Grimoire:Inventory/Primary Weapons
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The Primary Weapons subsection of the Grimoire covers subjects related to Auto rifles, Pulse rifles, Scout rifles, and Hand cannons.
Auto Rifles
All-purpose weapons of war, the standard Auto Rifle is ideal for a number of combat scenarios. Stability is key to controlling fully automatic weapons.
SUROS Regime
Nostalgia as a weapon of war. Style as a hallmark of victory.
Suros engineers designed the Regime using recovered Golden Age schematics. Forced out of production by a crippling shortage of smartmatter, the few remaining models are cherished by those Guardians fortunate enough to wield them.
Hard Light
Ionized polymer synballistic attack platform. The system's lethality is dynamically robust across tactical spaces.
As the City's understanding of Golden Age methods expands, foundries continue to push the cutting edge of tactical armament. The Hard Light prototype is a showcase, built with the rarest recovered materials and the most computationally demanding design methods. The design team included several specialist Exos and at least one Warlock thanatonaut.
In its current iteration, the Hard Light design fires a superheated polymer round with exotic capabilities.
Monte Carlo
There will always be paths to tread and methods to try. Roll with it.
Originally designed as a showpiece, the Monte Carlo's sleek demeanor and intricate firing system make it more than a fashion statement. In the right hands, this beauty puts all the risk at the wrong end of its bayonet
Necrochasm
"Eternity is very close. Can you feel yourself slipping?"
The Weapons of Sorrow were believed to be nothing more than a myth. But even the darkest myths are born of some truths, and whispers of the Necrochasm have long filled the Light with dread.
It is said the Necrochasm was born in the twilight after Crota's sword first cracked the Moon. That a lost Guardian's weapon was altered by the Hive in an attempt to fuse their own dark understanding with humanity's mastery of war. The result was a weapon that would feed on its owner's aggression—reaching further when angry eyes drew focus, its hunger rising as it tore through bone and flesh.
Any Guardian who comes across the weapon must ask some very simple questions with endlessly complicated answers: Is your Light bright enough to stand, even briefly, in full gaze of the Hive's abyss? Can it handle what has died and been reborn in those shadows?
Zhalo Supercell
An upcycled torrent of righteous thunder.
When you're out beyond the Wall, sometimes you have to take what you can find, and make it work. Though its original makers and their no-doubt-desperate straits are lost to history, the Zhalo Supercell remains a striking example of what a Guardian can do with some outdated tech, a deep command of fundamental Light, and a spark of inspiration.
Fabian Strategy
Wait for enemy to make a mistake. Die. Stand by for Ghost Resurrection. Repeat as necessary.
"Good evening, Banshee-44!"
"Howdy."
"Doing well, thank you. ...Actually, I had a bit of difficulty today."
"Uh..."
"The problem with a historical engram is, even if I can figure out when the engram was encoded, that still doesn't tell me when the contents were written. Or even when the events described by the writer take place."
"Uh huh."
"This particular engram is heavily degraded. Encoded Mid-Golden Age, allegedly written by someone named Plutarch, a historian who in turn is writing about someone named Fabius Maximus. But who were they? When did they live? In what kind of warfare was this 'Fabian Strategy' applied?"
"The whatnow strategy?"
"Fabian Strategy. It apparently involves attrition tactics and avoiding direct conflict until an enemy makes a mistake."
"...Huh."
"'Huh' indeed!"
"...But with Ghost res—"
Scout Rifles
The preferred weapon of seasoned marksmen, the Scout Rifle is a single-shot precision firearm. Favoring accuracy above all else, the Scout Rifle packs increased stopping power to counter its low rate of fire.
MIDA Multi-Tool
Select application: Ballistic engagement. Entrenching tool. Avionics trawl. Troll smasher. Stellar sextant. List continues.
Few weapons are balanced this precisely. Once you get a feel for the Multi-Tool it will sit weightlessly in your hand. Firing it will feel less like an action and more like an extension of your will.
The Fate of All Fools
The wise man knows his fate. The fool merely finds it.
The weapon gathers data on the target from the impact and spall of solid body shots, setting up a devastating final hit.
Touch of Malice
- "Let them feel every lash, every curse, every touch of malice that they first dealt to me."
- — Eris Morn
Here am I, with the power to craft from my enemy's darkest secrets a weapon that could wound them at their core!
So what stays my hand?
When I behold the interiority of these cold, cold fragments, I see blind, squirming creatures. Every wound they give, they feel also upon themselves. Every bite they tear from the Light only deepens, never fills, the raging emptiness behind their terrible mouths.
The voices are as loud as ever. My nightmares just as bitter. My coal-black hatred burns as hot. But I feel something else now. Could it be...
No! I refuse it.
I will build this weapon.
The Jade Rabbit
What kind of harebrained scheme have you got in mind this time?
Like many weapons of the Dark Age, the Jade Rabbit was created from hastily reassembled—and often poorly understood—Golden Age technology: in this case, kinetic low-atmosphere propulsion systems in use on Luna settlements. Even the weapon's casing is cut from the plasteel bulwarks of the First Light installation.
The significance of the markings: 玉兔, or "Jade Rabbit," are unfortunately lost to history.
Boolean Gemini
Fight your way!
City foundries produce a wide variety of weapons in an attempt to anticipate Guardians' ever-changing needs on the battlefield. But no Guardian can carry all guns at all times.
Enter the Boolean Gemini. Designed by a think tank of Guardians and foundry representatives, the Gemini was designed to be two guns in one, with a flexible design that allows Guardians to toggle between distinct combat styles for maximum efficiency.
Tlaloc
Release the storm. Hold nothing back.
"Master Rey."
"Gunsmith... What brings you here?"
"Workin' on a custom piece."
"Are you?"
"Yep. For a Warlock."
"Mm. And how are you finding the work?"
"You know. It goes and comes. Memory ain't what it was."
"Yes."
"Good to be back in the shop, though."
"I'm glad of it. Well, then, I suspect you'll find some of my recent research quite interesting."
"S'why I'm here."
Pulse Rifles
The Pulse Rifle is designed for precision fire and tight shot grouping. Three-round bursts provide added punch with reduced recoil compared to fully automatic weapons. Skilled shooters often walk the burst from the target's center of mass onto the head.
Bad Juju
"If you believe your weapon wants to murder all existence, then so it will."
- Toland the Shattered
There must be a structured, mechanical explanation for this weapon's hunger for combat. There must be. But none has been found.
Red Death
Vanguard policy urges Guardians to destroy this weapon on sight. It is a Guardian killer.
Only rumors tell of the mad Guardian who fashioned this butcher's tool. But its power is undeniable, and fear is a formidable weapon.
No Time To Explain
A single word is etched onto the inside of the weapon's casing: "Soon."
Novarro's timeline analysis indicates the weapon is the fabled Exo Stranger's Rifle, enhanced at a future point in this continuity and then sent back to this present.
Deliah's timeline analysis indicates the weapon was built by Praedyth, who based it on his own version of the Exo Stranger's Rifle, and then set it adrift in a time ripple.
Hari's timeline analysis indicates the weapon was built by beings of unidentifiable origin, and arrived here by pure accident.
Inachis's timeline analysis indicates the weapon originates from Earth, late Golden Age, and will eventually be lost to time ripples once again, where its systems will degrade and be replaced until our recent past acquires it as the Exo Stranger's Rifle.
As for me... I think it's safe to say the weapon is proving far more fun than we could have hoped.
Outbreak Prime
"This is an advanced Golden Age technology tied to the death of some of the Light’s greatest champions. It’s currently being used as a tool of the Fallen to push the limits of bio-evolutionary realities. And you’re kit-bashing it together with projectile-based war systems to make a handheld mechanism that delivers aggressive nano-mites?” –Ghost
“That’s one way to put it. All I know is... when you pull this trigger, one plus one equals zero every time. I’ve done the math.” –Shiro-4
Hand Cannons
Sturdy and reliable, Hand Cannons have long been a preferred tool for self-defense. Their low rate of fire and modest accuracy is more than made up for by their ease of handling and superior stopping power.
Hawkmoon
Stalk thy prey and let loose thy talons upon the Darkness
The Hawkmoon is a true gunslinger's weapon - a smooth sidearm that makes every bullet count...some more than others.
The Last Word
- "Yours...not mine."
- — Renegade Hunter Shin Malphur to Dredgen Yor during the showdown at Dwindler's Ridge
The Last Word is a romantic weapon, a throwback to simpler times when steady aim and large rounds were enough to dispense justice in the wilds of a lawless frontier. Of course, some might say that time has come again.
Ghost Fragment: The Last Word
I'm writing this from memory - some mine, but not all. The facts won't sync with the reality, but they'll be close, and there's no one to say otherwise, so for all intents and purposes, this will be the history of a settlement we called Palamon and the horrors that followed an all too brief peace.
I remember home, and stories of a paradise we'd all get to see some day - of a City, "shining even in the night." Palamon didn't shine, but it was sanctuary, of a sort.
We'd settled in the heart of a range that stretched the horizon. Wooded mountains that shot with purpose toward the sky. Winters were harsh, but the trees and peaks hid us from the world. We talked about moving on, sometimes, striking out for the City. But it was just a longing.
Drifters came and went. On occasion they would stay, but rarely. We had no real government, but there was rule of law. Basic tenets agreed upon by all and eventually overseen by Magistrate Loken.
And there you have it...no government, until there was. I was young, so I barely understood. I remember Loken as a hardworking man who just became broken. Mostly I think he was sad. Sad and frightened. As his fingers tightened on Palamon, people left. Those who stayed saw our days became grey. Loken's protection - from the Fallen, from ourselves - became dictatorial.
Looking back, I think maybe Loken had just lost too much - of himself, his family. But everyone lost something. And some of us had nothing to begin with. My only memory of my parents is a haze, like a daydream, and a small light, like the spark of their souls. It's not anything I dwell on. They left me early, taken by Dregs.
Palamon raised me from there. The family I call my own - called my own - cared for me as if I was their natural born son. And life was good. Being the only life I knew, my judgment is skewed, and it wasn't easy - pocked by loss as it was - but I would call it good.
Until, of course, it wasn't.
Until two men entered my world. One a light. The other the darkest shadow I would ever know.
Ghost Fragment: The Last Word 2
The man I would come to know as Jaren Ward, my third father and quite possibly my closest friend, came to Palamon from the south. I was just a boy, but I'll never forget his silhouette on the empty trail as he made his slow walk into town.
I'd never seen anything like him. Maybe none of us had. He'd said he was only passing through, and I believed him - still do, but life can get in the way of intent, and often does.
I can picture that day with near perfect clarity. Of all the details though - every nuance, every moment - the memory that sticks in my mind is the iron on Jaren's hip. A cannon that looked both pristine and lived in. Like a relic of every battle he'd ever fought, hung low at his waste - a trophy and a warning.
This man was dangerous, but there was a light about him - a pureness to his weight - that seemed to hint that his ire was something earned, not carelessly given.
I'd been the first to see him as he approached, but soon most of Palamon had turned out to greet him. My father held me back as everyone stood in silence.
Jaren didn't make a sound behind his sleek racer's helmet. He looked just like the heroes in the stories, and to this day I'm not sure one way or the other if the silence between the town's people and the adventurer was born of fear or respect. I like to think the latter, but any truth I try to place on the moment would be of my own making.
As we waited for Magistrate Loken to arrive and make an official greeting, my patience got the best of me. I shook free of my father's heavy hand and made the short sprint across the court, stopping a few paces from where this new curiosity stood - a man unlike any other.
I stared up at him and he lowered his attention to me, his eyes hidden behind the thick tinted visor of his headgear. My sight quickly fell to his sidearm. I was transfixed by it. I imagined all the places that weapon had been. All of the wonders it had seen. The horrors it had endured. My imagination darted from one heroic act to the next.
I barely registered when he began to kneel, holding out the iron as if an offering. But my eyes locked onto the piece, mesmerized.
I recall turning back to my father and seeing the looks on the faces of everyone I knew. There was worry there - my father slowly shaking his head as if pleading with me to ignore the gift.
I turned back to the man I would come to know as Jaren Ward, the finest Hunter this system may ever know and one of the greatest Guardians to ever defend the Traveler's Light...
And I took the weapon in my hand. Carefully. Gently.
Not to use. But to observe. To imagine. To feel its weight and know its truth.
That was the first time I held "Last Word," but, unfortunately, not the last.
Ghost Fragment: The Last Word 3
It was the fourth night of the seventh moon.
Nine rises since any sign.
Trail wasn't cold, but lukewarm would've been an exaggeration.
Jaren had us hold by a ravine.
The heavy wood along the cliffs' edge caught the wind, holding back the cold and the rush of water muffled our conversation.
We'd seen dual Skiffs hanging low as they cut through the valley.
Wasn't known Fallen territory, but anymore that's a dangerous assumption.
There were six of us then.
Three less than two moons prior, but still, one more than when we'd first turned our backs to Palamon's ash.
We took a rotation for watch during the night.
Movement was kept to a minimum and communication was down to hand signals and simple gestures.
We could hold our own in a fight, but only the dead went looking for one—a hard truth that cut in direct opposition to our reasons for being so far from anything resembling civilization, much less our safety.
The Skiffs had spooked Kressler and Nada, and, in truth, me as well. But, looking back, I think we were all just grasping for any good reason to turn back.
Not because we would—turn back—but because it seemed to be our only real hope, and I think we all knew it.
Forward. Where we were headed—into the unknown. And following the footsteps we were. It all just started to feel like a never-ending dead end after a while.
Jaren never wavered though. Not once.
At least not to any noticeable degree.
It was his drive, his conviction, that kept us going.
And—it's hard to think on—but if I'm honest, it was his death that rekindled my own fire. A fire that was all but exhausted on that cold night.
He seemed confident we were close.
But more than confident—sure. He seemed sure.
No one else felt it—our own confidence, and any enthusiasm we'd had was set to wither soon as Brevin, Trenn and Mel were gunned down.
The Ghost—Jaren's Ghost—never said a word to any of us. Just hung there. Always alert. Always judging. Not us, per se, but the moment. Any moment.
I never got the sense it thought of us as lesser. More that it was guarded, wary.
We knew it could speak. We'd overheard them a few times. Just brief words, and no one ever pressed the subject.
From time to time I caught its gaze lingering on me, but always assumed the attention was a result of the bond Jaren and I had. He was a father to me. At the time I didn't know why he'd singled me out as someone to care for. Someone to protect. After all the loss, I welcomed it, but looking back—taking in the arm's length at which he kept the others—I guess I should've known, or at least suspected there was more to it.
We all woke that night, closer to morning than the previous day.
A crack of gunfire split through the wood. Then more.
Far off, but near enough to pump the blood.
A familiar ring. "Last Word." Jaren's sidearm. His best friend. Then another. A single shot, an unmistakable echo calling through the night. Hushed, cutting.
One shot, dark and infernal. Followed by silence.
We crouched low and quiet. Listening. Hoping.
Jaren was gone. Off on his own.
Maybe we were closer than we'd allowed ourselves to believe.
Too close.
He'd gone to face death alone.
I couldn't admit it—not at the time—but he thought he was protecting us.
After such a long road—years on its heels, a trail littered with suffering and fire—maybe he just couldn't take the thought of anymore dead "kids," as he called us.
The echoes faded and we all held still. No way to track the direction. No sense in rushing blind.
What was done was done.
The cadence of the shots fired told a story none of us cared to hear.
"Last Word" it hadn't been. And somewhere in the world, close enough for us to bear absent witness but far enough to be a dream, Jaren Ward lay dead or dying. And there was nothing to be done.
Hours passed. An eternity.
We held our spot, but as the sun rose the others began to fade back into the world. Without Jaren there was nothing holding us together. No driving force. Vengeance had grown stale as a motivator. Fear and a longing to see more suns rise drove a wedge between duty and desire.
By midday I was alone. I couldn't leave. Wouldn't.
Either I would find Jaren and set him at ease, or the other would find me and that would be a fitting end.
Death marching on.
But then, a motion. Quick and darting. My muscles tensed and my hand shot to the grip of my leadslinger.
Then a confirmation of the horrible truth I had already accepted, as Jaren's Ghost came to a halt a few paces in front of me.
I exhaled and slumped forward. Still standing, but broken. The tiny Light looked me over with a curious tilt to its axis, then shot a beam of light over my body. Scanning me as it had done the very first time we met.
I looked up. Staring into its singular glowing eye.
And it spoke...
Ghost Fragment: The Last Word 4
Then.
Palamon was ash.
I was only a boy – my face caked in soot, snot and sorrow.
I'd assumed Jaren, my friend, our Guardian, the savior of Palamon, would always protect us – could always save us...
But I was a fool.
Jaren, and the others, only a handful, but still our best hunters, our hardest hearts, had left three suns prior. Tracking Fallen, after the bandits had caused a stir.
The stranger – the other – arrived the following day.
He rarely spoke. Took a room. Took our hospitality.
I was intrigued by him, as I was Jaren when he'd first arrived.
But the stranger was cold. Distant. Damaged, I thought.
But I wasn't afraid. Not yet.
Only a child, I knew the monsters of our world to walk like men, but they were not. They were something alien. Four-armed and savage.
The stranger was polite, but solemn.
I took him for a sad, broken man, and he was. Though, at the time, I didn't understand how that could make one dangerous.
As with Jaren, father made an effort to keep me away from the stranger.
It wouldn't matter.
As the silhouette approached, fear held tight.
The dark figure towered over me. Looking into me – through me.
He smiled. My knees weak. All lost.
Then, he turned and walked away.
Leaving ruin and a heartbroken, terrified boy in his wake without a second glance.
I've been chasing that stranger's shadow ever since.
Now.
We stood silent, the sun high.
Seconds passed, feeling more like hours.
He looked different.
He seemed, now, to be weightless – effortless in an existence that would crush a man burdened by conscience.
My gaze remained locked as I felt a heat rising inside of me. The other spoke...
"Been awhile."
I gave no reply.
"The gunslinger's sword... his cannon. That was a gift."
My silence held as my thumb caressed the perfectly worn hammer at my hip.
"An offering from me... to you."
The heat grew. Centered in my chest.
I felt like a coward the day Jaren Ward died and for many cycles after.
But here, I felt only the fire of my Light.
The other probed...
"Nothing to say?"
He let the words hang.
"I've been waiting for you. For this day."
His attempt at conversation felt mundane when judged against all that had come before.
"Many times I thought you'd faltered. Given up..."
All I'd lost, all who'd suffered, flashed rapid through my mind, intercut with a dark silhouette walking toward a frightened, weak, coward of a boy.
The fire burned in me.
The other continued...
"But here you are. This is truly an end..."
As his tongue slipped between syllables my gun hand moved as if of its own will.
Reflex and purpose merged with anger, clarity and an overwhelming need for just that... an end.
In step with my motion, the fire within burst into focus – through my shoulder, down my arm – as my finger closed on the trigger of my third father's cannon.
Two shots. Two bullets engulfed in an angry glow. The other fell.
I walked to his corpse. He never raised his cursed Thorn – the jagged gun with the festering sickness.
I looked down at the dead man who had caused so much death.
My shooter still embraced by the dancing flames of my Light. A sadness came over me.
I thought back to my earliest days. Of Palamon. Of Jaren.
Leveling my cannon at the dead man's helm, I paid one final tribute to my mentor, my savior, my father and my friend...
"Yours... Not mine."
...as I closed my grip, allowing Jaren's cannon, now my own, to have the last, loud word.
Thorn
- "To rend one's enemies is to see them not as equals, but objects - hollow of spirit and meaning."
- — 13th Understanding, 7th Book of Sorrow
Augmented through dark practices, Thorn was once a hero's weapon. Its jagged frame hints at a sinister truth: a powerful connection to the unutterable sorceries of the Hive.
The legend of Thorn is bound to the rise and fall of Dredgen Yor, a Guardian whose name is remembered with disgust and shame. The weapon was thought destroyed...but rumors of its existence still haunt the wilds.
