Alcohol was the only thing that would sate the pain pulsing at his knuckles. He sat in the cozy corner of the desolate bar, lit dimly by the blacklight highlighting the blood and ash covering his hands. The cushions under him were cold and stiff, ripped up; they smelled sulfuric. Maybe that was him? It didn't matter. The waitress walked by, beautiful black locks of hair falling to delicate shoulders, nose small and short, a look of disdain on her face as she passed by him. He could care less. All that Jotunde could keep his mind on was her buxom behind, full hips gyrating as she strode forward. He did so while sipping from his cup of scotch, letting the fiery drink slip down his throat. He could already feel the buzz in his head as he set his glass down. It shattered slightly, a crack sider-webbing up its side, leaving a voucher of Glimmer on the table. A belch escaped him as he walked from the bar. Once he exited, it opened up to the city surrounding him; more importantly, the Last City, dwarfed by both the shattered Traveler hanging low over Earth and the monolithic Tower to the north. A perpetual shadow was cast over the raucous city, which was fine, since it was a blazing July afternoon. The sun grappled to the horizon beyond the imposing skyline and cast shadows across the faces of the passerby that Jotunde shoved through. As they passed, most wrinkled their noses or shot patronizing glares, to which the Titan was completely oblivious. He just walked forward to his destination, occasionally letting loose the occasional belch from the gasses of the alcohol passing up through his throat, only adding to the dismay of the citizens. He bore the Mark of the Guardian on his shoulder, a proud crest emblazened in gold that garnered pride. Hope. A profound sense of valor and the blessing of the Light. Instead, he was only treated like a common vagrant. He was almost universally known, for all the wrong reasons. Like the many other Guardians and even militia that served on the great Tower, he worked in the shroud of fame that was given to The Disciples, a fireteam of six that served as the best and brightest of the Vanguard. They were the ones that laid waste to The Black Garden and the Time's Conflux, Crota and his father, Skolas, and ended the Siva Crisis. They overcame the hordes of the Red Legion and slayed Ghaul, running countless Nightfalls in the process. However, Jotunde was equal in infamy. He was always covered in seminal fluid, piss, and gore, a thin sheen of dirt always wrapped around him. He was despised by all who worked in the inner orders of Earth's defense, including Zavala, Ikora and even Cayde. Thus was the reason why he only went to the Tower when directly commanded, otherwise crashing at various places at the Last City. He was the begrudging patron of many bars, the scourge of seedy orgies hidden within the underbelly of well-known communes, and a fiend of the Crucible; it was where he had garnered his nickname, The Hell Knight, wrapped in a cacophony of Solar energy that made him the visage of Devil. Soon as he departed the bar, he came to his favorite place to bang; The Seeder Inn, a haven of filth and the most desperately horny vagrants in all of the City. He rapped on the door with his raw, bloody knuckles, loosely bandaged by dirty gauze. His hand was still sticky from the shit-ton of hard liquor he poured on his wounds to kill the infections. A slot slid open, and two blue eyes peered out, Awoken by nature. "Password?" The voice inquired. "Ouroboros," Jotunde spoke with a thick drawl, a clever passphrase alluding to self-induced fellatio by comparison to Ouroboros, the snake eating his own tail. It was made by the owner of the establishment, a former Hunter by the name of Atexan, who he presumed he was talking too current. The door flew open on its rusty hinges with a squeal and confimed Jotunde's suspicions. The man inside was indeed Atexan, clan in a long, flowing duster with two golden sidearms tucked into his belt. "Jotunde," he nodded. "Whadaya want now?" The two had a mutual understanding as Guardians, current and former, who had strayed from the sterility of the Tower into the shadier parts of the Last City. Additionally, he was a frequent customer here, but the two of them couldn't really be called friends. "I was thinking about picking up a girl, actually." It was a bald-faced lie, but he didn't really want to talk to the Awoken Hunter. "Really? A female? I thought you were swimming in pussy up in that fancy ol' Tower of yours." "Well, times are tough, man. Girls have changed." "Gained some dignity and standards, did they?" "Speak for yourself." The exchange was less humorous than it had sounded, bitterness and contempt lacing Jotunde's snide remarks. He walked away on a low note, looking at the black market wenches on display. They were all dressed in lingerie, satin and silk veiling them, with enough plastic surgeries and implants to become lethal. He glanced over them, dancing in confined spaces. But this was not the only service The Seeder provided. Across from them was a black market gunsmith, Garren-63, his stand well enough equipped with enough guns to singlehandedly destroy the Red Legion. He walked over to the stand, laying his hands out on the counter, Garren looking up. "I want a sniper, please." [b]Part Two[/b]: https://www.bungie.net/en/Forum/Post/230936163/0/0