buckshot_bruiser

Even after all this time the Sun never says to the Earth, "You owe me." sunsinger | human | seven seraphs #solarchorale {hover above}

[solarchorale]

grimoire: luther; besiegement

Five minutes in and out. That's the average response time for the Siege Dancers after popping an alarm -- which, Ghost sheepishly murmurs, we've just done. Serves him right. There's no point in keeping silent, now, so I stow the suppressed marksman-- sorry, scout's rifle (far as I can tell, the main thing that Collapsed between me dying and coming back was the standardization of combined arms) in favor of an auto-rifle. He pulls up the schematics ripped from a console, and we figure the quickest way to the core's through a ventilation shaft. 

Good architecture, but terrible metal -- a superheated kick is all it takes to bash in some of the corroded steel protecting the way in. For Cabal, these vents probably seem claustrophobic, close. For a scrawny human, they're roomy as an aircraft carrier. The klaxon’s screams echo through the ven, but I keep moving, tuning out Zavala just the same as the alarm.

Ghost can't hold a gun, so I call the shots. This sort of heat-scanner is banned in the City, gotta get it from some of the kookier hunters or hope that the Nine's Agent is feeling up to wheel and deal. It is, as the Speaker has writ, inimical to the Light.

But what the Light don't know ain't gonna hurt it.

Warlocks like to play up the craft as crafting from the Abyss the means to Light. Horseshit. All I do is take the slightest, tiniest speak of the Sun, and move it somewhere else. The distorted screams of Cabal bounce around their hastily-built fortifications. 

Used to think these guys shit themselves when they died. It was almost humanizing. Then some sapper told me it's some sort of oil that powers their armor. I preferred to think of it as shit. Some soldiers will like to tell you they’re all hard professionals, but at least on the inside, they’re just kids with guns. Wanna imagine that rhino-men are the same.

But the Sun don't care about armor. I miss, but the fusion reaction superheats his riot shield and he drops it, and I guess he would've sworn in pain but he's too busy getting shot in the face.

Lots of Warlocks talk a big game about what truth is and how Light is the pen to draw out the truths of the Golden ages. Here's my Truth: a man-portable missile launcher that true-seeks aimed targets. I offer Kant's theory of truth (agreement of cognition with its object) to a cluster of Psions unfortunate enough to come charging out of the same side-tunnel and Hegel's definition of truth (an external, self-moving object, though admittedly one that doesn't detonate on impact) to a Colossus trying to draw down a bead on me, and break for Socrates as I shove two more missiles down the tube. 

[solarchorale]

    “Solar, Void, and Arc --” and with her intonation, miniscule totems of each flickered into life on her fingertips -- a tiny flame, a miniscule shock, and a self-sustaining yawn of Void -- “and yet these are the knowable things. But not Light. Or Darkness. I have yet to see someone who can harness those.”

[glasshunter-blog1]

Of Talk and Peace (closed Rp)

[solarchorale]

glasshunter:

Few people even made the effort to talk to her nowadays. How long has it last been since she spoke? A few weeks, maybe more? She hadn’t even bother responding to Cayde-6 when he told her to “Smile.” She was sorely tempted to simply ignore her until she inevitably went away and yet, she found herself speaking before the rest of her mind caught up, her voice dry and harsh from under-use. 

‘I have nothing you’ll want.’

Vin looked up then, from her book with her thumb on the page, to keep it from moving, her eyes as cold as the unrelenting void she drew on. She could practically feel the light, warmth emitting from this women. And with it, bringing far to many memories. 

She looked back down on her book, her eyes skimming the pages.

   “You’re not listening.” But they never did. That was fine. She could respect it. But no soldier was an army, and no gun a platoon -- bottling up whatever bad scene was in this Vex-touched woman’s head was only going to lead to it pop out and erupt at the worst time possible. Ideally ,Luther could defuse it, deflate it. 

   And perhaps more realistically, she could deal with it if the situation was that grim.

   “We’re going to the target range. You can come, or I can carry you.” Some Warlocks opted to use what hinted arcane secrets of the universe they knew to burrow deeper into that queer intersection of intellect and madness -- Luther opted to put it into practical levitation and telekinesis. “Or I can sit here and recite every. Single. Word. Of that book, over your shoulder until you shoot me. So, for gettin’ me outta your hair? I vote for option A.”

[12graphics]

[solarchorale]

  “Not particularly enthused to hear the faction pitches. Hardly two months back on the Tower and they’re back to squabbling over turf. What even is Dead Orbit's pitch now? ‘Look, I know the Traveler just woke up and it's a new age of miracles or whatever, but have you considered: fuck that!’?”

[solarchorale]

   “Who took. My Regime. Out of the vaults. How long did I spend stuck out in the boonies, Lightless and subsisting on pistol ammo and rats, thinking about my beautiful gun. That is my gun, and I will tear this f---ing Tower apart faster than the Cabal if I do not get it back soon.”

[glasshunter-blog1]

Of Talk and Peace (closed Rp)

[solarchorale]

glasshunter:

Occasionally, she despised Cayde-6. There were many reasons to of course, he was a man who delighted in tormenting others, embarrassing them, and was rarely serious. It wasn’t for these reasons why she hated him however.

“Go, relax, have fun. No more missions until you smile at least once.”

Every instinct in her body wanted her to rip off his horn and shove it down his throat but she resisted the natural urge. She hated Shore time. To much of a chance for thoughts, memories. She knew Cayde was good to his word, and he would know. He seemed to always know.

With a disgruntled sigh she slipped to the back of the courtyard, a quite place where few would be at, and few would bother her as she found a spot to lean against one of the few trees, overlooking both the edge, and the fish dancing in the pond. 

Opening up her book she began to read, oblivious to the world around her. Better to drown in fiction then to remember after all.

Anything but remembering. 

   C-Six took her money, sometimes. Nothing to be ashamed of -- far as Luther knew, gambling wasn’t illegal, and it was frustratingly easy for an Exo to bluff. So when he made the offer in return for wiping out 2k Glimmer in debt, she figured she’d at least give it a shot. That was, of course, before skimming through the archival Cryptarch reports for any helpful hints. 

   “Go cheer up our girl out of time,” he’d said. “You get along with Eris, just fine, I think y’gotta mind for the hard cases!” 

   They agreed with those of the Hidden (the ones she could access, any-way), unfortunately, specifically advising against it. Something to the tune of ‘let her (our girl out of time) seek out others.’ Frankly, Luther had a caustic opinion about this sort of lone-wolf Guardian -- they would... sort themselves out, one way or another. Military life wasn’t for everyone, and despite what speeches the Speaker might like to give about Guardian and civilian working hand in hand in the Traveler’s Light, they were an army, and Take-Your-Pick of Fallen/Vex/Hive/Cabal were the enemy. 

   You get with the pack or you wither on the vine. Still, that didn’t give a plan of attack, so Paige was left with the old stand-by: walking on up and challenging that classic Hunter pride. Garbed in casual athletic gear, and almost lazily draped in her ‘Lock robe and bond (if only to avoid an argument with some of the more avid scholars regarding formality), she alighted in the spokes of the tree our girl out of time found shelter in, glanced down at her book.

 “I hear a big game about that rifle of yours. Howsabout a friendly wager at the gun range?”

[solarchorale]

   could i perhaps interest anyone in a starter from this angry sun of a gun.

[solarchorale]

denintinn:

There’s too much shouting, too much noise around her. One person is speaking, this woman is speaking to her, but there are three, maybe four, voices all chiming in over her. They are scared, shouting that they don’t want to die, shouting that she’s killing them. It makes her world swim, but she tries to keep from spiralling into a panic. She can’t, not right now. Not when Galena is so weak, barely able to float.

“It’s––it’s not just me?” She’s shocked by this, but also… a little relieved. A part of her had wondered if she had done something, if her darkness coming back had angered the Traveler, even in its dormant state. Silly, but her mind tries to make connections where there are none. “I was with a fireteam. We had a ship. I might be able to find it again, but it’s… it’s a bit of a walk. And I don’t… I don’t know where the others went…”

   “Negative. Seems like it’s something going bad across Venus. Wish I knew what.” She could still feel the sun, hotter than normal thanks to the planet’s proximity, so it wasn’t that. Glancing up at the sky was worthless -- wasn’t as though she could check up on Earth and the Traveler from here.

   “Either way, we’re better off in the air than on foot. Ships have a better beacon than the one I rigged.” And I’ll gladly let them go uncomfortable in Venusian fauna when this problem’s much bigger than the two of us. Right -- woman didn’t seem too stable. That was fine, not every Guardian was forged in the military before being raised. “I’m Luther. Stick with me, soldier. What’s your name?”

[solarchorale]

denintinn:

@solarchorale liked for a starter

“What’s happening!?” Senua is panicking, and desperately seeking answers from the first Guardian she encounters. Her Ghost is weak, and so is she, and there’s the added pain to accompany it. She hadn’t been in the City when the Cabal struck, so she has little idea as to why this is happening. Her fear is that her curse, her darkness, is coming back to take her in this life too, only it seems to be trying to take her poor Ghost as well.

Stumbling into the makeshift outpost, tired and still covered in her warpaint, she doesn’t know what to do, or what to think. The voices are all shouting around her; they feel her pain and exhaustion too, and they’re split between belittling her and encouraging her. “Galena just… fell, and I’m in so much pain. I haven’t been able to get into contact with anyone…”

   No sun complains about its death.

   Right, Luther wasn’t feeling too good either. With a foul buzzing deep in her belly, the soldier had found herself crumpled against an old Venusian billboard, and vaguely recollected that she’d fallen off her Sparrow. The Ghost, when she could get a response from it, was dull, dim, and the Sunsong caught in her throat. Figuring that a distress beacon would be heard quickly, Paige opted to barricade herself in to an old gas station, and wait. 

   There was no rescue, as of four hours in. She’d met the exhausted woman with a half-drawn hand-cannon, the Joyeuse heavy slung across her back. Stowed it. The field-weave, overtaxed though it was, was able to recognize Senua as a fellow Guardian, if little else. Voices -- concerning, but irrelevant. If this Bad Thing had spread, then it wasn’t local to Venus. “Alright, soldier. I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s not just you. Something’s gone wrong with the --” she hated to say it, “--the Light. We need to find a ship quick as we can, evac. We’ll get to a fallback point, regroup, figure out why I can’t call down sunflares anymore.”

[solarchorale]

LUTHER, PAIGE F. 687-12-04322 RH POSITIVE NO PREFERENCE

bridge_burner || sun_singer || seven_seraph        even after all this time, the sun never says to the earth: [you owe me.] destiny oc. 18+, nsfw tagged.     home | ask | about | stats | ooc | opens

[solarchorale]

kissmyhelmet:

Tali’s eyes refuse to move, barely allowing herself to blink until the hand raises fully. She gives a nod and waves to the others,

           “ Weapons down. “

There’s only a momentary resistance to her command, before her squad mates lower their weapons with no small amount of unease. She’s…speaking, and her translator catches some of it - but not enough. A foreign dialect maybe ?

The Translator is scrambling to make sense of the data, and she jumps to the omni, the orange screen flickering to life as she tries to make sense of what she’s hearing, and more importantly the small drone.

“ This dialect makes no sense to me. “ She confesses, defeat in her voice as she turns instead to the small floating piece of geometry, noticing her squadmates watching it with wary eyes.. She can’t blame them - she’s never seen technology even remotely close to that, even her drones are a prismatic holo based on a combination of omnitech and eezo. How is it even floating? Cursory scans show strange energy readings, nothing she’s seen before.

The Quarian returns her attention to the woman, eyes pinching in frustration before she takes half a step back and gestures.

           “ You probably can’t understand a word I’m saying,               but follow me. I’ll take you to camp and we’ll               get this sorted out. “ 

   Tali isn’t wrong -- Luther doesn’t catch a word of that language. Universal translators don’t exist in the -- when? Where?-- she’s from, with English, Russian, and Mandarin as a triage of lingua franca. 

   “We’ve definitely slid through time -- and space,” pipes up her Ghost, hopefully quiet enough to avoid recording by the unpleasant guide. “This isn’t Earth or Luna. Judging from the placement of stars, we’re several systems away from Sol. And I don’t recognize that language at all.” A grunt is the only response it receives, Luther’s gaze beadily focused on her closest guard. “Stay out, Ghost. I don’t think they’ll like you makin’ any sudden moves.”

   The suits seem suited to deal with non-natural biomes -- says to her, this is a spacefaring race. Difference in suit composition suggests a sense of culture -- so, either organic or advanced artificial intelligence.  “One plus one is two,” she tries, “one times one is one. E equals mc squared.” This, of course, assumes an Earth-like planet of origin, and a base-ten system of mathematics, which she can’t be sure about. But there’s no better way to try. “A B C, D E F. My name is Paige Luther, Tower callsign Bridge Burner, former Lieutenant Colonel, trans-American Air Force, 687-12-04322.” 

[demonio-dos-pampas-blog]

[solarchorale]

   “No light, no problem. Can still set traps; can still pull a trigger. Some of us prepare,” and here, the glimmer-modulator worked into Luther’s hastily reinforced fieldwave spat out an old-time hand-grenade, “and some of us adapt.”

[dystopian-reality]

[solarchorale]

grimoire -- the taken: luther

You are a Guardian. Pilot, soldier, seeker of the truth. When you wrench your lips apart and howl defiance, the sun itself roars with you.

You have been taken.

Let the flame dim, for now, allow it to flicker. There is as much beauty in the roaring flame as the dull ember. That ember will beat as your heart.

Why do you continue? To what end do you raise dead bones to arms?

You were a firebrand, even before your first death. Railing against falsehoods, true or perceived, and damning your commanders and scientists that denied you the complete picture behind the Voidwalker project. When they refused, you still followed orders. That good little soldier died centuries ago, backstabbed by false friends. Why, then, do you continue the charade? 

You allow your commanders to bumble -- traitorous, or worse, incompetent. They know Rasputin’s threat, his potential, yet cower from him like children from a cruel father. From now on, you shall have no more commanders. You shall be your own, new spark -- the fire that takes.

There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [no more questions]. Pick it up.

Take the knife. Let it be your answer. Take your new shape.

[solarchorale]

' oh. [REDACTED] is nearby somewhere if that's who you came to see? ' /this is the rose jsyk

      “Mm. Wouldn’t say I’m looking for them. Just need to        let someone know I’ve cleared out the Kings. ” 

The mountains of Palamon are cold comfort, barriers of paperin comparison to the walls of the City. Fallen can still sneak closeunder cover of tree-and-rock, so the long-dead soldier keeps one eye on the horizon, just-in-case. 

        “Where’s your stem, little Rose? [REDACTED] and you         apart’s like a pistol without a trigger.”