Times are changing. The hands of fate turn. Allies rise from unexpected sources, while enemies are revealed from within our own ranks. Plots thicken, intrigue abounds, and deep beneath the surface of Venus, something stirs…
Destcember is a drawing and writing challenge based on the Destiny universe. This year fortune has laid before you 31 prompts (one for each day of December), but remember: Guardians make their own fate. Take inspiration wherever you find it- and at whatever pace you see fit. Write about original or cannon characters, do prompts out of order, even skip them- just be sure to have fun!
Please keep your entries Safe For Work, use the #destcember2021 tag, and leave a prompt number.
Be Brave!
Destcember 2021 prompt list:
1) Ghost Stories
2) Trials
3) O Captain, My Captain
4) As The Crow Flies
5) Wrath
6) Bending and Breaking
7) Trajectory
8) On the Road
9) Mess with the Best
10) I of the Storm
11) Lost and Found
12) Which Witch?
13) Pyramid Scheme
14) Formal Attire
15) Titan Fall
16) Worthy
17) Did You Hear That?
18) Cracked Glass
19) Run!
20) Sleepless
21) Do Not Touch
22) The Masks We Wear
23) Caught
24) Two Birds, One Stone
25) Daydreams
26) Pacifist
27) What If?
28) Gilded Cage
29) Antique Hardware
30) Quarantine Zone
31) Snow Day
The world only seems to get more complicated these days. As Darkness looms on our horizon, we find ourselves asking questions: What do we fight for? Who is our real enemy here? What does this all mean?
One thing remains clear, even as the paradigms shift before our eyes: our fate lies among the stars.
Destcember is a drawing and writing challenge based on the Destiny universe. This year the stars have revealed 31 prompts (one for each day of December) but remember: we write our own maps. Take inspiration wherever you find it- and at whatever pace you see fit. Write about original or cannon characters, do prompts out of order, skip them where you don’t see that spark- just be sure to have fun!
Please use the #destcember2022 tag and leave a prompt number.
(Now that searching tags functions properly,) thank you to everyone who participated in this year’s Destcember! It was an honor to see all of the creative directions people went with the prompts. Feel free to continue to use them however you wish into 2022 and beyond!
It was not a good place to die. The sandy gorge held very little underbrush for cover. The ground was mostly sharp rock and sand. It was an ugly place, made uglier by the scattering of Fallen corpses and the burned patches left by Scorch Cannons and Jaren’s Solar Light. The weather was alright at least, not too hot. The clouds above cast slowly-rolling dapples of light and shadow over the gorge. The air was filled with battle-dust, gunsmoke and ether and kicked-up dirt. It turned the sun’s rays into almost-tangible shafts of light. The battleground was silent, save for the wheezing gasps of the dying human.
There is commotion in the square. A child comes to warn Efrideet, babbling something about a stranger and a ship. This is a hidden place, a secret community, so a jumpship nearby is cause for concern. A stranger suddenly appearing is cause for panic. Nobody should know that they are here.
So Efrideet puts on her helmet, dons her cape, and then after a long second of consideration, opens the chest by the door and takes out a handgun. She hooks its holster onto the back of her belt, where her cloak will hide it, then locks the chest and steps out of the door, Ghost trailing in her wake.
The stars are brilliant tonight, like every night. The air is cool. The internal lights show the time to be early evening. Efrideet walks with purpose, feeling protectiveness bring aggression back into her bones. She will not let an interloper disturb the peace here. They’ve worked so hard to make this dream a reality, she will protect it with death if she needs to.
She dearly, dearly does not want that need. But the Iron in her bones refuses to bend.
Part of Zana hopes that no one’s home. That the door will stay shut and locked. That she’ll be left to go sleep another restless night on her ship. Her hand hovers above the midnight blue door, hesitation stalling her movements.
She takes a deep breath in, then out, and knocks on the door. Three short raps that seem to echo in the dead silence of the Tower halls.
The Warlock in question leans back and wipes the sweat from his brow. He has taken up masonry duty today, using Solar light to cut stone blocks of mountain stone to his Ghost’s specifications. It is hot work. The blocks, once completed, would be transported directly to the Wall, where they were set and secured into place. The stream of ferriers had died almost an hour ago- clearly work had been called off for the day. The sun is beginning to set into a notch in the mountains. Working in the dark would be to invite a Fallen attack.
Osiris has continued working anyway. There is a pile of stone next to him, stacked neat and waiting. Osiris straightens his back, feeling his aching muscles and the sweat salt crusted into his hair, and admits that maybe he has been pushing himself a bit too far.
If there was one thing that was really bugging him, it was the dripping.
The Fallen used state-of-the-art tech in their holding cells, it seemed. Cayde had hoped on his way in here that he might be left in a physical prison- something with bars he could transmat through, or at least a lock and latch he could take a Solar knife against. But nooooo, they had to shove him in a solid rock crevice and put up an external forcefield over the exit.
So they could make barriers that could turn bullets and knives (not that he had any true weapons on him- the small metal shiv he’d scrounged up was worthless for this), even Solar discharges, but they couldn’t stop the groundwater from leaking through the ceiling.
July 03, 2954, 18:20; Ikora’s Library, The Last City, Earth
Ikora had to admit, Eris sleeping was oddly adorable. The lights of her eyes dimmed behind their wrappings. Her head rested on her folded arms. She looked like a cat curled up, limbs tucked neatly underneath her.
A bit of a combo day! Would've been longer but idk how much further to go SO -
In addition, working from this post, suggesting that Drifter's sensation processing is Messed Up.
--
12/21 + 12/22 - Do Not Touch + The Masks We Wear
His skin’s trying to peel itself off again. One of those days. Not literally, of course - if it were literal he’d need actual help for once - but layers of clothes reduce the sensation to a distant itch. Easier to tune out to run the game. Easier to focus on what’s real: he’s the Drifter, he’s in the Tower and running Gambit.
Well - it’s real enough, at least.
The layering trick works through most of the day, and for a while Drifter’s easy. The itch settles to ignorable levels right up until he sees her - a new her, making his heart race in a nicer way each time he sees her, makes him go a little soft with her cut at the end of a Gambit she’s in.
(As soon as Eris told him she’d put together that crazy Hive rocket launcher he made sure she got the enhancement for it. The way her eyes lit up made his skin go cold but it had felt good -)
Drifter notices Zaya signing subtly to him after he’s announced the enemy, making his pre-game commentary (he’s hungry, what can he say - honestly, he’s always hungry -) when he spots the motion of her hand. He cocks his head trying to remember what the shape was supposed to mean before firing the transmat. His Ghost leaves her pocket as he settles in to watch the match.
“...she was asking if you were all right,” she says, though Drifter doesn’t look at her. He’s surprised he’s thinking of the Ghost as a ‘her’ now, but it makes sense to him. Considering. “I think Zaya can guess when you’re having a spell; you were moving more stiffly than usual.”
“What she doesn’t know about, she can’t tell,” Drifter argues, making sure the mic to the teams was off.
“She can probably guess it anyway.”
“Will you shut up already?”
The peeling sensation snaps over his back despite his layers, making Drifter grimace as he rolls his shoulders to try and ease it off. He forces his attention back to the game - keeping a close eye on Zaya even though she outright melts the combatants he throws at both teams. At least until she overextends and she falls. Sure her own Ghost gets her back up at the entry point for the arena, but Drifter feels a panic in his chest - a surge of too much heat that makes the peeling sensation suddenly reverse. Now it’s too much, too many layers that are suddenly stifling. He can keep his calm for the game, though: stands from his perch, rapidly shedding coat and belts and shirts as the heat and the peeling make him sweat. The open air of the Derelict is supposed to be cold, supposed to balance the heat when his body rebels like this. But it’s still too much.
It has to be enough. He’s got to finish the game - for her sake, at least. Zaya didn’t do Gambit only to watch him be a grinning asshole.
The game finishes and Drifter transmats out the prizes before retreating to his quarters - making sure the teams are brought up to the Derelict so they can either leave for their own ships or ride to the Tower. He’s still too hot, though the peeling has shifted into a pulsing set of knots on his shoulders and down his back. Drifter drags a chair to the nearest chunk of ice to press his back to - sighing low as the knots come undone, the burning feeling eases off. For a few long minutes, he feels something that most other Risen might call “normal”. No pain, no fucked-up sensations. Drifter even reckons he might get a bit of rest for once -
Two things happen. The cold is suddenly too much - teeth suddenly chattering as his skin locked like ice, as his knees felt like they might splinter. Drifter forces himself to his feet to get away from the ice, just as he hears someone tap on the nearest wall.
Fuck, not now, not fucking now -
“Later!” he barks towards the sound. Now his back is knotted, shoulders locked from the cold. Even if it’s no longer real cold, just the feeling of cold. Too familiar to ignore. Drifter grabs for a shirt, sweater, anything to start layering again so the cold will stop. The stiffness in his joints, though, slow him down as he tries to rummage, tries to get his barriers in place to keep the crackling cold from driving him into something really stupid. But he’s too slow, compared to her. The only person that could have elected to come back to his room -
An electric shock strikes him. It’s in the shape of her hand, right in the small of his back. Drifter doesn’t manage to stifle the gasp of agony that immediately ratchets into his head. Instinct takes over, even if Trust isn’t in reach - for the best, outside the instant - as Drifter recoils, a fist swinging around. Zaya slaps his strike away, which gives him the opening to lunge away from her. Hands close around a blanket - itchy, hot-feeling - and Drifter gets it over his shoulders as he gasps through clenched teeth.
“Don’t - don’t fucking -” he snarls as the initial panic and ache finally begin to abate to a more normal level. Well, normal for him, at least. Drifter closes his eyes, to not see Zaya’s expression, and pulls the blanket around himself more tightly. “...don’t touch me. ‘M sorry, but…don’t.”
Vulnerable, too exposed, idiot, why did you ever take off your fucking clothes…
He manages a deep breath to shake off the last of the shock, finally opens his eyes. It’s Zaya, all right: diamond eyes full of worry as she crouches in front of him, both hands recoiled back into her chest. Of course she’d want to touch him, to check on him. Zaya doesn’t talk enough to actually ask questions, and with her hearing problem there was no way Drifter would be able to say anything to dissuade her. Once she sees his gaze, Drifter sees her actually smile at him, watches her get up and collect one of his shirts. Brings it back, to be within his reach. He snatches it carefully, making sure his fingers don’t brush hers. She moves away as he lowers his blanket enough to get the shirt on, followed by the blanket going back around his shoulders.
Zaya’s hands relax as he calms, and Drifter sees her fingers begin to shift through motions she uses for words. For a moment he’s terrified she expects him to already know - he’s barely had enough lessons to even recognize her letters, let alone full sentences - but her Ghost emerges to interpret.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you; I was worried,” she apologizes as she settles on the floor across from him. A safe distance. Not in reach. “You sounded like you were in pain.”
“Yeah, well…I was.”
“And you don’t want help with that?”
“Nothin’ anybody can do, sister. Comes from experience.”
Zaya makes a sharp motion that reminds Drifter of some anatomy that didn’t need any translation. It gets a laugh out of him. His laugh makes her smile.
Andal took a deep breath in and let it out in a sigh. He rubbed the bleariness from his eyes and picked the data pad back up.
“Dude,” Azra said. “You need a nap.”
He looked up at her. His vision took a second too long to focus. She had been keeping a companionable silence with Andal, cleaning her sidearm on the dining table and carefully keeping the oily pieces away from Andal’s paperwork.
“I need to finish organizing these reports,” Andal said.
“There are bags under your eyes,” the Arcstrider pointed out judgmentally.
The first thought in her head was It’s going to rain tomorrow.
She opens her eyes, looks up at the wispy clouds partially obscuring the stars, and just knows. This evaluation of the sky, of the temperature and humidity of the wind on her skin, it feels as natural as breathing.
The sound of waves crashing reaches her. She wants to look around, to see where she is, so she sits up. It just kind of happens. She wants to be upright and then suddenly she is moving her arms, arching her back, and then she is no longer laying down. Her body knows what to do, even though her mind reels from a lack of… anything.
She has been trapped there for far too long. She has defeated Atheon; the victory is enough to quell her worries. And the horror looms too close. She needs distance. So she spends her time trying to distract herself, reacquaint herself with the real world.
Then, after Crota, her anxiety wins over. She takes Veera and she goes back, down the twisting hallways, across the looming caverns, and she finds nothing but dripping water and dead stone. No Praedyth. But no Vex, either.
She sets up a cache in the Waking Ruins for the wayward Warlock, and for a while, that is what she checks up on. She restocks it compulsively and tests the battery and the seals, always with a wary eye turned towards the spire and the Vault’s door.
But the Vault is inactive. The glass isn’t just cracked, it’s shattered.
December 02, 3953; The Citadel, Ishtar Sink, Venus
Azra hissed and tugged on Tevis’s cape. Time distorted, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. Tevis looked back, saw her wide eyes, then looked to where Quantis was peeking around the next corner several meters ahead.
It went unspoken, as it usually did. He shoved Azra forward and took several urgent paces back, casting about.
Azra leapt forward as fast as she dared. Quantis was still checking the sightlines. Any footsteps loud enough to alert the young Nightstalker would also alert the Vex, so Quantis whirled in surprise when Azra grabbed her bicep and physically pulled her back. She knew better than to gasp, at least, and followed Azra with haste.
Tevis gestured from a larger-than-average gap in the wall. It would have to do. Azra’s skin prickled, another warning. She practically shoved Quantis into the alcove and stuffed herself in after. She swept the tail of her cloak out of the way just in time.
A second later, space hiccupped, and there were heavy metal steps on the ground. There had been no time to cast invisibility. Azra froze stock-still as the footfalls approached. Tevis jerked a thumb across his throat. Azra held her breath, counting heartbeats, as the Hobgoblin lumbered by. Beside her, Quantis Rhee was similarly frozen.
Its footsteps faded and Tevis rose smoothly from his crouch. He put a finger to his lips, then spread his hands palms-down in the air before him, reminding them for silence. They’d come very close to alerting the Vex.
He pointed at himself, then Azra, then Quantis, dragged the curled fingers of one hand over the back of the other, tapped his left middle and index fingers on his right, made a circling motion with a raised index finger, twisted his hand into a signed R and shook it.
Me, then Azra, then Quantis, slowly, knives only, ready?
Azra nodded. She was the Vex detection system. That had only been a close call because Quantis had gotten too far ahead. The young Nightstalker knew it too- she signed an apology, which Tevis dismissed with a wave. Time enough for that later.
Azra pulled her dagger and waited until she felt Quantis’s grip on her cloak before she motioned the okay to Tevis.
Content Warning: internalized lgbt+ phobia. (That is the hurt. There is comfort.)
October 28, 2873; Crew’s Camp, Obitochna Kosa, Old Russia, Earth
Andal rolled his shoulders as he pushed his way through the underbrush. Tevis had been bugging him about it, and perhaps they should move camp soon. During the daytime it was pleasant, but the night could be deceptively chilly. Andal chided himself for not bringing gloves and worked his cold fingers to keep them limber. He was certainly ready for the warmth promised by the orange glow of the campfire before him.
He entered the clearing and took a second to shake the leaves from his cloak and take in the Camp. Azra was the only one present, hunched over her knees and staring into the fire. She glanced up at him as he made his way over, and-
Andal did not like that expression on her face. Something was wrong. Her eyes reflected the firelight too brightly. She turned her head away and let out a sniffle and Andal realized that she’d been crying.
The Night of April 21, 2871; Twilight Gap, The Last City, Earth
The first time Shaxx died, it was to a Baron of House Kings.
The Baron’s name was Pyrrkis. Shaxx had never heard of them before. Later, he asked his Ghost to remember the name, because nobody else would. Pyrrkis had only a few moments to celebrate their victory over Lord Shaxx before Lord Shaxx rose again and took their head off with an electrified fist.
The second time Shaxx died, it was to a long-range Tracer Shank.
May 01, 2872; Tower Concourse, The Last City, Earth
“Heard Alaia Ruse is making you go to that Vanguard shindig,” Andal said.
Azra fidgeted. “Yeah,” she said. “Not really looking forward to it. Seems like…”
“A waste of everyone’s time?” Tevis led. “That it is.”
“Ah, but it’s an important networking event,” Andal said, parodying sincerity. “It lets all of the important people meet and talk about all of the important things they could be doing if they weren’t at that party.”
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