Look upon ourselves. We have little of an enemy to face, so in our quest to find something to vanquish we turn to how our weapons pan out. We are reduced to pathetic bickering and meandering while the darkness mounts against us. It may seem our only entertainment is under Lord Shaxx's Crucible, but we were not made under the traveler's light to be entertained, or to gather loot from entertainment. None of this is going to change now. The vendors, the factions, the foundries, they are all forging new weapons for us. They see the nightfall upon the horizon and they are preparing for its coming. We were made to stand against this darkness. That is our job, after all. For the most part, we aren't doing our job. The Cabal know this, and they are preparing for... Whoever his name is. Gahul, something. Regardless, he and his Red Guard are fast approaching, ready to crush us and our planet. Our solar system. Our Light. Must we fail the Traveler, Guardians? But, we must understand. The Traveler, despite all we have done to heal it, is still dead, for the most part. Our Light may be strong, but it is merely held by candle string. Once it is destroyed, we will have no light. But does that mean we shall not fight? Does that mean we flee for the nearest system? The nearest Galaxy? Is there anywhere we can run to? No. We must stand and fight. That is what we are meant to do. We will fight like savage men keeping their homeland. If we must, we shall fight tooth and claw to save what is ours. But we must not dive into the ways that try to consume us. Certainly, we can forge weapons of darkness, as we have seen with the Shadows of Yor. But there are greater ways to rise above, as we have done before, and we will do again and again. I care not what weapons you use: The heaviest of machine guns, the most... "Cancerous", of sidearms, the farthest hitting hand cannon you can muster. I care not. All I care for, is that in preparation of the darkness coming forth, we make sure they have no forces to land with. Go to Mars, to the Dreadnaught, Guardians. From each and every one of you, to ensure that we at least cripple the forces of the Cabal further than necessary, I need 1,000 Cabal scalps. I don't care if it arrives in my hands as a cleanly decapitated trophy, Swiss Cheese, or as vaporized dust. One thousand Scalps. We were made to be warriors grander than those we hear of in stories. Our lives rest on the plains of Old Russia, where they have proven themselves mighty many times. Not just of Russia, but of our home we call Earth, heroes of all sorts have risen and fallen in the dirt we stand on. As a civilization, as a species, as a society, we must channel not just our light, but the souls and the will of all these heroes in defending our planets once more. We are Guardians. We have no time to bicker.