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covered in temporal instabilities that showed a glimpse of the Golden Age's crop fields. Red Legion auxiliaries of the Imperial Cabal started building a massive

"Carefully tended lakes and rivers" are mentioned along with "fields of lush iridescent crops" and "groves of starkly coloured trees". The sky was a light

operations near the Cradle. What's your location? Ghost: We're in some kind of crop field. Eris Morn: What you see is a window into the golden age. Mars has returned

Scar Asher Mir Ghost: "Looks like Asher might have come through here to do field work. You know, you'd think the City's foremost expert on the Vex would be

with twelve others; it doubled as both training ground and lodging for a new crop of Techeuns. The mustiness made Ylaia crave the open air of the Dreaming

mathematical structures, as bodiless and inevitable as the primes. *** It was the field of possibility that prefigured existence. They existed, because they had

assessing. Flimsy building. Big empty field. Low attack readiness in this loft. Flimsy building. Big empty field. Low attack readiness… And still, no matter

the window, she sees Zavala and their son spar with wooden swords in the field behind their home. It is play. Their son is nine. Safiyah can hear the clack

out a breath, then scanned the field again, past child after squirming child. He quickly discerned the two on the field with the best athletic potential

mathematical structures, as bodiless and inevitable as the primes. *** It was the field of possibility that prefigured existence. They existed, because they had

mathematical structures, as bodiless and inevitable as the primes. *** It was the field of possibility that prefigured existence. They existed, because they had

assessing. Flimsy building. Big empty field. Low attack readiness in this loft. Flimsy building. Big empty field. Low attack readiness… And still, no matter

keeps extensive notes on these stress tests in a tattered notebook with "Field Armor Experiments" scrawled on its cover. So far, though, he hasn't tried

the window, she sees Zavala and their son spar with wooden swords in the field behind their home. It is play. Their son is nine. Safiyah can hear the clack

lines of florescent bulbs popped or burnt out ages ago litter the floor in a field of glass shards that transform Jinju's light-beam into prismatic skitters