Thousand Voices. One Thousand Voices shall seek you out. Nay, it shall call out to you, calling for you to collect it.

And so, like me, you shall.

I: KINGS

“Stories?”

“Please,” Neksis urged, gesturing with her lower arms to the wall of rusted metal. “The day was hard. It would soften our spirits.”

“Stories are for the Scribes to tell.” Her Captain grumbled, prodding at the flames in the fire pit. Neksis turned to the Eliksni, some examining the day’s haul, some tired enough to procrastinate. She finished her ration of Ether, and seated herself opposite her Captain, his attention fixed on the tongues between them. 

“What about your name?” She said after a few moments. “Tepis means ‘Seeker’, doesn’t it? Why were you given that name?” 

The Captain did not engage her, all four eyes piercing the ashes crumpling and sparking in front of him, drifting slowly higher into the night sky.

“Or is it your chosen name?” Neksis pressed on. “One you earned, perhaps, through great skill or achie-”

“I was hatched amongst scavengers.” The Captain said curtly.

“Oh.” Neksis said, and added. “Interesting.” Silence again.

“Do you want to know about my name?” She asked brightly. “There’s a good story behind it.” She spoke her words loudly, and a few of her tired crewmates listened and looked over to her. So did the Captain.

“The night must be spent somehow, I suppose.” He surrendered. 

Neksis rose and moved to the rusted wall, the firelight against her back. She raised her four arms, letting their shadows fall across it. Her crewmates left their trinkets on the grass and approached her, staring intently at the dark, four-limbed creature puppeted against the wall.

“My name is Neksis,” she announced, to those who were new and did not know it. “My name means ‘Strength of soul.” She moved her limbs and fingers, and the shadows against the parapet flittered and fell into the form of an armoured Eliksni. 

“Before my family deserted House Devil, they learned the name of a mighty Baron; one who slayed Winters, and claimed their colours as trophies. Inspired, they gave me a similar name. I never wish to take another.”

The crew nodded as they sat down, and Neksis bowed to her audience in pride. Eyes fell again upon their hunched Captain, still facing the fires. 

“Tell another.” Captain Tepis ordered, sensing their gaze. “Speak of Twilight Gap. Speak of the Whirlwind.”

“They were before my time, O wise Captain.” Neksis smiled. She turned to the crewmembers rattling their metals and minerals, so far disinterested in the night’s stories. “However,” she raised her voice again. “The legend of the Seinvordiim is made known to all the Kings’ Captains, is it not?”

More intrigued eyes peered at the Captain. His deep, heavy sigh mingled with the crackling of the firewood, but at last, Tepis rose. He scowled at grinning Neksis as he passed, taking her place by the wall; his gargantuan, muscular frame almost covering it. He was idle for a moment, golden banners in his palm, turning Seeker into Sage.

“Eliksni! Come!” He shouted behind him, the remaining Vandals and Dregs scrambling from their plunder, and sitting with the rest of their brothers and sisters.

“Seinvordiim.” 

The Captain hunched down to fill a claw with earth, and turned the wall into a canvas, smeared and splotched by the dirt… shaping a symbol they knew well. A symbol that was supposed to remember great evil, and keep it at bay.

“The Saint. Crusader. Butcher-beast. Rain-killer. Every House remembers him in their own way. Every House remembers him.” The Captain’s arms fell. “I remember him.” He said darkly, turning to his crew, the firelight dancing off the gold in his armour.  

“Beware him. If he finds you… you die. No House, no Kell, no Eliksni… nothing can stop him. Never stops. Never dies. Armour like thorns. Paws like a Niirsai beast’s. A helm without face, without soul. Gorging on death. His own Light blinds the Traveller, so it cannot save you. From him, nothing can save you…”

The story faded from Tepis’ pained voice, echoing in the gawking eyes of his crew, their curiosity now replaced with dread. The Captain stared deep into them, making certain they’d understood his warnings, and trudged back to the fire.

“Could you not have told the legend more softly?” Neksis whispered to him in passing.

“I do not know how else to share it.” He grumbled. “Perhaps a Scribe could’ve told it better.”

Tepis seated himself again, the rustling of firewood punctuating the quiet that followed. Neksis wanted for the night to be soft. The night mustn't end on such hard words. So, with a new tale in her mouth, she came forward to the wall.

“Hear me, my crew!” She exclaimed, enthusiastically thrusting her arms skywards. “Up there, amidst stars like these, the Great Machine hung over our glorious RIIS!”

“Riis?” “Riis?” Like hissing embers, the name tittered through the audience. The King’s crew drew nearer to hear Neksis, dragging eagerly at their respirators.

“Riis.” Neksis repeated, enjoying the word’s sound on her tongue. “Waters, free-flowing. Trees, tower-tall. Beautiful pastures, bountiful crops. Water flowers. Our magnificent cities, standing proud below radiant clouds and enormous ships, carried through a sky of magenta and chartreuse. And, above it all, the Great Machine, architect of every fortune and blessing. Kings and Judgement guarding a House-harmony, and centuries of Ether galore; every Eliksni a Captain.”

She paused, letting the image dance before them all, like a daydream under the stars. Then, she switched her tone.

“Believers of the King’s faith say,” she continued. “In death our souls leap into the heavens. There, they ascend to distant worlds, where the House of Silence dwells in peace. In the Long Drift to this System, we honoured their losses by leaving Sirulosk behind our Ketches; lighting their way to that faraway place of eternal rest.”

The Eliksni gazed at Neksis in fascination, and in the days that followed, every one of them adored how they incultured them; even the Captain, whose feet were by the fire, but whose hearing still told him she’d spoken like a Scribe that night. And all the nights that followed. 

None devoured her stories so ravenously like Tiraskaags; the pariah of the crew, even amongst his fellow Dregs. As the years passed, contempt and Ether cuts eventually subdued his questionings, his mildness, and through the nights of Neksis, Tiraskaags instead became a masterful listener.

When the crew slept, Tiraskaags dreamed. Dreamed and dreamed of Neksis’ Riis; relaxing on a hill of water flowers, basking under that blue and green sky, the Great Machine overhead, his lungs thronging with cool, Etherful breaths. 

Never with his own eyes had he seen what the humans called “Traveller”. And yet, so sincere were these dreams of meadows, and so cherished were these feelings in bloom upon them, that an intimacy with the old faith, as well as a strengthening purpose, was lodged within Tiraskags. A purpose that would last for all his days.

II: DUSK

“And you are?” The Baron demanded of him.

“I am Tiraskaags, a Captain of House Kings-”

“Not anymore, you aren’t.” The Baron scrunched her face at Tiraskaag’s purple garbs and headgear, freshly sown and polished for the occasion. “You look like a Captain who hasn’t seen a day’s struggle in his life. We’ll soon fix that.”

“Ah, my Baron, if I may-” Too late did he notice his manners prodding something sensitive within his new superior. The Baron’s head twisted, her claws wrenching up his furs till he dangled in the air, eyes-to-eyes with her. 

“Silence! I will not be backtalked by some soft-shelled, psakiks sack Dreg like you, understood?” The Baron spat phlegm into her respirator, and Tiraskaags nodded rapidly. “You may give your opinion to Galonisk, your new Baron of House Dusk, when and if I command it from you!” 

Not soon after, Tiraskaags was charged with the Captaining of a filthy, foul-mouthed crew of Servitor mechanics. He had assumed filth and foulness. Instead, the crew Tiraskaags oversaw were the strangest Eliksni he’d ever seen: hushed, timid, coexisting so indifferently around their new superior. Perhaps they were afraid of him, he thought. Another assumption.

“We’ve never had a Captain before.” Otramiis clarified. “We never needed one.”

Not needed? Tiraskaags was dumbfounded. How did these wire-weavers maintain such a delicate, pristine order, without a trace of competition or incompetence between them, without a Captain’s wrath enforcing it? 

Moliks, a weary Dreg from Galonisk’s pre-Dusk workforce, patiently educated Tiraskaags in the metalworker’s ways, and how to work with Servitors. Eventually, he became an equal and respected component of their fearless, tireless, machine-making mechanism. 

Sometimes Tiraskaags heard screams, but he remembered that these came only from fusing tools, not Eliksni.

To earn the interest of his crew, Tiraskaags told stories. Some were invented, but most hailed from his days under the Kings. And most of those hailed from Neksis. Otramiis and Moliks became fast friends with Tiraskaags; even in Dusk, he spoke fondly of older times, when the Great Machine was revered, and when Servitors were fashioned with reverence in kind. 

Tiraskaags was a good, silent listener, but with the encouragement of his new friends, he found his voice again, and gratefully became an even better Captain for his new crew.

In their years of service together, building, rebuilding and repairing Galonisk’s Servitors, the mechanics’ thoughts occasionally considered Archons. They fantasised about the respect, the religion, the beautiful raiment, and above all, the Ether rations. But they always tempered these thoughts by also recalling an Archon’s limelight, their celibacy, and their duties of prettying Prime Servitors and docking young Dregs. 

Such a life, they agreed, was too unbecoming and distasteful to aspire towards.

Years passed, and one day, they became leaderless: Galonisk was discovered to have rationed Ether unfairly, and had been executed as retribution. Tiraskaags would retell her tale for the rest of his life, teaching Eliksni how wretched fates await wretched doings. He told other stories too; even the ones Neksis had told. Especially those ones.

The blood of Galonisk drew in a new tyrant to replace her. And then another. And another. Tiraskaags had seen this before when Craask fell; when ambition flowed, trust ran dry. Then the infighting would start, and the looting. Crews with the most ether were always the first to get raided. 

Crews like Tiraskaags’ Servitor-making mechanics. 

With their Captain’s guidance, they rushed to cram their livelihoods into Skiffs, and flee into the safety of outer space, abandoning their home and everything else they couldn’t take with them. Cramped and crowded amidst their Servitors, drifting aimlessly through the dark abyss, the homeless crew turned to its Captain: what now, O Tiraskaags?

Tiraskaags eyed their Servitors and Ether, and considered using them as currency to buy their way into a new Baron’s service. The House of Dusk 

He opened his mandibles to reassure his crew. But then-

Europa.

Their radios crackled to life, a sudden signal creeping in from far away… 

Shipstealer.

Purpose. Unity. Hope.

Mechanics and Servitors stared at Tiraskaags, eyes brightening. Their leader simply stood still, letting the radio speak. 

Listening.

III: SALVATION

Europa’s Riis was very different, Tiraskaags discovered, to the Riis of his dreams. The Great Machine hung orange and swollen in the midst of a colourless, ship-studded sky, belighting a grotesque and empty wasteland of icy fangs and merciless frost. No meadows. No beautiful pastures, no bountiful crops.

But, upon that baneful iceball stolen from a baneful System, there was indeed a city. 

A thousand Eliksni, from Barons of Earth to Dregs of the Reef, swarmed arm-in-arm like mechanics over the limbs and armour of what was to be their new home. It felt good to be doing a mechanic’s work again, forging and fusing. Some Eliksni even immolated the Skiffs they’d arrived in; a display of faith in their unity. This bothered Otramiis, but Tiraskaags assured his friend that their ancestors, the once-claimers of a hundred worlds in the Eliksni days of greatness, would have praised them for their devotion to this place.

In those days of toil, the Kell of Salvation met with the newcomers. Veekris, Yramiis, Ekanisk. Once a Shipstealer, who then became a Baron like no other. A Devil like no other.

Eramis.

Even in the beginning, her speeches urged her subjects towards greater efforts. This place would not become a mere Fallen outpost, she told them. This was to be an Eliksni city, the first to stand since the Whirlwind, and the first of many promises House Salvation would keep. 

Tiraskaags and his metalworkers had never worked with more enthusiasm on a more formidable project: Riis, reborn.

Their monument had been treacherously stitched on top of the one that once belonged to the humans. Tiraskaags could feel his spine prickling each time he noticed the human insignia on the walls, although he forced himself to blame that on the cold piercing his old Dusk-rags. There existed worse places to call home, he reminded himself.

When the city was finished, Eramiskel clapped and cheered as the Eliksni poured in through the gates to explore their handiwork. Tiraskaags had travelled deep within its reaches, admiring it by himself, when suddenly, he stumbled upon a familiar and terrible sight. A Dreg sitting at his sibling’s back, filing down her second arms for her, and a nearby Vandal draining Ether into a canister from a Servitor. 

When the three noticed they’d been spotted, the Ether-canister vanished into the folds of cloth, their eyes wide with worry.

“What are you doing?” Tiraskaags asked, angrily. “Why are you cutting your limbs and stealing supplies? Eramiskel envisions for our House to be a place of equality for Eliksni, and evolution for our culture! Surely you can see that these old ways are no longer necessary?”

“Yes, Captain of Salvation. We do see.” The Vandal replied. “We see that the old ways are timeless as suns, and even on Europa, the rays of dawn are on the horizon. We see the value in preparing for the inevitable. You should do the same.”

“And what if you prepare for nothing?” Tiraskaags retorted. “What if this dawn you speak of never comes? You! Armless Dregs!” He pointed a claw at the siblings “In the coming times, you two will be laughingstocks! And as for you, Vandal, you will be condemned for your… Ether-avarice!”

“We shall see, O wise Captain.” The Vandal smirked, and went back to taking Ether from the Servitor. 

Sitting in his new quarters of the new city, Tiraskaags thought about the Vandal’s words. Indeed, without the common purpose of Riis’s resurrection, what was going to prevent the old Eliksni culture, with all its entrenched wrongdoings, from resurfacing under Salvation’s banner? Could Eramiskel and her allies protect their people from the ways of the past? Or would they remain, as they’d always been, as those “Fallen” out of the Great Machine’s favour?

Why did it have to be this way?

IV: SERVITOR

Tiraskaags’ claws rapped against the glass, trying desperately to fashion an artificial intelligence with the delicate, clumsy squares. A symbol - the wrong symbol - illuminated yet again before him. Praksis had insisted the device would program more precisely than the methods Tiraskaags was used to. It was a kindness that Otramiis had modified the squares so that they were halfways intelligible. Much less of a kindness was how Praksis smirked at Tiraskaags struggle with his technology. 

The young Wolf stood by Eramiskel’s side, earning the reverence of the entire House with his mastery of human technology. True, it was not unusual for the youth to revel in petty victories of status over older Eliksni, but Tiraskaags had hoped that Praksis would be less inward-eared, less eager to condescend to others.

Tiraskaags tapped the square of deletion for the third time, and at last the indignant device acknowledged his nail.

He had seen the blueprints in the Deep Stone Crypt. He’d also seen the ones made by Praksis, and learned of how he trivialised the distinction between innovation and derivation. Tiraskaags knew that when the youth fix all four eyes on humanity, on the new, they become blind to that which is old. That which is truly Eliksni. So when Eramiskel ordered for older mechanic crews to help Praksis with his latest project, Tiraskaags understood why, and accepted.

Too much pressure; his nail pierced the glass, and the device turned triumphantly to black. Tiraskaags sighed. Some were too young to learn what was old, and others were too old to learn what was young. Just like this counterintuitive contraption. He looked around to find another of the same counterintuitive contraptions to operate, but instead he found Moliks, saying that he was needed up on the viewing platform. 

The Captains of the two crews who worked alongside Tiraskaags’ own were already there. Tiraskags made ireliis before his Kel, her eyes peering out over the construction, while Praksis pointed and bragged and nattered away next to her.

“ - remain on schedule, we should be finished within the coming rotation, my Kel.” The young Wolf said.

Eramiskel nodded to Praksis, and turned to the still-bowing Captain. “You are the one they call Tiraskaags?”

Tiraskaags’ heart quaked, but he managed a nod.

“Rise.” Tiraskaags stood up, watching his Kel’s eyes looking all over him. With his lower arms, he tried discreetly to flatten out the creases in his garbs. He prayed she would not notice the ether-stains on the Salvation insignia, and as if he was heard, Eramiskel turned her head, and gestured with a long arm at the efforts that lay before the viewing platform. 

“Tell me Captain,” she asked. “What do you think of the Prime Servitor you are building?”

Tiraskaags hesitated, carefully contemplating an answer. He could find none that would be satisfying as well as sincere. He chose sincerity.

“Forgive me, my Kel,” Tiraskaags confessed, slowly. “But it is my humble opinion that, upon our completion of this machine… we will have made an inefficient Prime Servitor.” 

The other Captains turned to Tiraskaags with wide eyes, and Praksis’s face contorted with irritation. 

“How?” The young Wolf said pointedly, in a voice that meant “why?”. Tiraskaags looked to his Kel, and Eramis tilted her head, waiting for an answer.

“My crew has spent their lives making Servitors.” He elaborated. “Our last Baron even entrusted us with building her Prime Servitor. I have seen the blueprints for this Prime Servitor, and I can speak from experience when I say that they are not adequate.”

“How so?” Eramiskel asked. If she had noticed the faces that those around her were making, she gave little sign.

“To sustain the unprecedented population of House Salvation, the Prime Servitor must have an unprecedented design, I admit. But the blueprint created by Praksis exchanges too many Eliksni components for Human technologies, which I fear will have the opposite effect on ether-production efficiency that… he… intended…” 

Oh no. Eramiskel turned her head to Praksis, her friend and Tiraskaags’ superior. The friend and superior whose blueprint he had just insulted.

“Were you aware of this?” Eramiskel asked. Tiraskaags pitied the young Wolf for his sudden fascination with the flooring, to escape from admitting his error. A stifled snicker brought the Kel’s narrowed eyes darting to the other Captains. “And you? Did you know of this?”

“Yes, Eramiskel.” One of them spoke up. “We only… We… ” A glance in the direction of Praksis suddenly closed the Captain’s mandibles, and a humiliating silence descended on the mechanics. The Kell sighed, and waved a claw.

“Go. All of you.” The Captains gave twitching bows and shuffled away, casting bitter glances at Tiraskaags as they passed. Praksis scuttled off too, subtly pursuing the Captains, no doubt to reprimand them for his embarrassment. Tiraskaags turned to leave as well, when the Kel halted him with a lower arm. 

“Thank you for your thoughts on the Prime Servitor.” She told him. Eramiskel tilted her head to watch the departing young Wolf. “Praksis has become too reliant on his own genius. His oversights have cost us precious time, labour and metal.”   

“This is not the first time I’ve seen Praksis’s ambitions with Human technology outpace reality.” Tiraskaags commented, again regretting the insult he’d made about his superior. Eramiskel looked down at him with an amused smile.

“How is it that you can be so clear with me, when your co-Captains could not?” She asked.

“They fear what Praksis will think of them. I know what Praksis thinks of me. If no one will bring his faults into the light, our Salvation will suffer for it.”

“You have an impressive devotion to the quality of your craft, and your character, Tiraskaags.”

“Thank you, my Kel.” Tiraskaags said. There was a pause, as Eramiskel took another look out from the viewing platform, at the Eliksni mechanics, so dedicated to finishing their inefficient Prime Servitor by Praksis’s deadline. 

“Could you improve on Praksis’s design?” She asked, suddenly. A startled Tiraskaags hastily tried to do his best at intuiting the changes he’d need to make, based on his experience with his last Prime Servitor… 

“I believe so.” He said at last. “The alterations will take time, but I have faith that the Prime Servitor we create will produce more ether than any before it.”

“... You will have whatever you need. The other Captains and their crews will come under your command, and Praksis will be reassigned to a different project. However,” the Kel stopped. Her form suddenly seemed much larger than before, and Tiraskaags saw her eyes narrow. 

“If I give you full control over our Prime Servitor’s construction, then I place a vital piece of our House’s survival in your claws. I have known you for mere moments, Tiraskaags. Other than your word, what proof do I have that you are worthy of this responsibility?”

There was another pause, as Tiraskaags thought. The whir and buzz of machinery, the chattering of mechanics exchanging instructions, and the scolding tones of Praksis filled the silence between himself and his Kel.

“I know that I am not worthy, my Kel.” Tiraskaags said, finally. He looked upon the metal shape beyond the viewing platform. “The making of the Prime Servitor for our great House is an honour neither I nor my crew deserve. We came to Europa, like so many other Eliksni from every corner of this System, dreaming of Salvation. I dreamt of a House where the ether flowed, as I heard it once did on Riis. I dreamt of a House where our people would never need to fight for their ether. I dreamt of a House, where there would be no more fighting at all…” 

Tiraskaags turned his head, and looked up into the eyes of his Kel. 

“A House where I could trust the word of an Eliksni, just as I know that my Kels, my Barons, my Captains and my crew have been able to trust in mine. By the Great Machine’s grace, I believe I have found a House where such things are possible. All that is left is for us to make it so.”

Eramiskel took a hard stare at Tiraskaags, her face a suppressed mixture of surprise, irritation and admiration. It was only then that she noticed how the noise of machinery clanging and mechanics talking had lessened slightly. When the Kel looked up from the Captain, and out to the construction below, did she notice how almost a quarter of all the Eliksni had stopped working, and were looking at her on the viewing platform. 

No. Not at her. At Tiraskaags. These were his crewmates, she realised. And though they made up only a quarter of the workforce, the room was indeed far quieter now that they weren’t working. In their eyes, the Kel could see the loyalty each of the Eliksni had for their Captain. The same loyalty that Tiraskaags had, looking up at Eramiskel.

“Begin the changes to the design, at once.” She said to Tiraskaags. “Your work will be inspected after each rotation.”

“I am utterly grateful, my Kel.” Tiraskaags said, bowing again.

“Be grateful after you finish the Prime Servitor.” Eramiskel said, and turned to leave. As she stepped down and away from the viewing platform, she halted, and looked over her shoulder.

“You sound like a rare Eliksni, Tiraskaags. If you can prove that you are everything you claim to be, then I shall ensure you have a much more important role in my House.” The doors to the room whirred open as Eramiskel turned her head and walked away.