The King was dead. What what was there left to do for him? There was only quiet left, for now. Typhon-3 wasn't quite as tall as you'd expect an exo titan to be, but hidden within his heavily plated armor and complex circuitry was a chip on his shoulder. Not the physical one left by the sword of crota, but a feeling. His titan brethren bark at his size, but they were slow. Too slow. He waited for his chance to prove them wrong with anticipation month by month. A challenge to honor the past, a test to prepare for the future, and little did he know, that future was nearly upon him. His long time mentor Saladin told him what was expected of him. What weapons to use, how many guardians to wipe out, how much territory to conquer. His fellow guardians fell by the wayside. They were fast, he was faster, but his golden bronze scout rifle was the fastest of all. Every burst fired from his shotgun was a tribute to the wolves he hoped one day to be counted among. Every havoc storm was a warning, big things can come in small packages. As the dust clears and the arc-bolts fade he is left with an uneasy feeling. He stands head to toe in the trophies of his victories in the iron banner and knows in his heart he is ready. Saladin looks to him and says nothing, but Typhon-3 feels the weight of his gaze as if to say "Celebrate while you can guardian, the darkness never sleeps for long.". -End transmission