Some evils you cannot fight alone. Join with other brave Guardians to quest deep into the heart of Darkness and confront threats beyond imagination.
Steel yourself. You will be tested to the very edge of your strength.
Vault of Glass
His name was Kabr. He wasn't my friend but I knew and respected him as a Guardian and a good man.
He fought the Vex alone. This destroyed him. In the time before he vanished he said things that I think should be remembered. These are some of them:
"In the Vault time frays and a needle moves through it. The needle is the will of Atheon. I do not know the name of the shape that comes after the needle.
No one can open the Vault alone. I opened the Vault. There was no one with me but I was not alone.
You will meet the Templar in a place that is a time before or after stars. The stars will move around you and mark you and sing to you. They will decide if you are real.
I drank of them. It tasted like the sea."
That is all I can remember.
Relic: The Aegis
These are the last words of Kabr, the Legionless:
I have destroyed myself to do this. They have taken my Ghost. They are in my blood and brain. But now there is hope.
I have made a wound in the Vault. I have pierced it and let in the Light. Bathe in it, and be cleansed. Look to it, and understand:
From my own Light and from the thinking flesh of the Vex I made a shield. The shield is your deliverance. It will break the unbreakable. It will change your fate.
Bind yourself to the shield. Bind yourself to me. And if you abandon your purpose, let the Vault consume you, as it consumed me.
Now it is done. If I speak again, I am not Kabr.
My name is Eriana-3, disciple of the Praxic Warlocks, marked by the Cormorant Seal. Survivor of the great disaster: the day we set out to retake our moon, united in a host of thousands, and found ourselves outmatched by one Hive champion of unspeakable power.
The monster's name is Crota. He killed my friends face to face, one by one, and he relished it. In the name of all those lost I devote myself to his utter destruction.
This is my confession. If I transgress in your eyes I ask for your forgiveness.
In our world Crota seemed invincible. Together Eris Morn and I worked the problem, but found no hope. So we sought forbidden knowledge—the exiled master of Hive arcana.
We found Toland.
Toland tells us that Crota's presence in our world is a shadow. That its true power resides in a netherworld forged by his will. We must pass through a keyhole between realities, navigate the seething midnight of Crota's world-mind, and overthrow the ascendant champions that gather to his throne.
Toland speaks—he hardly seems mad, at times—of the terrible things that await us. A secret song he hungers to learn, and the issue of that song, an ashen burning star-husk that looms above, the utter antithesis of life. He talks of it with a curious ambition I do not want to understand.
Tomorrow I will ask Agah, Mota and Tarlowe if they will go with us. If we fail, I leave this record for Guardians to come. Remember us.
Eris, Eris, what a name, a name for discord, a name for far cold orbits where no living thing should dare to go. I like this name.
Let me give you a gift, Eris. Let me tell you about the power in the logic of the sword:
A Shredder or a Boomer is a powerful weapon, but it kills acyclically. You see? It sends out harm and it takes nothing back. The bolt passes away into nothing. A sword, though, a sword is like a bridge, a crossing-point. The sword binds wielder to victim. It binds life to death. And when the binding is done—the sword remembers. When the Boomer's fire has burnt away into axion and neutrino scatter, the sword goes on, hungrier and sharper.
Understand that this nightmare logic underpins His nightmare world, and you will see why the ascendant blade has so much power there. Whenever in our passage we find ourselves in need of power—remember that the greatest authority here is a blade made keen by eons of use.
This is the world the Hive craves: a universe creased by the edge of the sharpest sword.
Where are you going? No, wait, listen.
I was right, at first. In the ever-expanding Blighted-place, even Light must obey the sword-logic. Even you Guardians, you best and brightest of the dying dawn, you drew blood in honor of the Taken King. The Warpriest did his duty, and you did yours. Oryx was challenged, yes, but challenged in the way of the Hive, which is to say that challenge is worship — is challenge — is power. Sword-logic. You played your part well.
You were not supposed to touch the Light.
How did you find your way into the King's Cellars? How did you even recognize that benighted draught for what it was? Do you not know that the Hive pursue Light precisely for the purpose of devouring it with slavering jaws and slick greedy gulping throats? How did you take (or rather, un-Take) the Blighted Light that Oryx gathered to offer in sacrifice to Akka, and ignite it so that it burned and burned the Darkness?
It was barely Light anymore. But you took it. And when you took it, you did not keep it. You set it free.
You fools! You disastrous, bumbling squanderers! It's not right! Who now shall be First Navigator, Lord of Shapes, harrowed god, Taken King? Not you! You might have been Kings and Queens of the Deep! But you have toppled Oryx and you have not replaced him!
There must be a strongest one. It is the architecture of these spaces.
Why are you leaving?
Wrath of the Machine
\\INTERCEPTED FALLEN SIGNAL
Fellow Houses. Fellow Eliksni. We have found the means to apotheosis, to become machines.
SIVA can make you strong, but we can show you how to wield it, to free yourself from the bonds of Ether. Find us in the wasteland and bring us an offering of SIVA.
In return, we will bring you to our chamber of perfection.
And we will free you.