The Mothyards

Tales From Beyond the Tower

[themothyards]

Witch Queen Gothic

This is the best Destiny has ever been, IGN tells you. You play through the campaign, delighting in the terrible beauty of the Witch Queen’s mind-fortress. Savanthûn is dummy thicc, the internet says. Your Postmaster is almost full, no matter how many items you delete.

The Cabal are your allies. You murder hundreds on your first trip to Mars. No one seems to mind. Somewhere beyond seeing, Savathûn waits for you in a mind-ship woven of ghostly dreams. There is a temporal shift on Mars, but you have no time to investigate the shimmering fields of time-lost corn. You must find Savathûn. You hold X to activate the generators. Your controller shivers with pleasure.

You know the eldritch goddess of deceit and cunning from the Books of Sorrow; intimately, as though she is an old friend. You know about the countless worlds she razed in her brutal worship of the Deep, about her endless deaths at the hands of her merciless sisters and the violent retribution she dealt in return. You have been waiting to meet her for more years than you can count. She is your teammate’s waifu, now. His name is Savathiccness.

The Hive have Ghosts now, like you. You crush one with your bare hands. It feels good. You wonder what it would feel like, to have your Ghost crushed. You wake up, wondering if the Hive care about perk rolls. 

Sometimes, the Postmaster has engrams for you. You don’t remember where they came from; you don’t know why some numbers are bigger and some are smaller. One day you will be Max Power, in time for Max Power to increase again.

You queue into Birthplace of the Vile. You must kill Scorn; you must wipe them from existence so that you can get a new gun. But everyone has the same goal, and there are never enough Scorn. Stop taking my kills, you yell into the microphone. No one can hear you. You load the strike again. You hear the sound of Savathûn’s laughter—you are the vile one, now. 

You delight in watching your power level rise, digit by agonizing digit. If Only Legs Would Drop, you think. There is an idea of a thing called a Soft Cap, but it is ephemeral, like cobwebs in sunlight. 

You visit Tess Everiss the Tower. You don’t know why. You don’t have any silver. You have never had any silver. You examine her rotating stock, but nothing is worth it. Nothing is ever worth it. Beside you, a Warlock named Eris Morn’s Eye Lube spends a thousand dollars on a sparrow you’ll never see. You open an Eververse engram. It is a blue Ghost projection. Tess smiles at you, her eyes white with static.

You pass a Titan leaping endlessly off the tower on your way to your Vault. He dies a thousand times as you compare ten nearly-identical rolls of Night Watch, kept from the last time you played. Months ago? Years ago? The Titan’s name is Savasnû-snû. What is he running from? You have never used a scout rifle. 

The Postmaster is almost full. You have six Red Herrings in your heavy inventory. Some are red. Why are they red? You have to delete them. You have to make room for the Postmaster. You examine their rolls. Every one is nearly identical. You don’t know what any of the perks do. You try to read about them, but it is too much for you. You move them all to your Vault. Your Vault is full, the game tells you. 

YouTube creators have published years’ worth of video within seconds of the release. They long for a balanced Crucible. Fusion rifles are broken. Abilities are broken. Stasis is broken. You don’t have stasis. You have a hand cannon and a shotgun. You join a match in progress, and die instantly to a super. Your Ghost revives you, and you cannot tell which of you is more disappointed.

The campaign ends. You have saved the world. All worlds, maybe. But an even greater evil is on its way. It was on its way seven years ago, but it is even more on its way now. Its name is the Witness. It is powerful. So powerful that perhaps it can balance the Crucible. You return to the Enclave to speak with Ikora. Who is Immaru? you ask. No one answers. A hunter named Witness Deez Nutz follows you, crouching maniacally.

The new seasonal artifact is another object of inscrutable power, birthed in the screaming void between infinite possibilities. You unlock the Unstoppable Hand Cannon mod. You have no idea what a “Champion” is. You have never known what a “Champion” is.

Your old clan-mates are online, sometimes. You cross paths with them at Hawthorne’s roost. She proselytizes to you about the importance of teamwork. You purchase a raid bounty that expires tomorrow. You launch the Strike playlist, alone.

You have never played the raid. You almost completed the first one, once, when Destiny 2 came out. There are dozens, now. You watch videos about raid strategy. None of the words make sense to you. Step On Me Rhulk, begs the internet.

You speak to Ikora. Ikora tells you to speak to Eris. Eris tells you to speak to Mara Sov. Mara Sov tells you to speak to a parasitic worm. Your worm is a weapon, now; you can hear its labored breathing when you sleep. You dream of Savathûn crushing your Ghost between her chitinous thighs.

You open LFG, swearing that this is the day you finally play a dungeon. KWTD, every post says. You don’t KWTD. Perhaps you never will.

You load into Iron Banner; six freelancers facing down Clan [TBAG]. Mara Sov’s Hot Mouth, is the name of one. Savathûn’s Thigh Gap, is another. Caiatl’s Thong Sweat, is a third. You are mercied within seconds. A blue sidearm drops. Your Postmaster is almost full.

[themothyards]

Above the tree-line, hanging in the purple-black sky, Luna’s cracked face nestles among the stars and casts the fullness of its glow down upon the Farm. Tendrils of shadow reach across the grounds, shivering as branches sway in the autumn wind. The nights are still warm, and Lord Shaxx idly wonders if the unseasonal heat comes from the fires that still burn in the Last City.

A romantic thought. He has been reading too much pre-Collapse poetry.

Beside him, Runa twitches, and Shaxx looks up from his book. She refuses to sleep in a bed; wraps herself in furs instead—at least she no longer refuses to remove her armor.

The girl’s face contorts as she lets out a low moan. He watches for a while, unsure if he should let the nightmare run its course or if he should wake her.

Runa makes his decision for him. Her arm twitches, her mouth opens wider in a silent scream—and then her eyes open of their own accord and she sits upright in the moonlight, swallowing a shout, strands of unwashed hair stuck to the sweat upon her brow. Eventually her eyes find their focus and she glares at him.

She has gotten very good at glaring.

“You were dreaming,” he says. He can see the skin at her neck fluttering.

Runa nods, as though in relief.

“Would you like to tell me about it?” Shanks, he is is bad at this.

She opens her mouth for a moment, then shakes her head.

“I can’t remember.”

He has been around Cayde-6 long enough to recognize a lie, but he does not press her.

“Here,” he says instead, and passes her the cup of water he filled when she began to yawn that evening.

She takes it without a word, and drinks—keeps drinking, as though her thirst surprises her, and droplets spill down her chin.

“More?” he asks, when she sets the empty cup down next to her.

She shakes her head again.

“You should sleep,” he says. “Rest while you can. You will need your strength in the weeks to come.”

“You’re not sleeping.”

“I,” he says mildly, “Have had centuries of rest. And I am not a growing child.”

He is in a strange mood tonight; the long shadows and the rustle of the wind in dying leaves make him—not nostalgic, not exactly—but wistful, perhaps. Restless and peaceful at once.

Runa stares up at the moon, arms wrapped around her knees. “Crota had a sword,” she says, and the sound of the creature’s name on her lips surprises him.

“He did.” Shaxx wonders what stories the girl has been told about the horror that befell them on the Moon; about another great disaster that nearly ended them. The question dies on his lips. How many Guardians still see the hideous green fire when they close their eyes? How many of them awake screaming as Runa does?

“Was it a sword like yours?”

He looks down at his book. He wonders how would Eris have answered the girl, how she might have explained to a child that the dark heart of an ancient god slumbers—dreaming, but always hungry—in the heart of a blade. Perhaps, if Ikora’s spy still lives, he will have the chance to ask her someday. Another thing to live for, he thinks.

“No,” he says at last. “Nothing alike.”

She nods, shivers despite the warmth, pulls the furs closer around her neck.

“My parents told me about the Moon. They told me stories about the great Titan who died there.”

Something settles in the pit of Shaxx’s stomach. When next he looks over at her, her cheeks are wet with tears.

He sighs, rests a hand on the top of her head.

“Remember them,” he says. “Even if it hurts. Remember them, for they are part of what shaped you. As this will shape you. As all things will shape you. You did not run from the Red Legion. Do not run from this.”

She buries her face in the dirty furs, and he keeps his hand on her shoulder as she quakes. Minutes pass—maybe hours—in the dead of night, when time seems to stretch and bend; around them the Farm is silent, bathed in silver-purple.

“They used to read to me,” Runa says, not looking up. “At night.” She turns away from him, and curls around herself; not lying down, not quite. Somewhere, an owl hoots.

Shaxx opens his book. He has read it many times—he could recite it from memory, if he wished—but loves the feel of the ancient paper, the smell of faded ink.

“Then perhaps you will enjoy this story as well. It is a marvelous tale—a tale about everything: loss, love, heroes and villains, gods and spirits and magic.”

He opens the worn cover of the tome, clears his throat.

“Lie there, my art,” he begins, as Runa’s breath at last grows steady. “Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort...”

Little Shield-Sister, parts 1-9

[themothyards]

“What do they grow here?”

Lord Shaxx looks over at the small Awoken girl next to him, staring out over the common grounds of their makeshift base camp.

“Hm?”

“That lady keeps calling it a farm. What do they grow?”

“Hope. Dreams. The seeds of a new City.”

Runa looks down and pats her stomach.

“I meant food. I’m starving.”

“Ah.” The girl has refused to remove her cobbled-together armor, and while there are other children at the Farm she has shown no interest in leaving his side.

“Me too, kid.” Shaxx looks over as Cayde-6 drapes his frame across the railing. “I’d smooch a thrall for some noodles.”

Shaxx doesn’t answer, but Runa can’t help looking over at him.

“Do you…have a stomach?”

“Sorry,” Cayde says. “That’s classified info. Need-to-know only. You get me.”

Her frown makes it clear that she doesn’t, but she nods as though she does, her chin high, then turns her gaze back to the grounds. Cayde sighs, loud and exaggerated, and holds up a hand in front of him. As Runa watches, a knife appears in it. Then he flicks his wrist and it disappears again. A moment later, he is holding two.

Runa’s mouth gapes, and forgetting to be aloof, she stares a little harder.

Cayde pretends not to notice. Now he’s holding three knives. Now four.

“I hear you learned your way around a knife out there,” he says. “Wouldn’t have thought that ol’ One-Horn here had anything to teach.”

Shaxx continues to ignore the Exo, and watches Runa instead. Her hand twitches. If anything, her dreams have worsened since they left the City, and often he sees her sitting up at night, hugging her knees. Shaxx watches Cayde’s head shift imperceptibly; sees that he notices.

“He taught me lots,” she says, frowning at Cayde. “Besides, you only have one horn.”

“Fair point,” says Cayde, then inclines his head towards her belt, his voice dropping an octave lower. “But those are a Hunter’s knives, and Lord Shaxx ain’t no Hunter.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Runa mutters. Her hand twitches again, and she looks over at Lord Shaxx. “We’ve just been waiting here. Forever. Can’t we do something?”

“We are doing something,” says Shaxx. “There is work to be done before the next conflict. Wars are not won on the battlefield alone.”

“Yeah,” Cayde says, knives suddenly gone. “Sometimes they’re fought on weird horse-planets with depressed AIs.”

Both Shaxx and Runa look over at him.

“Never mind’. Just had a bad experience, is all. Listen, kid. If you ever want to learn how to use those knives - and I mean instead of just whacking people with ‘em, the way Captain Grumpy-Pants here does - you let me know.”

She looks back at Shaxx. “Really?”

“You do not need my permission to better your skills, little Shield-Sister,” he growls. “But I would urge you to avoid developing…bad habits.”

Run frowns, and turns back to Cayde. “But I don’t have powers. Like you do. I’m not…I’m not a Guardian. Not really.”

Cayde pauses, shoulders hunched on the railing. Lord Shaxx glances down at her, but stays very still.

“Reckon that don’t make a difference,” Cayde says at last. “Way I see it, the Light - that’s what we call it - all it is, is potential. A way to grab what you want and make it real. But you don’t need that.”

“I don’t?”

“Nah. Knives have their own language, and fluency requires a…certain knack. Way I hear it, you’ve got the knack. Besides, anyone who stayed in that City and did what you did’s a Guardian any way you cut it - Light or no. Which, in case any of us have managed to forget, is something none of us have anymore either.”

She flashes a shy smile at him.

“Tell you what, kid. See that lady in the poncho down there? She’ll find you something to eat. After that, I’ll show you how to play the knife game.”

Shaxx coughs.

“The knife game?” Runa asks.

“Most important skill a Hunter’ll ever have,” Cayde says. “Win you loads of Glimmer. Just don’t play with Ikora.”

“Cayde,” Shaxx says.

“Shh, this is Hunter talk. Sound good, kid? Meet you back here in fifteen or so?”

Once more, Runa glances up at Shaxx. He nods slightly.

“‘Kay,” Runa says, mimicking Cayde’s cadence. “Meet you in fifteen.” With a grin, she disappears.

Lord Shaxx and Cayde-6 watch her run down the stairs and across the grass. The knife is back in Cayde’s hand, twirling through his fingers, but he doesn’t seem to notice it.

“Where’s she stayin’?”

“With me, for the time being,” says Shaxx. “She has paid no heed to the other children.”

“Not surprising. Doesn’t seem fair, losin’ out on your childhood like that. And now…You oughta make sure she’s got somebody to talk to. Seen Hunters go twitchy before.”

At last, Shaxx rolls his neck and places his hands on the railing.

“I know enough to know that the girl should spend time with others, but I was not aware you had experience in raising children,” Shaxx says. He makes an effort to sound sincere.

The knife stops. “Me? Please. I’ve just always wanted to be the cool uncle. Jokes, presents, liquor under the table…”

“Cayde!”

“Kidding, kidding. Well, I’m gonna go bother Ikora for a while before the little brat comes back. Good talk, champ.”

He pushes himself away from the railing, and begins to walk away.

“Wait,” Shaxx says. “I…thank you. I’m pleased that you’re willing to help.”

Cayde spins on his heel and offers a two-fingered salute.

“You got it, Ace.”

[themothyards]

I need more Little Shield-Sister!!!

Greetings, Colleague;

We have recently become aware that Little Shield-Sister is, in fact, an essential mineral; it is, however, one that leads to greater vivacity, tenacity, audacity, and even pugnacity. We advise all of our readers to be prudent when consuming Little Shield-Sister in large doses.

Cordially,

The Mothyards

[themothyards]

So are you finally going to write a book since you keep posting the same story but more parts because people would buy it?

Greetings, Colleague;

We assume you are referring to the recently-updated entries concerning Lord Shaxx and his young apprentice (which can be read in full here).

While the managers of these logs (colloquially, “The Mothyards”) are delighted that you have (we think) enjoyed the aforementioned series, we regret to inform you that, while there is indeed a book ‘in the works,’ it has nothing to do with our shared world.

Nevertheless, we thank you for your query, as well as for your ongoing interest in our productions.

Cordially,

The Mothyards 

[themothyards]

YOU ARE THE BEST! Like seriously, I have never seen such amazing writing. Never stop!!! 😍

Greetings, Colleague;

Thank you for your kind words. We are both humbled and delighted to know that our readers still find the contents of this log (colloquially, “The Mothyards”) enjoyable.

With the release of Forsaken tomorrow, we look forward to exploring new avenues of inquiry. Should you, or any of our readers, have any further questions or commentary, we insist that you do not hesitate to reach out again.

We look forward to providing you with further information of mild interest and dubious utility in the near future.

Cordially,

The Mothyards

[themothyards]

‘Twas the Night Before-saken

’Twas the night Before-saken,

When all through the land,

Dreamed hype-stricken Guardians

Of avenging Last Stands;

The Crow’s sneering face both taunted and jeered

And many a Risen his death volunteered.

Their Year 1 goods were all stored in collections

While visions of god rolls piqued their affections;

And new perks for armor and sweet mods for guns

Inspired violence-tinged reveries of hunting down Barons;

But upon r/DTG there arose such a clatter,

And we all knew at once just what was the matter.

Away to their keyboards they’d raced in a flash,

To muck up our forums with ill-reasoned backlash;

As soon as the meta shifted they came,

And they ranted, and posted, and their complaints were the same:

“Nerf Shotguns! Nerf Sleeper! Nerf all Shoulder Charges!

Does no-one remember grenade spam at large?

To the trash heap of history they all should be sent,

And any new patch notes must seek my assent!”

And though we respected their deep-rooted fears (for Felwinter’s Lie had left us in tears),

We tried to remember the patch wasn’t here;

That soon, join-in-progress would be added to Gambit,

That fine-tuning damage was outside our ambit.

With well-worded posts their fears we assuaged,

And our thoughts turned instead to what the Drifter had caged:

A type of Darkness, perhaps? The Deepness made real?

Please, oh please, let the story reveal

At least some of the tidbits that to us were hinted 

When the plot-line of Destiny 1 first was printed.

Give us dragons and queens and sisters of Oryx!

Give us Exos and Sorrows and Fallen named Variks!

We want Tex Mechanica with full-auto triggers,

And for the love of the Traveler, please buff Gunslingers!

(If two knives you’ll deny us - and their lack we still mourn -

Then at the least let our tripmines create unicorns).

But no matter the Guardian; Warlock, Hunter, or Titan,

We all knew that, somewhere, an Exo’s face brightened

At the thought of the treasure that would soon be hoarded,

Be it weapons or fragments or titles assorted.

His death we’d avenge, he knew it quite clearly,

And that smug bastard Uldren would pay for it dearly.

We’d hunt him sans merci, our smiles like blades;

We’d have our revenge, and we’d have it in spades.

Cayde knew we were good for it; that’s why his glimmer

Had always been put down on us as the winners.

And so without fear he went to his rest,

Safe in the knowledge we’d pass this next test,

That we’d conquer the Reef, that we’d plunder the place,

And he’d add it to his list of stories for Ace;

A little inflated - all true, he would swear! - 

But every tall tale needs some inspiring flair.

His lessons we’d learned over the course of four years,

And his glories we’d sing throughout all the spheres;

The finest of all of us! No Hunter was better!

You’d never meet a more charming debtor!

We would all miss him keenly, but somehow we knew

That our favorite Exo would bid us adieu

In the best way he could, with a wit sharp as knives,

And a fine comeback worthy of all six of his lives.

As we all fell asleep, or danced, or emoted,

Cayde-6’s last words through all of our brains still floated;

When at last we found Uldren, when he stared down the barrel,

We’d savor the chance to sing one more carol,

We’d pack in the Prince with the best of brain twisters,

And the last words he’d hear would be:

HOW’S YOUR SISTER?

[themothyards]

“Get up. Please get up! Get up get up get up get up—”

Lord Shaxx groans, and at last manages to open his eyes. Someone is whispering but his head is ringing and the words don’t make sense. He has no memory of lying down but he appears to be doing exactly that, and when he tries to move, his body feels heavy and sluggish.

The girl is glaring at him. She is always glaring at him.

“Get up get up get UP!”

A deep breath - he feels ribs cracking, coughs. It is a mortal sound, and it hurts, and it brings some awareness back to him. The girl is pulling at his arm, and for a moment the image is something close to comical.

Then he remembers.

What do they call them? Colossi. He thinks - yes, he is fairly certain - that it kicked him off a building as they attempted to make their way out of the City. Holliday wasn’t responding, and in search of a better signal they climbed high above the streets - where they found the enemy. How the girl managed to follow he has no idea.

Beneath him, the street has caved in from the force of his impact. He coughs again and says a silent thank you to his armor.

“I’m up,” he says, and rolls over onto his side, fingers clutching blindly for his sword -

Ah. It is likely still embedded in the Colossus, several stories above them. He’ll have to fetch it.

“They’re COMING!” Runa screams, and at last he shakes his head and looks up to find a squad of Legionaries bearing down on them. It happens in slow motion: as a unit they raise their wrist-mounted blades, ten feet away, then five, then none—

Runa turns, steps in front of him, and lifts her knife.

“I am the blade,” he hears her mutter.

Shaxx snarls, and paws her out of the way as he lumbers to his feet. 

“Fool girl,” he says, still shaking the stars from his eyes. The first Legionary arrives and he manages to duck beneath its swing, buries an armored fist in its gut, then slams its head into his knee.

“What did I tell you?” he shouts, as he meets the next head on, using its own momentum to lift it over his head and send it crashing to the ground where his boot meets its neck with a sickening crunch. “Know when a knife is not enough!”

The third legionary stops its charge, eyes on its crumpled fellows, and lifts its gun. Shaxx crashes into it before it can ready the weapon, but it manages to get a blow in, strong enough to make his head spin again, and the two of them fall to the ground in a tangle of limbs. He strikes it in the midsection once, twice, three times, and when it is dazed he grips its head and bashes it into the concrete until it stops moving.

He rolls of the creature onto his hands and knees, his chest heaving. His Ghost’s absence does not surprise him - he suspects that if he truly needed it, it would be there. At least there are no more Legionaries. At least—

The earth shakes as a Colossus lands in the street in front of him, and he watches as its giant fist pulls a familiar blade from its shoulder and tosses it to the ground at its feet.

Very good - now he won’t have to go searching for his sword after all.

“Little Shield-Sister,” he says, pushing himself upright for the second time as the Colossus sets its feet and hefts its slug launcher, “Might I borrow your knife?”

There is no answer. He looks around, but the girl is gone. He has time only to hope that she has hidden herself well before a cluster of missiles arcs through the air towards him. He runs, jumps, slides behind a wall as the ground where he was standing is reduced to a charred ruin. If he’d taken a slug thrower from one of the dead legionaries - but no, it’s too late now. He’ll have to get in close.

He waits for a break in fire, then dashes across the street. The Colossus struggles to track him, and both heavy slugs and clouds of missiles sail harmlessly past him. He zigzags, legs burning, and red mist begins to cloud his vision as he closes in on his target. The beady eyes of the creature grow larger and larger until at last he leaps, both fists raised above his head, poised to crush its helmet through its neck.

It slams him to the ground with an arm as large as he is tall, and once more Shaxx’s vision explodes in fireworks. The air goes out of him in a rush, and when he tries to breathe in he hears only a strange, high whine.

The Colussus looms over him, and it levels its slug thrower at his head. Shaxx lifts his arms, crosses them before his chest; a last, desperate hope that his armor will protect him.

A shout cuts through the smoke; a high, piercing war-cry, and the creature turns, searching for a new threat. Through the smoke and dust from countless missile clusters, a tiny shape darts towards them, and at first the Colossus does not know what to make of what it sees.

Shaxx does.

The girl is a fool. She could die. They could both die. Here, now, on a shattered street, with no one there to witness it. He opens his mouth to cry out, to tell her to stop, to run - and then he sees the fire in her eyes.

She charges down the street, a Hunter’s knife in each hand, quick and low to the ground, and though at last the Colussus realizes it is under attack and steadies its slug thrower it cannot seem to track her, small as she is.

And it has forgotten about him.

Shaxx summons his strength and kicks out as hard has he can, into the creature’s knee. It is enough to make it stumble, enough to make it lose its grip on the slug thrower, and the barrel crunches into the concrete.

Runa doesn’t slow. She barrels down the rubble-covered road, and as the Colossus tries to lift its weapon she skips off it, up the barrel itself, and leaps, the same piercing cry trailing from her lips, and buries a knife in the creature’s eye up to the hilt. It roars in agony, drops its weapon and tries to bat her away, but she clings to its face and from the ground Shaxx watches as she raises her other knife, sees it flash silver and then disappear, and as it emerges again it draws another roar from the Colossus, now spinning in desperation, trying to remove the girl from its helmet.

Once again, it has forgotten about him.

Finally, it manages to get both hands around the girl, and it throws her bodily across the street. She lands heavily, and doesn’t move again. 

It spins, its faceplate cracked, searching for its weapon, searching for Shaxx. Instead, it finds his sword. He drives his blade into its middle with all the force that he can muster, and the creature’s roar becomes a cough and then a wheeze. Its massive hands scrabble at him, but the movements are confused, almost without purpose. Shaxx grits his teeth and yanks the sword out, and when the Colossus falls to its knees he buries the edge in its neck. He sways, drops his weapon, and stumbles towards the crumpled shape lying in the street.

“Little Shield-Sister,” he says, kneeling next to her and scooping a hand beneath her head. “Runa. Can you hear me?”

Her knives have landed next to her, their brilliance hidden beneath Cabal ichor. He shakes her, gently.

“Ghost,” he croaks. “Ghost.”

A flash of light. A single eye blinks tiredly across at him.

“Take my Light. Whatever you have. Give it to her. Do something.”

“I…I can do nothing,” it whispers.

He slams a fist into the ground. Six Fronts. The Gap. The Great Disaster. All of it pales in comparison to this, to the girl’s pale face streaked with dust from a fallen city.

“Runa,” he says again. “Runa!”

He shakes her harder, conscious for the first time of how small she is, how frail. He should have sent her with the Hunter. He should have -

Her eyelids flicker and his heart leaps.

One tiny, bloodshot eye cracks open, looks up at him.

Runa coughs.

“Did—”

“Quiet,” Shaxx says. “Be still, fool girl.”

His Ghost shudders, as though in relief.

“Did we win?”

“We did,” says Shaxx. “Now be still.”

Her face twists, and for a moment he fears it is due to pain. Then he realizes she is grinning at him.

“The knife was enough,” she whispers.

His stomach flips. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

The smile grows larger, and then she coughs once more and closes her eyes.

“Shaxx? That you?”

A voice crackles through his Ghost.

“Shaxx, it’s Holliday. Got you on scans. You alive down there?”

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, it’s me.”

“Kiss your Ghost, you madman. It’s been pinging me nonstop for I don’t know how long.”

He doesn’t answer, he and his Ghost both staring instead at the girl. Her chest rises and falls - slowly but evenly.

“I’m comin’ in hot,” Holliday continues. “Should be able to set this boat down right on top of you.”

He stands slowly, lifting Runa in his arms. The the roar of engine wash echoes off the buildings around them, and he takes a step. One step, and then another, and then another. A City Hawk comes into view, Holliday’s face visible in the cockpit, streaked with grime, exhaustion - and concern.

“Hold up - you got a Citizen with you? I thought we’d gotten everyone out.”

“No,” he says, looking down at Runa’s quiet face. “Not a Citizen. A Guardian.”

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8

[themothyards]

“I still don’t understand,” Runa says. “How do you sharpen a person?”

“Through practice,” Shaxx says. “Through trial, challenges, hardship.”

“Am I sharp?”

“Passably. Sharper than you were.”

“You’re teasing.”

“I never tease.”

Three days they have spent in the fallen City, three days of endless Cabal patrols, of prowling ruins like Fallen Dregs, of shepherding the refugees they can find to Holliday’s beacons.

The girl frowns and goes back to her knife-work, and it is true that her motions are surer now than they were three days ago.

But she is a child, not a Titan, and she is tired. He has stood guard so that she might snatch moments of sleep, hidden in the ruins of shattered buildings and collapsed streets. Moments, here and there, always cut short by nightmares. In her dreams, Runa whimpers, sometimes cries out - once, he had to wake her so that her screaming did not attract attention.

“Wrong,” he says, and Runa looks over her shoulder at him. “With your arm up like that, you’re more likely to be skewered than to do any skewering.”

She sets her still-bare feet and tries again without responding.

“Wrong, again,” he says. Runa spins, anger flaring in her eyes.

“Then teach me.

“I am teaching you.”

“No,” she says. “Teach me to be worthy. Teach me to fight like you do.”

“If I could throw you into the Crucible and allow you to make your own mistakes, I would.”

Three days. They have not seen any refugees since the morning of the second, and he suspects they may be alone in the City. He wonders if his Ghost -

Runa leaps at him, knife held high. He steps aside, and she sails harmlessly past him, landing and spinning in an approximation of a fighting crouch. Shaxx crosses his arms and stares at her for a long moment.

“Slow. I had thought you were better than that.”

She grits her teeth and charges again, knife stabbing in and out, the blows impressively quick but easy to avoid.

“I know what you’re going to do even before you do,” Shaxx says, palming her arm aside with lazy contempt. “You’ll have to be more creative, girl.”

Runa growls in frustration and comes at him again, and again her knife finds only air.

“I had thought you had some skill,” he says. “I see that I was wrong.”

Her blows grow more and more wild, and her breath comes heavy. She does not stop her assault, but every time she lunges he neatly sidesteps her.

“Does that anger you?” he asks. Her only response is another attack.

“Here is a lesson,” he continues, extending a foot and tripping her as she runs past. “If you let your enemy inside your head, you’ve already lost.”

She rests on her hands and knees, sucking air.

“Well?” Shaxx asked. “Have you?”

She picks herself up and looks beyond him, as though she’s going to ask a question - then darts forward, dropping her shoulder to the right before skipping to the left and lashing out with her blade.

She is quick. Quicker than she has any right to be.

He doesn’t move, and her blow connects, the Hunter’s gifted knife scoring a mark against his gauntlet. She looks up at him, the realization of her success mingling with surprise, pride - and horror. Then he shifts an armored boot, trips her again, and when she flails for balance grabs her knife-hand and twists it until she yelps and drops the blade.

“And the last lesson: know when a knife is not enough.”

He lets her go and she sinks - falls, really - to the ground, her legs crossed. Shaxx kneels in front of her.

“Two lessons,” he says, “But what have you learned?”

Runa lies back, her chest heaving.

“That I can’t beat you,” she says, and then coughs.

“Good. Knowledge of your enemy - and of yourself - may save your life.”

He holds out a hand for her, but she ignores it and pushes herself upright.

“Not yet,” she says, as yet another Cabal Harvester roars overhead, headed towards the center of the City.

Runa looks at him.

“Do we follow?”

His eyes track the Harvester across the skyline, and for a moment his sword weighs heavy on his back. Then he sighs, and stands.

“No, little Shield-Sister. It is time we left.”

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8

[themothyards]

Runa stares at the body of the Warlock, tears leaving tracks down her dirty face. She doesn’t speak.

“I never learned her name,” says the Hunter.

“She died, so that we could live,” says Lord Shaxx. “She will not be forgotten.”

One of Dead Orbit’s Hawks hangs in the air above them, its pilot yelling frantically over the comms. Dead Cabal litter the street around them, many of the corpses blackened from the explosion of the fire-spewing creature that attacked them. It was the Warlock that saved them from the flames - at the cost of her life.

The Hawk sinks nearer to the street, wash from its thrusters pushing the corpses aside like refuse. Ropes trail from its open door, and within they can see the scared faces of Citizens.

“Go with them,” Shaxx says to the Hunter. “They will need a Guardian.”

“What about you?” he shouts back over the noise from the engines.

“I have business to attend to.”

He stares at Shaxx, then nods, holds out a hand to Runa.

“Come on, kid,” he says. “You’ll be safe with me.”

“I’m not leaving,” Runa says, not looking up from the Warlock. “If I run away, who will avenge her?”

“She won her own vengeance,” Shaxx says. “She fought well. She died well. Respect her choice.”

She makes a fist. “It’s not enough.”

“It’s never enough,” says the Hunter, and at last Runa looks up at him, her eyes fierce and full of tears.

The Hunter stares back at her, and for a moment Shaxx’s Ghost flickers into life beside him, just long enough for him to watch its slow blink. As soon as it appears it is gone again, and if it has an opinion, it keeps it to itself.

“Go,” says Shaxx, arms crossed before him. “I will watch over the girl.”

The Hunter hesitates, then pulls a knife from his belt.

“For you, little Shield-Sister,” he says, offering it to Runa. “May it keep you sharp. May it keep you safe.”

She accepts it, and the Hunter offers them a salute. He receives two in return, and then he is gone, dragging his broken leg behind him, the body of the Warlock over his shoulder. When he reaches the Hawk he does not look back.

“An auspicious gift,” says Shaxx, as the transport rises from the streets and disappears into the smoke and cloud that blanket the skyline. “It is rare that a Hunter gives up a knife.”

Runa looks down at the blade, shining silver in her palm.

“You won’t die, will you?” she asks. “You can’t.”

He shakes his head. This is his failure. They were not ready - none of them were - for a threat such as this.

It is a mistake he will not make again.

“No,” he says, “I cannot. Not when there is work to be done.”

With the Hawk gone, only the strange silence of a broken City remains.

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8

[themothyards]

“Lord Shaxx,” breathes the Warlock, pulling off her scorched and dented helm. “Thank the Traveler.”

“Save your thanks for when it’s listening,” says Shaxx, crouching behind the wall of a ruined building as slug-fire pelts the ground around him. Dead Cabal litter the street. “Now, report.”

It takes a moment for the Guardians in front of him to remember themselves. One Warlock, one Hunter. Ah, well. He’ll take what he can get.

Runa appears at his side, peering around the wall. “There are a lot of them,” she says. Shaxx jerks her back into cover and she adjusts her Cabal-armor headband.

The Warlock starts and stares.

“Who is—”

“Today, Warlock.”

“We managed to rendezvous after the Tower fell,” she blurts. “Found a group of Citizens and were able to get them out of the City. Holliday’s running evac routes so we came back to plant beacons. Cabal caught us, and they’ve been on us nonstop.”

A Harvester roars overhead, and a moment later the distinct sound of drop pods reaches them.

“More coming,” says the Hunter, leaning back against the wall, his leg bent at an unnatural angle. “Without our Ghosts, we’re low on ammo. Been a lot of knife-work to make it this far.”

“Can you stand?” asks Shaxx.

“I can shoot,” he says, but offers his hand cannon. “Probably not as well as I’d like, though.”

“Keep it,” Shaxx says. “You have more need of it than I.”

More drop pods slam into the concrete, and the Warlock winces.

“We’re pinned down,” she says. “They’re coming from everywhere. We’re outnumbered, we have no bullets, no Ghosts…we’re trapped.”

Shaxx stands, and he too peers around the wall. There are, indeed, a lot of them. If they do not move now, they never will.

“Tell me, little Shield-Sister,” he barks, and the Warlock jumps in surprise. “What is our greatest advantage?”

Runa lifts her chest, hands on her hips, a miniature mirror of himself. Both Guardians stare at her in confusion.

“The enemy underestimates us,” she says.

“And tell me, little Shield-Sister: what do we do when we’re surrounded?”

Her voice rises above the sounds of ruin without hesitation, high and clear.

“Make a fist,” she says. “Punch through.”

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8

[themothyards]

“I can barely heal you,” says his Ghost, its voice a whisper so quiet he must strain to hear it. “And I can do nothing for the girl. If you die -”

“She will not need it,” says Lord Shaxx. “Neither of us will.”

“We’ve been lucky, and you’re tired.”

“There is no time for rest.”

“No,” his Ghost agrees, as it fades away with a sigh. “No, there is not.”

It is dawn, or so his body tells him, though the smoke from the fires that consume the Last City have blotted out the sun, have filled the red-tinged streets and buildings with the stench of fear, thick and putrid. Though he has not stopped checking the comms, so far he has received nothing but static. Even so, distant gunfire echoes overhead, and he knows that heroes will be made - and unmade - in the hours and days to come.

He thinks about the Gap. A disaster, yes, but he had a Fireteam, then.

“What do they want?” asks Runa. Her bright eyes have dulled some, and Shaxx knows that as tired as he feels, the girl must be exhausted. Still, her expression as she stares at the Traveler is one of defiance, and he feels a swelling of pride in his chest.

He quashes it immediately.

“I suspect they want the Traveler,” he says, mildly.

She turns and glares at him, suspecting that she is the butt of a joke she does not understand.

“Why they want it, I do not know,” he continues. “That is a question for Ikora.”

If she still lives, he thinks. He brushes the thought aside: of course she does, and even if she does not, it has no bearing on what he must do here, now.

“How many did you kill in the street?” he asks.

“Three,” she says, matter-of-fact, though he does not miss the tremor in her knife-hand. “But they were ones you got already.”

“Better that you gave them no chance to call for help. Now, tell me what you’ve learned.”

She babbles for a minute or two, hands moving in approximation of combat, and he listens intently.

“Good,” he says when she falls silent, and her chin lifts minutely. “What else?”

Runa frowns, opens her mouth, closes it again.

“Well?”

“They didn’t think we’d be able to fight back without powers. But we can. We can fight them anyway.”

As she says it, a Guardian’s voice breaks through the static and crackles into life. His heart leaps, and he lifts a hand. Runa falls immediately silent.

“ -fire and Ghosts are down! I don’t know if this channel is encrypted, but if you can hear me, we’re rallying at - “

The voice cuts off, but to the east, the staccato bark of a hand cannon cuts through the air - not too far. Runa looks at him, a question in her eyes.

“Very good. You underestimate your foe at your own peril. Know the difference between confidence and pride.”

She nods at this, considering, and Shaxx adjusts her makeshift chest-plate.

“Recognize your enemy’s mistakes. Punish them. Press your advantage when you can. Now, hold to my shadow, and keep your knife loose. You will have need of it yet.”

He sets a course towards the gunfire, and she trails after him.

“Will I get a sword like yours someday?” she asks.

For a moment, the sun peeks through the smog, a blood-red beacon guiding them east.

“Perhaps, little Shield-Sister. If you earn it.”

A red dawn, but dawn nonetheless.

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8

[themothyards]

Her first kill is a Cabal legionary, the sole survivor of a patrol that Lord Shaxx has already dispatched. He has it pinned against a wall with the flat of his blade, muscles groaning in a contest of sheer will. Before he can sweep its legs from under it and remove its ugly head from its neck, Runa is there.

Her Hunter’s knife flashes in and out of its side, once, twice, three times, precisely in the soft places between armor that he has taken care to point out to her. It roars in agony until Shaxx crushes its faceplate with his own helm and it crumples to the ground. Runa is there again, and black blood sprays from the gash she opens in its throat.

“Haa,” she breathes, her face, neck, and hands covered in the foul liquid. “Haa.”

Then she falls to her knees and retches.

Shaxx gives her space as she vomits, her body shaking with adrenaline and with tiny, hiccuping sobs, fist still clenched around the hilt of her knife.

“There is no shame in tears,” he says when at last her breathing grows more even, kneeling beside her and placing a hand on her back. “Never forget that.”

She hiccups again by way of answer, and Shaxx allows her to shakily push herself upright without his aid. He passes her the corner of his Titan’s mark, and she tries to wipe the blood from her face with it, grimacing and spitting when she realizes some of it has made its way into her mouth.

“That was foolish,” he says, as Runa drops the cloth and glares up at him. All she has managed to do is smear the blood across her face.

“Foolish, but well done. Now sit, and give me your knife.”

Runa sits, and after a long moment she holds it out to him, catching herself and carefully turning it in both hands so that the hilt is first.

Shaxx knows that it will not be long before more Cabal come to investigate, but he kneels next to the dead legionary. Most of its armor is some type of metal, but some is a strong, flexible substance similar to leather. With some effort, he begins to cut strips of various shapes and sizes.

“Triumphs,” he says as he works. “Defeats. Losses. Deaths. Remember everything, the good and the bad. Remember the fear, and let it sharpen you. Do you understand?”

“No,” she says.

“No,” he agrees, “You do not.” In the distance, he hears the sound of heavy, booted footsteps, the grunts of another patrol. Runa hears it too, and her eyes dart nervously towards the noise.

“Come here.”

She does so, and he ties the strips to her as best he can, mean approximations of chest-plate, gauntlets, greaves. All he can give her by way of a helm is a headband.

When he is finished, he tears of a scrap of his mark and tucks it into her ragged trousers, then steps back and examines his work. The footsteps are much louder, now. In moments, the patrol will be upon them.

“Terrible,” he says. “But it will have to serve.”

As the Cabal round the corner he hears a roar of recognition as they are seen. A massive Gladiator charges from the group, its twin cleavers winking in the dusky light.

He holds the knife out to Runa and she clutches at it in a panic, but he does not let go.

“Look at me,” he says, and with effort Runa pulls her wide eyes from the rushing enemy and looks at him.

“This is nothing but a tool. You are the blade, little Shield-Sister. Do you understand?”

“No,” she says, and he can see her fear as her eyes close.

“No,” he snarls, “You do not.”

The Gladiator leaps at them, and in a smooth motion Shaxx draws his own sword and spins in a rising arc, his whole body shuddering as the blade cuts through armor and flesh and bone alike, shearing through the armpit of the creature and out the opposite shoulder.

He lands in a half-crouch, Gladiator dead at his feet, and looks down at Runa again.

“But you will.”

The Cabal descend, he tightens his grip on the hilt, and he roars and sprints to meet them.

Behind him, Runa raises her knife high in the air above her and lets out a ragged cry.

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8

[themothyards]

Shaxx looks up at his Ghost. Its eye is dim, and it does not speak, but it is there. Beyond it, in the night sky above them, the Traveler is equally dim within its cage.

“Are we going to have to fight more of them?

“Undoubtedly,” says Lord Shaxx, pulling his blade from the midsection of a fallen Cabal legionary. This does not seem to reassure the small Awoken girl at his side.

Runa stares down at her knife, taken from the body of a Hunter who will have no further use for it. It is comically large in her hand, practically a sword.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to die. Not if you were a Guardian.”

“There are no guarantees in battle,” Shaxx says. “I have seen many things, little Shield-Sister, but I have never seen the likes of this.”

“Is that why you fell over? When the thing happened?”

The Thing. Yes, when the Cabal ripped his Light from him. When he found himself unmistakably, deliriously, mortal.

“Indeed.”

“Oh.” Runa scrunches her face into a frown. She thinks for a moment, then looks up. “Fighting is hard,” she says, which to him seems a perfectly reasonable summation of their situation. Already they have crossed paths and blades with two groups of patrolling legionaries, and have stumbled over the bodies - none living - of more Guardians than Shaxx cares to count. So far, the Cabal have underestimated their Lightless foes, and he has not hesitated to make good use of that mistake.

Even so, there is only one of him, and he will have to ensure that numbers do not trump skill.

Beside him, Runa has gone back to practicing the simple slashes he has shown her. In, out; down and to the side in a tiny but vicious arc; she lets out little puffs of breath with each movement. Her eyes are still bright, despite the quaver in her voice: it is a good sign.

“Lock your wrist,” he says, without looking at her, “Or it will break.”

Runa nods as he scans the streets around them, her face a mask of concentration.

“Haa,” goes her breath. “Haa!”

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8

[themothyards]

Hi! I love your stuff, some of the best writing I’ve seen within the Destiny community. I was wondering if you do request or commission of some kind?

Greetings, Colleague;

Thank you for reaching out. Users are welcome to submit general avenues of inquiry at any time, although this does not guarantee that we will be able to locate or produce any logs.

If our users have specific requests or commissions in mind, we are always happy to discuss new projects.

Cordially,

The Mothyards

[themothyards]

The armory has been opened and emptied. Those who can carry weapons have been given them, and teams of Guardians have come to escort the survivors out of the burning City. On his back, the familiar heft of his blade is heavy with sharp-edged purpose. It will be enough. The Cabal have dared to bring war to his gates, and all that remains is to -

He hears the slapping of bare feet in the hallway behind him, and turns to see a small Awoken child, hands on her knees, chest heaving with exhaustion. After a moment, she manages to straighten. Her face trembles as she wipes her nose with a filthy hand, but Lord Shaxx recognizes her.

“You,” he says. “Are there others with you?”

Runa doesn’t answer. He doesn’t ask again. The building shakes as Cabal weaponry does its best to bring the ceiling down upon them.

“Are you running away?” she says at last. Her voice is barely a whisper.

“There is a difference between surrender and retreat. A hard lesson, but valuable.”

Runa shivers, looks down at the rubble on the floor around them, and mumbles something.

“I can’t hear you,” Shaxx barks.

“I don’t want to run away,” she says again, louder. “I don’t have anywhere to go. I want to fight.”

“I have no weapon to give you,” he says. “And even if I did, even if you could lift it, the recoil alone would shatter your arm. A foam dodge ball will do nothing against Cabal armor.”

“I don’t care. I want to fight.” Her voice cracks on the last word.

“Look up,” Shaxx says, more gently. “Look at me, and tell me why.”

Runa sniffs. She wipes her nose again, her hand a fist. At last she looks up at him, not trying to hide her tears.

“For the poor fools who will have to take my place if I fall,” she says.

Lord Shaxx stares back at her, and the fire in her eyes burns away his doubts. He adjusts the sword on his back, turns, and once more he pulls the armory doors open.

“Then come, little Guardian,” he says. “You are my Shield-Sister now, and together we will live to see the Cabal regret their folly.”

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8

[cmdrcat]

i will finish this damn comic if it kills me

[themothyards]

We cannot wait to see the finished product.

For those who are curious, the original story can be read here.

Cordially,

The Mothyards