[url=https://www.bungie.net/en/Forum/Post/246624086/0/0]Table of Contents[/url] The wooden door shook as one of the guards banged on it with his fist. Derik's fingers fumbled in his attempts to tie the laces on his new boots. "Get out here already!" The guard hollered impatiently as the door was flung open, slamming against the wall. The guard filled the doorway, glaring at Derik and planting his fists firmly on his hips. "You plannin' on bein' late?!" He lashed, "Get off yer butt!" Derik finished his ungraceful knot and shot up, rushing to appease the guard. The burly man stepped aside, letting Derik into the hall. Another man who he'd never seen before leaned against the wall in front of him, blocking the way. He wore a ratty cloak, stained with dried mud and torn in several places. The rest of his outfit was equally worn. His filthy hair made it clear he hadn't bathed recently, though his face had been washed, and his beard was wild and unkempt. Despite appearing to be nothing more than a filthy hermit, the man seemed to excert a certain authority as he addressed the guard amicably, "Relax, Powel. We’re not late yet." Powel grumbled under his breath, but didn't argue. The cloaked man lifted his weight from the wall and held a hand out to Derik, "Name's Brenon." "Derik," Derik exchanged, shaking the hand. Brenon stepped back and looked Derik up and down, "You look a little more rundown than I’d imagined." "Don't look so good yourself," Powel remarked. It sounded like an insult, but Brenon laughed. "Are you my escort?" Derik asked. "Indeed we are," Brenon smiled and gestured to Powel, "This here's Powel. Pardon my appearance. I've been out for awhile, just got back last night. Gettin’ into trouble an’ all that good stuff." "An' forgettin' to shave," Powel observed. Brenon's eyes widened slightly and he reached up to touch his beard. "Oops," he chuckled, patting Powel's bulky shoulder, "Thanks for warnin' me! I must be quite a sight." "You're welcome," Powel rolled his eyes, "Shouldn't we get movin'?" Brenon clapped his hands together, "Right! C'mon now, fellas." The trio walked down the hall and made their way out of the building. Brenon spoke over his shoulder as they strolled between the town’s aging structures, "Seems half the town's showin' up for your little speech." "Really?" Derik blinked. "’Course," Brenon affirmed, "Everyone wants to know what all this is about." "That’s good, right?" Derik asked. Brenon shrugged, "Don't see why not." Powel snagged them both by their shoulders, halting them, "Hold on, best wait here." They were at the edge of a small plaza. Booths ringed the space, forming some kind of market, and some of the people passing through stopped to browse. A metal crate was positioned in the center of the square and three men were chatting over it. Two of them carried rifles. "Go get Varse," Brenon told Powel, patting his back. The large man trudged out towards the crate. As soon as he was out of hearing, Brenon turned to Derik, suddenly losing his friendly demeanor, "How'd you do it?" "How'd I do what?" Derik asked. Brenon stepped closer, effectively invading his personal space and speaking in a whisper, "Listen, this thing, tryin’ to get humanity together to fight the Fallen, it’s a bad idea." "I don't-" Derik began, but Brenon grabbed his shoulder, shaking him a little. "Listen," the scout repeated, "Its a really bad idea. Lady Avery says she’s goin’ through with this, but she’s one Warlord. This is one town. You know what‘s gonna happen? If we want to get anyone else on board with this, we’re gonna piss off every single Warlord who doesn’t want to be chummy with us. They’re gonna hate us. We’re gonna have to try to kill them before they can kill us. This whole sector’s gonna go up in flames. And it won’t even end there." "Oh," Derik replied weakly. "An' Lady Avery," Brenon exhaled, shaking his head disbelievingly, “You know my…my father, he wanted to try somethin’ like that. Avery told him the same thing I jus’ told you. She told ‘im that it didn’t matter; we can’t beat the Fallen anyway. But last night I get back an’ find out some outsider showed up an’ somehow convinced her to try it anyway.” Derik didn’t know what to say, so he kept his mouth shut. Brenon suddenly drew Derik closer, wrapping his arms around him in a quick hug. “Thank you,” Brenon said, pulling away with a bright smile, “Tryin’ to get people together, fight the aliens an’ not each other. This is the right thing to do. I’m glad. Thank you.” Derik’s jaw worked as he tried to form words. Brenon looked back to the plaza, serious again, “Avery was right, though. We’re proba’ly all gonna die…” Powel suddenly loomed over them, and Derik nearly jumped in surprise. The unarmed man was with him. He was old, with thinning white hair and deep wrinkles covering his face. "You must be Mr. Magnate," the old man greeted, shaking Derik’s hand, "I'm Varse Chanely. I bet it's about time someone properly introduced you to our humble home. Welcome to Hilton." "Thank you," Derik replied politely, deciding to dismiss the strange conversation he’d just had. "We've got everythin’ set up for you over there," Varse notified, indicating the crate, "We'll wait a little longer before gettin’ started; give an audience time to form." "Great," Brenon chirped, "Gives us time to talk." "Actually," Derik suggested, glancing at Brenon nervously, "I‘d appreciate learnin’ about Hilton before I get up there. It'll help me to know who I'm talkin’ to." "Not much to tell," Powel admitted, "Just a simple town; folks tryin’ to scrape a living." "He's right," Brenon confirmed, putting on an air of expertise, "I've seen plenty o' settlements out there. Only real differences depend on who's in charge an’ how they rule." "Like Lady Avery?" Derik probed. "Yeah," Brenon nodded, "She’s got a good thing goin’ here. Most Warlords don’t treat their subjects too kindly, though." "Yeah…" Derik agreed, remembering his life in Wehwalt, "Had it pretty bad back home. But Lady Avery’s a good Warlord? She doesn’t…" “Doesn’t seem very friendly?” Brenon guessed, shrugging, “Well, she definitely isn’t the best at bein’ nice, but she’s good to us. Keeps the town safe an’ makes some fair laws.” "No offense,” Derik commented, “But wouldn’t your opinion be a little biased, since you work for her?” Varse, Powel and Brenon all exchanged looks. “Well,” Varse sighed, “I guess we’re all biased, then. But Avery’s been good to us. Far better than the last Warlord or any other I’ve heard of.” “She’s real smart,” Brenon added, starting to seem a little bothered by the conversation, “Never led me wrong. I’ll do what she says.” "An’ maybe the idea o’ Warlords is bad," Varse mumbled, glancing both ways, "They've got all the power, they rule through gunmen. But Lady Avery’s the best we’ve got, so I’m content..." He trailed off when he looked at Powel and Brenon. They were her gunmen. “Look,” Powel said to Derik, "I don’t know what the Warlord was like back in your hometown, but it’s different here. We ain't bribed goons. I work for Lady Avery because I respect her, an’ she lets me be her gunman because she respects me. She ain’t a tyrant like the others." “Well…” Derik grunted, “Guess it’s good luck I found this place, rather than somewhere else.” "Will of the Traveler," Powel stated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Derik’s face flushed in embarrassment as he realized Powel had just quoted him. Brenon sighed and apologized to Derik, "Sorry 'bout him. He told me you'd said that to Avery. Turned into a joke at some point, apparently." "It's fine," Derik forgave. The discussion dropped into silence, but Varse was quick to speak up, "I'd say we'd best get started." They all turned to the plaza. A large amount of people were gathering around the steel crate. "Ooh, that's a decent turnout," Brenon admired, prodding Derik, "Get up on that box." "But I don't know what to say!" Derik despaired, intimidated by the crowd. "Relax," Brenon soothed, herding him to the center, "You managed to convince Lady Avery to do this. Get up there and tell them the same thing you told her. Everyone here is a regular person like you. You can talk to them. They'll listen. They understand you." Powel gave him a push, sending him into the crate. He scrambled up, not wanting to look awkward next to it. On top of his perch, he scanned his audience. Dozens of faces looked up to him. He took several deep breaths, putting together Brenon's advice and trying to relax. The crowd stilled and watched him expectantly. Not knowing how to begin, he raised his hand and called timidly, "Hello everyone! My name is Derik Magnate."