[spoiler]I thought I'd try writing a story. Let me know how it is! It's not much and it was't written in one sitting...I'm not exactly the best at this, but if you like it, let me know! And if you don't, advice and criticism is welcomed.[/spoiler] The land expands onto forever below our feat in a race against the everlasting space, both reaching towards the line of the horizon where the ground leaps and disappears and the cosmic expanse seems to dip below the moon. This is what I saw at the Archer's Line. I do not know if the line is the great bridge over my head or if it is the grand steel chasm that sit before the ridge and cuts far into the ground and ends at the point of the leaping ground and falling sky. The moon expands endlessly under the stars, dented by meteors who had challenged its might and were met with defeat. It is ancient, and battered. The moon is too small, too humble to be called a planet, though it boasts of a history and importance fit for one. Surely there was a time when those on the planet it orbits, those youthful and curious children of the great machine,gazed into the sky with wonder and respect for the great mass of land where the sky falls and the ground leaps and respect it because they thought it unreachable. Now those children have scattered their metal huts and ruins across the land, and when they grew bored they tossed it aside for the planets farther off into space. When the survival of their species was at stake they abandoned it to the dead armies of the one called Crota son of Oryx to spare the planet they would revere their once-wonder from. It is forgotten. Not wanted. And I could sympathize with it. So it is the first shelter that I have called home in a long time. It is the closest to home I have ever been. Yes, among the Hive and their tunnels and temples below and the outposts of the undead soldiers of the Great Machine sprinkled above the ground, I have clawed a burrow into the ground and dared to have called it home. It is not home, it will never be, because that would mean I belong to the burrow. I don’t. But the burrow belongs to me and so I must call it something that is mine. So when the acolyte marches to its mouth or the undead soldier approaches it, they will not take it from me, for I will claim that it is mine. I am an Exile. Among the unwanted, we are unwanted. And I am the lowest of them, the dregs of our house of rags, so I am unwanted among those unwanted by the unwanted. We have no kell, we have no Prime Serviter, no archon. We only have skiffs and a single ketch where the barons and baronesses dispute and think of ways to maintain the survival of our makeshift house, or of ways to become its kell. “Weksis,” A voice calls me. “Look at this.” He who tells me to see knows I do not need to see. But Among the eight Fallen who scavenging and inspecting the abandoned cargo bay, he was the only Vandal. And I was the only one in this crew that he knew when he still had docking caps and he understandingly refused to speak to the two shanks we had brought with us. I look to ensure that the rest of the crew is not watching, then walk from the cargo bay in a straight line with an upmost effort to look casual as I approach the portable station sitting across. “Pasvin.” I say, looking everywhere but the roof of the portable. “What is it?” “Come up here Weksis.” Pasvin beckons. “Come see.” I pretend to walk away, as if the portable had lost my interest. But after two steps I spin around, feigning that I was sparked by some revived curiosity and leap to the roof. Pasvin was waiting for me. He did not speak, however, until he averted his gaze from me and looked again at the sight he wanted to show me. “I found Orksar’s crew.” He says to himself, Nudging the Captain’s limp body with his foot. Ether was running from the body’s eyes. and his chest piece and cape was torn violently by shrapnel and pellets. “What happened to him?” I wonder out loud. “Was he attacked by the Hive? They’ve never ventured so far from their temple.” Pasvin just shakes his head. “The hive tear with claws, not lead. No, this from one of those undead ones. The invincible soldiers of the Great Machine.” “What is one doing here? After all this time, why are they suddenly so interested in The Archer’s line? After their age of glory, and after their disaster on the moon, they never cared for their moon.” “They care now.” Weksis answers. “They care because it was once their’s. They are making a statement. They say, ‘You can’t take from me. And if you do, I’ll kill you, and take it back.’ We made that same statement at the walls of their city, in case you forgot what brought us here.” No one has forgotten Twilight Gap. But Pasvin had his docking caps removed for his efforts in battle, so he probably remembers better than anyone. I only remember the roaring canons of the city. The walls never faltering even as large boulders leaked from its sides and crushed Titans and Captains alike. I remember the flashes of orange and blue as the sun began to set behind the mountains, as if the world wanted to turn away from the sight of so much blood and ether spilling onto the ground. But the world could never escape those sounds of gunfire. The fumes of ether and blood were too strong to ignore. And the sun would rise again and it would all still be there, and it would not leave until we had finally faltered to the Titan charge. Then we fled, and some died and some hid, but after hours ands days of fighting we were forced to flee. “Do you hear that?” Pasvin asks, and I am brought back to the moon. “A vehicle, fast. And not one of ours.” “Could it be the undead soldier?” I ask. Pasvin jumps off the roof. “I hope not. But I think it is. We will not survive.” I understand, and I retreat back to the cargo bay. To Orksar’s burrow. The other’s join beside me. We force our way in the crevices between boxes, dive into the deepest shadows and hope we are not seen by the light. We shut down the shanks, flee into the dark, and wait.