Rezyl Azzir was a man. In time his kind would be called Titan. Mountains of muscle and might and metal. His collar was fur and teeth. His person clad in ornate, golden-etched plating, trophies upon his shoulders. This was before the City was The City. This is before the walls. Still in the shadow of the fragile giant above, but before. Salvation seekers came — survivors; weary remnants of a people on the brink. These were the days before reason took hold. Before study was merged with belief. The giant was looked to as one would a God. Maybe it still is. Factions grew from the huddled masses. Like minds coming together to provide support, comfort. Over time these loyalties demanded loyalty. Differences that used to inform — viewpoints that when joined granted a larger understanding of the whole — became points of conflict. The sanctuary became divided. The shadow of Light grew darker. This, humanity’s last oasis, slowly fading to a mirage. Great, powerful men and women, The Risen, stood at the Factions’ sides. Protection. Enforcers. Misused possibility. Misery crept into this false paradise. Yet hope lingered. Seeing the cracks in this society born beneath the giant’s fractured shell, some among The Risen challenged the dissolution of all that could be. They would no longer serve as instruments of oppression. They would be more. Thus began an unnecessary war made necessary by greed, ambition... fear. And, in the chaos of this struggle, came the scavengers — aliens with appetites. A common enemy. In the end, the scavengers were repelled and the Factions fell, their grip broken, though their beliefs remained. This was the earliest days of the Guardians, when might found purpose. Prosperity was in reach. Rezyl had been a champion of these wars. A leader. Against the alien pirates he had been more. If the giant wasn’t a God, then maybe Rezyl was. As the first walls formed — built of hard work and sacrifice — Rezyl and the Guardians stood against the alien plunderers time and again. More survivors arrived. More warriors. The Guardian ranks swelled. The City grew. Hope blossomed. To Rezyl it was a currency. Hope bought tomorrow. Tomorrow bought the effort needed to survive today. Yet Rezyl grew weary. Stories haunted his nights. Old stories. Those no longer told. Those locked behind tight lips for fear of what they may invoke. Whenever the sun dropped below the horizon and the moon rose high, Rezyl’s thoughts wandered. How safe was safe? How long could they fight with the Darkness still writhing? So, every day Rezyl would fight and build and protect. And every day a city grew beneath the giant. And every night he would think about all that was never said and stare intently at the moon above. --- Something in Rezyl was telling him he shouldn't be here. Something deep. Something resembling fear. He knelt, examining the dust-covered pile at his feet. The skulls had been discarded with little care some time ago – decades, maybe longer. The doors carved into the rock face were arcane – dark, gothic... other... and large. The jagged finery of their archway spoke to an artistry that only served to strengthen the sinking feeling in his gut. Rezyl had come to Luna in search of nightmares, and after his long journey—from the growing City beneath the Traveler to the ends of the Earth and beyond—he found himself face-to-face with the remnants of stories he'd hoped were nothing but lies. He stood, a large man made small against the massive, looming doorway. The knot in his stomach was telling him to turn back. Instead, he moved forward, toward the doors; sealed, as they were, for ages untold. After only a few steps, a shrill, heavy scraping cut the air. The massive doors were opening. Rezyl steadied his rifle as a lone shape, floating just above the ground, appeared from the deep black beyond the threshold. The figure in the doorway—a dark, ethereal woman cloaked in tattered ceremony and armored with ornate bone—danced in the air. Rezyl and the demon woman held their ground, contemplating one another. With no warning the silent intimacy of the moment was broken by a booming, angry call from deep within the doorway. The sound, thick and pained, echoed across the narrow valley then fell silent. After a beat that felt like eternity, the figure backed away into the dark. The doors remained wide – an invitation or a dare, Rezyl did not know. Nor did he care. The mighty Titan took steps forward. “Uhhhh... I’m not sure this is a good idea,” his Ghost’s concern was impossible to mistake. “Not sure that matters.” “We’ve come. We’ve seen. Maybe the best course here is to warn others. Gather an army.” “Maybe.” “I’m just saying... It’s possible you can’t handle whatever it is we’ve upset here.” “We’ve woken nightmares.” Rezyl’s attention was singular; focused intently on the dark beyond the threshold. “The Hive were supposed to be gone.” The Ghost mulled the full consequence of this mistaken belief. “They’ve been silent for—” “They’re not silent anymore.” “That scream? These doors? They’re best left alone.” “I can’t do that.” Rezyl continued forward. Toward the dark. Toward the unknown. “Stay here.” “Excuse me?” “Get distance. We don’t know what this is... what’s coming. Can’t risk you too close to an unknown.” “And if you fall where I can’t find you?” “If I fall... If I don’t return. Run. Tell the others. Warn them all... There are worse things than pirates.” Rezyl steadied his rifle and stepped into the dark, as his Ghost lingered. —- Hours passed. More? Time was lost in this place, and with it any remembrance of hope... of promise... of purpose in the longing for a brighter tomorrow. Down amongst the shadows there were no tomorrows. Down in the abyss there was no hope. Rezyl’s footfalls echoed; lonely, measured steps with no guarantee of purchase. At any moment the world could fall away and he would be lost – the forgotten hero who foolishly sought nightmares. Then, a presence. Sweeping and dream-like. Rezyl leveled his rifle. He could sense the witch, but found it impossible to track her in the dark. Rezyl opened fire. Short, focused bursts to light the ebony corridor. The demon witch circled just beyond the reach of each burst’s glow. Rezyl kept firing, using the short flickers of light to gain bearing. The witch laughed and a thick black cloud engulfed Rezyl. The Titan kept firing but his movements were restricted. The cloud confined him, caged him. He could hear her moving just beyond his sight as her laughter rose in pitch, cutting into Rezyl’s mind and soul like a tempered blade. Rezyl flinched as the wicked woman began to speak in a tongue that resembled torture more than language. The pain was searing, complete. The demon approached the writhing hero. As she spoke her violent words began to take shape, morphing from syllables of death to a known offering of haunted human languages. The demon woman leaned in close... and whispered, intimately. Rezyl’s ears bled as she spoke. "I am the end of 'morrows. Xyor, the Blessed. Xyor, the Betrothed. I am of the coming storm. These are not my words, but prophesy. Your Light will one day shatter and die. For now it simply offends... And you, dear, sweet, fragile thing, shall be made to suffer for your transgressions upon this holy ground." As the witch fell silent, her hateful voice was replaced by a growing chorus of hungry, manic chittering and the rising thunder of an approaching flood. Rezyl had come looking for the terrors that hide just beyond the light. He found them. Or, maybe... ...they found him. --- The noble man stood. And the people looked to him. For he was a beacon - hope given form, yet still only a man. And within that truth there was great promise. If one man could stand against the night, then so too could anyone - everyone. In his strong hand the man held a Rose. And his aura burned bright. When the man journeyed on, the people remembered. In his wake hope spread. But the man had a secret fear. His thoughts were dark. A sadness crept from the depths of his being. He had been a hero for so long, but pride had led him down sorrow's road. Slowly the shadows' whisper became a voice, a dark call, offering glories enough to make even the brightest Light wander. He knew he was fading, yet he still yearned. On his last day he sat and watched the sun fall. His final thoughts, pure of mind, if not body, held to a fleeting hope - though they would suffer for the man he would become, the people would remember him as he had been. And so the noble man hid himself beneath a darkness no flesh should touch, and gave up his mortal self to claim a new birthright. Whether this was choice, or destiny, is a truth known only to fate. In that cool evening air, as dusk was devoured by night, the noble man ceased to exist. In his place another stood. Same meat. Same bone. But so very different. The first and only of his family. The sole forbearer and last descendent of the name Yor. In his first moments as a new being, he looked down at his Rose and realized for the first time that it held no petals: only the jagged purpose of angry thorns.