AION Renewal Suit
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AION Renewal Suit is a Legendary Armor set introduced in The Edge of Fate. It can be acquired from Kepler.
AION Renewal Mask/Helm/Hood[edit]
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Listen, you awful hatchling Dregs, you whining scraps of flesh! We are Exile. Weak, argumentative, disrespectful wastes of Ether. That's what my Captain said at my final docking, and she was right.
Still, we live. Still, we have Dreg-strength. We are cunning little thieves with cunning little knives, yes? Even here, on this wretched moon, we scrape enough Ether to keep ourselves going. Enough to grow, never. Enough to live, we have.
What do you think the Houses will do when we descend from Luna to the blue land below and say, velask, it's been a while, we're here to join the effort? Will they give us cloaks and banners in soft new Dusk purple? Will they revoke our exile?
You're young. Listen to Azeryks. Look at his scars. Four molts I've been through since Venus. The carapace remembers. If your Captain likes you, she docks you with a knife, clean and fast, at the joint.
Mine used her hands.
Go down to the Barons with four arms open, asking for a share of Ether? No. No.
Levaszk brought me to Exile when I thought I would die. He showed me a way to live without Archon or Kell to dictate my growth, my life. Levaszk my friend took his wrist-blade and finished my docking. He trimmed away the shreds of muscle and shell where they met my body as I flinched and wept under his hands.
All so my arms would grow back straight. Look at me now, Exile's hatchlings! Weak and contrary and alive! Breathing still!
If Levaszk says go, Azeryks follows.
AION Renewal Grips/Gauntlets/Gloves[edit]
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- "I sang him a song of the Long Drift. He did not know the words, but he understood."
- — Azeryks, un-Wintered
Levaszk my friend has brought us to a green world. The green of Exile, he says. Our torn capes and chipped paint were prophecy. We are meant to be here.
Levaszk is gifted with tongues. He can convince anybody of anything, even the Humans. He sits on a carpet woven by small Human hands and sings to their Diin about local gravity and chemical reactions. Servitors listen and sing descant, calculating Ether-gain from huge pillows of slime mold.
Our new home is warmer and wetter than Luna. The throat doesn't click so dryly against inhaled Ether. It's good, it's good—except for the fear of mold growing in rebreather linings. Except for when the wet against my shell makes my lower arms ache with Venus's memory.
Rhys, the Human Splicer-apprentice, sings another question to me. I settle my shoulders under my cloak and gesture: apologies, again?
"You and your people maintain ancient systems," he repeats. "How do you—" here he sings a note I do not understand. He sees my confusion. "New and old. Scrap, garbage, rusting trash. New metal. Together?"
"We are used to building with scrap," I sing back, and we enter a discussion of material recycling. They are used to scrap-patchwork here too, on Kepler.
Light fades from the sky, and his Splicer-master approaches. "Karrh-nahan," I say politely. She smiles with her mobile, fleshy cheeks. "Athareks," she says to me, her best attempt yet. Rhys is lucky; his name is no trouble for either of us to say.
The Humans are not worried about blows from a stranger's hand. They come up to me, my four arms filled with stolen knives, and all they ask is the composition and tensile strength of the metal. The engine that drives them is not fear or resource-hunger, but curiosity. We are trying to learn from them, we poor Exiles.
But they have their own ways, and it is time for their evening ritual. Carnahan urges Rhys up from his seat.
We nod to each other, the young Splicer-apprentice and the aging Exile.
There will be time to solve the problems of materials science later.
AION Renewal Vest/Plate/Robes[edit]
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- "I must have faith in something."
- — Azeryks, un-Wintered
No Archon, no Kell, no hand on the docking blade. None of us hungrier for Ether than a Baron. This is what we said. This is what we believed. If Exile has a creed, it is this: we will not be led.
But if Levaszk my friend tells me that we must have an Archon to make our Gift-Ether, how can I say no?
My hatchlings, you thriving scraps of Exile, Levaszk saved your lives like he saved mine. Brought us far out of range of Dusk and the deathless monsters eating the Light of the Great Machine. Life is soft here—so fresh from the molt, a touch would bruise its shell.
He says that this world is a gift, that we can relinquish the base Ether of Sol to breathe its presence. We will become weighty, meaningful followers of a true path.
Is this our true path? Exiled from Riis, then from our own Houses? This I don't know. The Great Machine left us and took our true path from us, I think. I was not born to a kind fate.
But Levaszk offers us a path.
Look, this is my last Ether seed. This is the end of the cache I kept hidden from all of you. Look, I release the valve. See it rising purple into the air—the last breath of Ether wheedled from Luna's bare ground.
Our Servitors could set up the light-arrays, coax what bare scraps of Ether we could get from solar power. I could breathe it and survive. But Levaszk my friend and Archon says that we can breathe the Ether of this world, heavy with dark matter, and do more than survive.
Fated or not, there is only one path for us.
AION Renewal Strides/Greaves/Boots[edit]
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- "It takes an Archon to understand our fated Gifts."
- — Azeryks, un-Wintered
Levaszk is my Archon and my friend. Each time I hold a piece of fruit with my strong lower arms I remember what I owe him. He breathes in Gift-Ether, and he breathes out our future.
Levaszk stands at the front of our Ketch, slime mold crawling up the hems of his cape. "The Aionians are jealous neighbors," he cries. "They will take all the gifts of this world and leave none for us."
Clever Keelsk, sent down from Kings, looks up from the crowd. "We have shared until now," he says. "The Giver is huge, and we are few. We could claim half the planetoid and have Gift-Ether enough for our hatchlings' hatchlings."
"It is not enough," Levaszk roars. He clicks deep in his chest. The thrum conducts hard through the metal of the Ketch, and all the young in the front row sway back, flinching.
Levaszk paces through the crowd. He stares out into the sky, to the Giver. No Machine, yet still Great.
"Look," says Levaszk, voice soft and persuasive. "What do our cousins have back in Sol? Eight livable planets and a warm sun. Endless territory and allies. The presence of the Great Machine. What do we want? This little green patch and the benevolence of the Giver. It's not so much. It's not more than we deserve."
What does an Exile own apart from worn-down armor, apart from a little hoard of worthless treasures? We could own this place. This is what Levaszk offers to us in his open hands.
And like we're jumping off the Ishtar Cliffs, we take it.
AION Renewal Cloak/Mark/Bond[edit]
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- "We were hatched in the dark. Now we breathe it."
- — Azeryks, Herald of the Archon
We are cut off from the Aionians, and they are cut off from the Giver. Levaszk my friend and Archon speaks law, and he has spoken this.
But Rhys the apprentice-Splicer is my friend too. I breathe only lightly of the Gift-Ether as I make my way to the Human settlement. But I must breathe a little. It fogs my mind, I think—or is that only the worry of a weak and disrespectful Dreg?
I know where my friend, the Splicer-apprentice, lives. His door is not locked.
I tap at the Human-sized door. I open it, folding myself to enter. Rhys looks up from his work. He is Reviewer Three for a cousin's dissertation, he told me. It is an honor for one not yet a master himself.
"There is something wrong," I sing to him. "The Gift-Ether has twisted Levaszk's mind. He is sick. If I tell you the symptoms, will you tell an apothecary?"
My friend is brave. He nods to me and opens a new file on his pad.
Is it bravery to betray Levaszk so?
"He imagines the Giver speaks to him. He imagines himself a priest of a new god, and us his acolytes."
Rhys beckons me to say more. My mandibles ache with muscle tension and the cold of the Gift-Ether. Some painful thing rises in my throat.
"The Prime Archon Levaszk is the savior of his people," I say, and when I speak it is in Levaszk's voice.
I clap a hand to my mouth to stop the voice. The edge of my rebreather slams into my jaw.
"Azeryks, my Housemate, my trusted hand," I croon through my palm. "Are you so quickly given over to cowardice? This is our true fate. This is the path given to us. I will lead us there, our House glad, powerful, singing hymns to the Giver."
My friend Rhys's eyes are huge in his head, so bright with fear I would have thought him breathing Ether. This is what I have given him, this fear is Exile's host-gift.
My tongue is my own for a bare moment. "Do not trust me again," I tell Rhys.
His door bangs loudly against its frame as I leave.
And where else do I have left to go but back to Levaszk—my Archon, my friend?
Appearance[edit]
- Destiny 2: The Edge of Fate (First appearance)
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