#lady perun

[nearfromfar]

Grief walks with me like an old friend now.

Based on the Rise of Iron lore tab, Ghost Fragment: Mysteries 3. Lord Saladin's old friends are with him, even if he doesn't know it.

[reaped-winnower]

I want more info on the iron lords bungie! Gimme gimme!

[titanharem]

Lord Radegast was so nice and openly affectionate with his friends, that his friends had confused discussions based around "is Radegast flirting with all of us, or is he just unbelievably kind and open"

Skorri and Perun were extremely confused because they were dating each other.

Jolder was extremely confused because she wasn't exactly "quietly lesbian."

Gheleon was confused because he's the resident himbo.

Everyone else was just varying amounts of confused because Radegast was either flirting, or he's just naturally touchy and nice to his friends

[dawnblade-ryzech]

"We didn't choose to become Light bearers. But we do choose to be Guardians." —Lady Perun

[themothyards]

She liked to pick berries in the summertime, when the days had just begun to grow shorter and the nights were still warm and buzzing with insects. She would pile them in one of Gheleon’s woven baskets, or wrap them in the cloth of her cloak if she stopped unplanned in the thick brambles that wound ‘round the collapsed pillars of the city.

Once, she pricked a finger, and the thrill of the pain brought a flush to her cheeks, but she told her Ghost to leave the wound and instead she watched the crimson bead and swell and drip and disappear into the soil, dark and rich, from which the brambles sprang.

“You’re like a child,” Perun told her long ago, a smile on her face, as she crouched and filled her cupped hands with heavy fruit. A joke, because neither of them have ever known what it is to be young.

Perun marches beside her now, cloak drawn tight against the wind and blowing snow. They are all together here, the Wolves who remain, the Wolves who were there first; Radegast the tallest, Jolder close behind him, the others ranging through the drifts. Efrideet has gone, and only Saladin seems to think the plague has not claimed her as it has the others.

There are no berries here, only the glowing red of unnatural growth: rampant, hungry; brambles twisted by the programmed need to consume. She had to turn away when the tendrils brought shambling half-life back to Nirwen’s corpse, and when Jolder smote her down again and again it was with tears in her eyes and no laughter in her heart.

“West they ran, in packs of three, towards the dying Light -”

Perun barks out a laugh. “You’re still going, even now?”

“Even now,” she says, because she cannot stop, even if the words are no longer a celebration but a dirge. The ice that clings to their cloaks will not kill them but it can slow them, and speed is the only chance they have. So Radegast claims - but she knows, just as they all know, that they are marching to their deaths.

“Mercy,” Nirwen cried out as she fell, the same word that was on her lips when she rose, over and over, the sound of it twisted just as Nirwen had been twisted, until at last Jolder granted her wish and the thing that wore Nirwen fell silent.

“Bayed and howled as they went, Iron in their hands.”

The syllables sound too sharp in the way that Perun’s teeth look too sharp when the deep, cool liquor of the berries stains them. The snows end, and they descend into the forgotten hollows carved beneath the ruins of Old Russia. There is a strange heat here, though they are far from the sun; a heat that does not warm so much as it oppresses, and she shivers again beneath layers of leather and metal and fur.

The plague tries to stop them as they wind their way deeper, but they are pack now, the nine who remain; practiced, strong, they fight as one with a grimness of purpose that she remembers from the early days, when at last they learned to trust each other. No warlord, no Fallen could have stopped them as they are now. And yet death has always been the punishment for hubris, for those unworthy of the grail, and Timur at least would see the irony, the parallel.

There are no berries here. When they fell from her overflowing hands she let them lie, so that new seeds might take root. An echo of the greed that led them to this moment, perhaps; the belief that if they ever sipped too much the spilled drops would lead to ever-greater things, not to Lords lying dead and cold in the snow.

Get up, someone had begged Finnala. They had not needed to beg Nirwen.

“West they ran, in packs of three, towards the dying Light,” she says again, as the radiance consumes her for what must be the thousandth time, as she burns away another reaching swarm. Beside her, Gheleon says nothing, his trigger-pulls unerring, his face the mask it always is.

They make it to the chamber, and Radegast dies almost as soon as they breach the doors, torn apart by writhing constructs, the cry of fury on his lips cut short. Felwinter falls soon after, and she watches as his body disappears beneath the swarm, watches him rise again, his light gone, and turn his weapon on Silimar. Despite all that they have achieved, all that they have built, only this ignominy awaits them; the bonds that could not be broken in life are undone so quickly in death.

Gheleon screams. Perun does not; roars instead, but her end is the same, and her bright eyes go forever dark.

She thinks of berries, black and red, thinks of smiles and stains and white teeth and dark earth and green growth, of laughter well-earned and well-enjoyed. Gone, just as the memory of them will soon be gone. Jolder finds her eyes from across the room, and as the mites begin to swarm her, as she feels them forcing their way into eyes and ears and throat, she frees her fire for what she knows will be the final time, burns brighter than she ever has.

“West they run, in packs of three, towards the dying Light,

Far behind them stands the Tree, boughs as black as night.”

They were the first, and it is fitting that they are the last. Fitting that they should be forgotten, just as their forebears were all but forgotten. It is Jolder’s duty now, to do what must be done. She will not ask for mercy, for she knows that none awaits. She hopes only that when she falls, she does not rise; that the dark that has always lived in the shadow of their glory will, in the end, bring her rest.

[titanharem]

Okay okay, a ramble of my thoughts about the Iron Lords because wow do I love them all and the flood gates have been opened and Bungie barely gave me anything about them

In my mind, Lady Perun is a Nightstalker Hunter and her fc is Jaimie Alexander (mostly looking at her as Lady Sif in the Marvel movies)

Speaking of Perun, she’s 100% dating Lady Skorri. They’re in lesbians with each other. It’s about the Void/Solar dynamic, and also the More Practical/More Chipper Or Optimistic dynamic

Lord Radegast? Yeah, he’s a Sunbreaker Titan, trust me on this. And I’m mostly talking about the shoulder charge ability for Sunbreakers

Naturally, this means Radegast is very warm and would probably be really nice to hug, and it’s not just out of me being in love with every Titan I get my queer little hands on

(ps, Radegast probably needs a good long nap to relax for once in his life)

Lord Silimar kind of has a stubborn streak, but it’s a part of his charm really. Also he’s a Sentinel Titan. Think of the Ward of Dawn to be specific because if he continuously rebuilt a structure until one day it can’t be toppled by attackers, he’s stubborn and will hold his ground (and protect others with his shield)

Another part of Silimar’s charm is he kind of has the “Titans have two braincells and they’re stored in the fists” syndrome, but it works out in the end

I always imagined “what if Lord Felwinter was a Dawnblade Warlock because he apparently taught Osiris some things at some point” but Bungie just made that a canonical thing, and I owe Bungie my life

Alright, hear me out here, Felwinter/Shaxx enemies to lovers. In the new lore dropped by Bungie (“Remembrance”), they dueled repeatedly, were stuck in the castle for days because of a snow storm, and there was some respect between two Warlords (former Warlords at least)

Lady Efrideet is a Gunslinger Hunter because that feels oh so right if you ask me

Lord Gheleon is uhhh a bit of a himbo honestly. But don’t be fooled, he’s a competent bastard with many knives 

Gheleon is also a Nightstalker Hunter because that just feels right honestly 

Lord Timur? A little bit… eccentric and once he starts talking, he isn’t going to stop. You will hear what he has to say, and he can’t really stopped. Even if you shoot him because you’re an impatient monster, his Ghost would just finish his thought for him while bringing him back

[themothyards]

Jolder and Perun reach the makeshift gate at dusk, just as the sun has finally dipped behind the mountains and the sky has begun to bruise purple-red. It is cold in the hills, and soon the first snows will fall.

“Who goes there?” The face of a man - pinched, dirty - appears above the fence of wood and scrap metal. Jolder looks up at him and raises her left hand in greeting.

“Lady Jolder and Lady Perun, of the Iron Wolves. We wish to speak to the Mayor.”

“Wolves…we remember the Wolves, all right. Near as well as we remember Segoth. Stand back, and we’ll open the gate.”

The man disappears, and they step back out of courtesy. Jolder wonders if the man knows they could leap the wall without a thought.

The sound of screeching metal and grinding machinery fills the air, and after what seems like an eternity the gate opens. The man gestures at them, rifle held in his off-hand. Behind him stands a group - men as dirty as he is, all carrying rifles as well. Villagers appear from shuttered doors. Men, women, children - they are scared. Jolder wonders what stories have been told about the Wolves since last they came here.

“Well met,” Jolder says, as she walks into the hamlet. “We thank you for your hospitality.”

The man nods, eyes darting back and forth between them. Like a hunted animal. Maybe things have not changed so much as they had hoped. The gate closes behind them, and Jolder waits for the screeching to stop before she speaks.

“You had a…Mayor here,” she says. She tries to make her voice gentle - tries to smooth some of the granite in it. She does not think it works. “A thin woman. I never knew her name. May we speak to her?”

The man glances behind him at his companions.

“Dead two years now,” he says. “Fallen.”

“He is lying,” Perun says, examining her fingernails.

“Easy, Perun.”

“What do you want?” The man’s eyes don’t leave Perun, and now he grips his rifle with both hands.

“Peace, friend,” Jolder says. “We sent a pilgrim train this way, to resupply before the march to the settlement that grows beneath the Traveler. They should have arrived yesterday. Did they make it?

“Turned ‘em away at the gate,” the man says, straightening. “Looked like bug huggers to me. Didn’t they, boys?”

Behind him, his fellows chuckle.

“You what?”

“Can’t be too careful,” he continues, and Jolder sees him take a deep breath as his confidence grows. “We’re not risking our lives for that trash. Getting crowded in here as is, and no saying who can be trusted these days.”

“And if they’re not trash, but refugees seeking the safety of the city and its walls?” Even as she says it, her spirits fade. Years, it has been, since they freed this place from Segoth’s jealous grip. Years. It is times like these when she questions their choice. When she wonders how much they can truly accomplish.

She wonders what kind of warlord this man thinks he is.

“Like I said: can’t be too careful. Especially when supplies are low. You get me, Titan?”

He tries to put steel in his voice, but Jolder hears only a whimper. She sighs, stares at her hand. “Better than you know, I think.”

“This is our village. We don’t owe you shit. Understand? We didn’t owe them shit, either. Their fault for leaving whatever safety they had. Traveler give ‘em luck, but we got no room for ‘em here.”

“Where did you send them?” Perun’s voice is soft but Jolder hears the iron in it.

“Who knows?”

The Hunter takes a quick step towards him, hand on her belt-knife. She is smaller even than the man but he cringes away. For a moment - just a moment - Jolder pities him.

“Hold on, now - you said...your kind ain’t supposed to…”

“Where did you send them?”

The knife has made it halfway from its sheath. The man does not miss the glint of metal.

“I - West. They went West.”

The knife is gone as quickly as it appeared.

“Come on,” Perun says, and turns back to the gate.

“Wait,” says the man, and Jolder knows what he will say next. “You can’t head back out. You seen how many Fallen’re out there? You’ll let ‘em know where we are, open us up to attack. We need you here, with us. For protection, like you promised.”

He swallows, and cannot meet her eyes. Perun stops, turns again, and walks slowly back to them. She has a way of walking, Perun does - her shoulders and hips roll like a predator’s, like one of the wolves that now call the Temple home. Jolder appreciates it for several reasons.

“We will retrieve them,” Perun says, staring at the man. Jolder watches him wilt under her gaze, shrinking by the second. “We will send them back here. You will take them in and give them shelter, let them resupply. Understand?”

The man opens his mouth. Closes it, and nods.

“Pray that they are safe,” Perun continues, “Because I will take a finger for each one that has died.”

“You can’t -”

“Can’t? What really happened to the Mayor, hm? Because I can guess. Would you like me to start guessing?”

The man doesn’t answer. Jolder looks past him, towards the group of villagers that has slowly gathered.

“Perhaps they could tell us,” she offers. Beside her, Perun grins, but there is no humor in it. Again, Jolder thinks of a wolf. 

“We’ll return in three days,” Perun says, and her voice carries through the silent village. “When we do, any who wish to leave with us are welcome. A city is growing beneath the Traveler. A city of dreams and of safety. Of hope. A city with room for everyone.”

Wide eyes stare back at them. A baby cries.

“Three days,” Perun says again. “If you’re smart, you’ll start packing now. Warm clothes - you’ll need them.”

She turns and leaps the gate, fur cloak trailing behind her.

Jolder turns back to the men. They are nothing like her wolves. Even so, in the crowd behind them, she catches eyes that meet hers and do not shy away, sees the determined set of shoulders, the straightening of backs. 

In three days they will return, and then they will see what there is to be seen. Sometimes, all that is needed is a push.

She would know.

Jolder raises her axe in a farewell salute, and rings it once against her shield. The sound carries, bell-like and brilliant, through the shuttered hamlet and out into the hills.

[lady-perun]

Hey look guys I made a thing