pactum-callixtinum

[pactum-callixtinum]

as @oxothnk​ makes someone’s butt pucker

Cayde shook his head at being called sir and shivered at the thought of it. “No, no! Don’t call me sir. Ugh, you make me sound like Zavala. That’s for Vanguard and all the other higher ups. I’m justa Scout.” The pair weaved between busy Civilians and Guardians alike before slinking their way into a cozy tiny Titan bar. It was one of Andal’s favorites. Something about “the bartender knows what I like” and peanut butter pretzels?? Whatever it was, their rowdy bunch was always welcomed by a bright, sunny Titan who could brighten any cloudy day. Probably because she was a fiery haired red head practically radiating Solar energy. Great to visit on winter weather.

Lifting a cloth as a doorway to the side, he let his tall companion go in first before following behind. “Two for today, Quinn. Easy on the first few rounds!” Cayde called out and the busy bee bartender was already working on their drinks while simultaneously attending to another team drunk off their asses. The Exo guided then to a tucked corner of the little bar and sat heavy on the wooden bench with lightly filled pillows as a buffer between rear ends and bar ends.

“Well start off here with somethin’ light first, then work our way a bit up the town. I’ll show you all the great places for quick fixes and cheap eats.” He slid his hood back with a calm sigh as the light pitter patter of rain began to come down. “Whew, just in time too! So, any good stories from the wilds as of late?” Whether it was working or personal business, he always had to know all the details from outside perspectives on the field. It was… Getting harder to go out now each time. Something about Andal as of late had him sticking around a bit closer than he’d care to admit.

It was a Titan bar. It was a gods damned Titan bar.

His first instinct was to immediately bail out, turn, run, launch himself over the wall, but he (somehow) maintained his composure. He was even able to force himself to relax his hands, which had subconsciously curled into fists. He forced a sigh, more of a deep exhalation, and let his shoulders droop. It was a pathetic attempt to relax himself.

It was a hole-in-the-wall dive. Just so happened the barkeep was a Titan. Right?

He carefully looked her over, still safe behind his helmet. He didn’t recognize her. He hoped to high hell and heaven as well that she didn’t know him from Adam’s house cat.

“Sorry ‘bout the formality. Being in the weeds for a while makes you forget how to talk to other people.” He laughed with a hidden sheepish grin. “Never quite know when to turn on the fancy manners.”

He dutifully followed the Exo to the cushioned bench and carefully took a seat. He wanted to belly flop onto the mound of pillows, but figured even dive bars deserved a measure of decorum.

When Cayde smoothed his hood back…well, he wasn’t expecting that the Exo without his hood would seem younger somehow. He didn’t know how to qualify the sense other than Hunters and their hoods and something to do with mystery.

“I’ll definitely owe you for the courtesy tour,” he said in what he hoped was an even tone. At Cayde’s question he felt himself regain a sense of calm. Talking shop was something he could do without a second thought.

“No solid intel but there’s something up with the Fallen. House of Wolves specifically,” he began. “Don’t have enough to report back with. No real leads to give Brask.” Referring to the Hunter Vanguard by the surname was a very old habit.

“Been trying to intercept Eliksni communications. Hacked a fair number of their relays, just no dice as of yet. My gut says that something is stirring in the background, starside. Close to Earth, though. Kings and Devils have little dust ups here and there, nothing more than posturing to show the Wolves that they consider our backyard to be their territory. Maybe something’s up on Luna? I was thinking of making a run up there, suss out the House of Exile, see what’s doing.”

He had been idly drawing on the table top using a gloved forefinger. Almost mapping out what he had been passing along to Cayde. Boundaries, supply routes, transponder locations, landmarks that he recalled as he recounted his concerns to the Exo.

When the fetching red-haired Titan came around with their order, he seized up. Every muscle tensed as his fight or flight was solidly kicking into flight gear.

He never was one to run, but the City had taught him some hard lessons on that point. Losing a fight will do that to a man.

When she departed without even batting an eyelash at him, he damn near collapsed back like a marionette cut from its strings.

Then he was presented with his next problem. His helmet. He couldn’t exactly drink or eat through it and to not take it off would certainly raise more suspicions than it was worth. Also, given the gurgle loudly broadcast by his stomach, as well as his mouth having run dry…all things considered, he really needed that drink.

[ I can’t believe you are doing this ] his Ghost hissed via a secure comm line.

He ignored her and loosened the seals on his helmet, slowly pulling it off. He set it on the table gently, as if it would break.

He revealed a tanned face topped by a wavy mess of brunette hair. It had been a much lighter shade, and himself fairer in his previous life in the City. The time spend in the wilds darkened him outside and in.

He definitely had helmet head, though the tousled hair suited him more than it should have. He wore a thick mustache and his beard…he had never been able to get it to grow particularly thick. It was the definition of scruffy, even worse off than Andal Brask’s own facial hair.

Dark brown eyes that shone with solar fire glanced over to the Exo. He hoped he didn’t see the spark of recognition in those bright blue optics.

He undid the clasps on his gloves and pulled them off, tucking them beneath his helmet. His hands were like those of a craftsman or tradesman. They weren’t roughly hewn, only strong and with fingers suited to hard work.

He took up his drink and gave Cayde a slight nod of the head. “I’ve got the next round.”

[pactum-callixtinum]

the one where he runs into @radiolarianblood on io

It was one of the (not so) rare times he went starside. Staying on Earth was his preference. At least it had been that way prior to the Red War.

When he lost his Light...when everyone he’d sworn to lead and protect lost their Light...

Witnessing death becomes something different when you’re essentially immortal. Decades, centuries of injury and harm resulting in countless resurrections. Death lost its sense of permanence.

With the capture of the Traveler, the Fourth Horseman made its return with a merciless vengeance. And Death regained its true meaning, its true position in the world again.

This is not to say that he hid during the war. He and those who remained did all they could to help usher the City’s refugees to the relative safety of the Farm. He and his people gave their all — some even giving their lives, their now ephemeral, delicate lives — to save a populace that had been persuaded to hate them.

Now there was really no one left to tell the story of how the excommunicated Guardians took up the mantle of ranger and saved those who were left.

It was difficult for him to stay in the European Dead Zone, let alone be anywhere near the City or the Farm. The guilt and grief was still too much to bear.

In any event, he had long been curious to see Io, to witness firsthand the beginnings of the Traveler’s work. To see if he could parse an understanding of the Light by being in the presence of its rawest form.

When he arrived at the primary landing zone, he was surprised to hear a very...annoyed voice punctuating the air with frustrated barks. He walked toward the source of the vehement protests, cautiously peeking out from behind one of the multitude of sulfur vents.

[pactum-callixtinum]

trying to pull a fast one on @oxothnk​‌:

“Ah, no worries!” Cayde waves off his apology as a way of cutting the tension of having to look his best. “We’re Guardians, Hunters even. Sometimes I forget to bathe. Then again, I don’t sweat or get smelly like Humans or Awoken. But-” He hummed a little as he inspected the cloak as they walked in near unison.

“Your cloak? Nah. You gotta take better care of it. Not sure what your story is with it, but that ain’t a way to treat a cloak! I’ll help ya find a tailor to spruce it up a bit. Come on now, you’re making us look bad.” The Vanguard said it in such a casual manner that it would be difficult to tell if he was joking or being dead serious without trying to alarm the other.

“The ramen shop? It ain’t always packed. Most days. Sometimes. If you’re lucky.”

Ah, a Hunter who hated close quarters and too many people. Seems like that trait isn’t going to die off any time soon still.

“We could also go to a little hole in the wall that’s Hunters only. Plenty a space and drink if that’s what you’re after.” Cayde pointed back behind him with his right thumb over his shoulder. “Might even get someone to give you one of their old cloaks if they’re drunk enough!” He chuckled in amusement but also spoke from personal experience.

The Hunter started at Cayde’s off-hand comment about sweating and being smelly. He was so put off that he even took a conspicuous sniff of an armpit before wincing and craning his head away from the offensive area.

“I definitely need a power scrub,” he muttered with a roll of his eyes.

He did have a moment’s pause while the Exo was taking in the details of his cloak. It had been through hell and back, that was for certain. The shabby condition served a mission, however. While he had been careful in re-purposing it, should someone, some way, some how actually get it off of him? After a good wash and laying the cloak out in a certain fashion, they might notice the pattern that was actually an insignia. That of a green fist encased in a circle of the same color, set against a black background.

It was a prideful moment that led him to taking one of the fallen banners from his former home and fashioning it into a cloak. More prideful still was using his old mark as a makeshift shemagh.

Why in the seven hells am I back in the City again?

“Yeah, I should take better care of it. Sorry. Ah...sir?” Cayde was technically his superior officer, all things considered.

And although he was living the life of a Hunter, he was still a Titan at heart, and old habits died hard.

He forced a cough to play off the lapse into formality. “A hole in the wall sounds pretty good,” he admitted in all honesty. He cast a glance back in the direction Cayde had pointed to. “Maybe I can get a new old cloak. Wash this one up and keep it somewhere safe.” His voice softened at the last part. He coughed again and briefly straightened his posture. “I appreciate what you’re doing,” he told the Hunter Vanguard with a rare smile. Although it was hidden beneath his helmet, there was little mistaking that there was a smile to be had through his tone of voice.

[pactum-callixtinum]

Fairy Tales for a Broken Cradle: Dead, Empty Promises

It’s the Victorious Who Write the History of the World

It’s gone now.

Reduced to nothing more than a reminder that life — natural life — is meant for the living. Not the dead.

Oh, I can hear you say, isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?

No. Not in this world. Certainly not the next. Because there isn’t a next when you’re like me.

I’m not certain of how long the tree had existed. If it had been carried as a sapling to what would become the City. If it was carried to that patch of grass as a seed caught in a bird’s wings.

Once our tower...once that tower had been raised, the tree surely watched as the rest of the City grew. A sprawling expanse of humanity beneath the silent shadow of the Traveler.

Humanity has come to have a broader meaning since the days of the Golden Age.

I’m not even sure of what kind of tree it was. Was it a Japanese Maple? I never thought to ask.

I regret that now.

I regret so many things now.

That regret is tinged with...anger. Perhaps even hatred. But not to who people might think. And not for the reasons why they might think.

Have you ever heard a story, one so well crafted and presented that you never questioned the tale itself? History is a story. One told by those who survive. By those who emerge as the victor in whatever conflict occurred. Official history, the canonical version of past, present, and future tenses of reality is written by those with power and parroted by those with authority.

Unofficial history, the apocryphal lore born on whispers and secrets, is comprised of the truths known by the losing side of the war. Those who fought and suffered and ultimately paid the price for their hubris.

Believing that there was something honest, something pure to be found in sharing knowledge.

My hubris in having faith in the system I believed could be improved. Changed for the better.

Voices of dissension. Acts of sedition. Sacrilege. Rebellion. Treason.

So easy to cast differing ideologies as dangerous lies.

Years ago I would have claimed that no one truly understood the cost of war. No one on the inside of the City’s walls, at least.

How wrong I would have been.

The Faction Wars were a playground fight compared to what the Red Legion brought to bear.

There was no war then, those many years, decades, near a century ago. We fought, yes, but to call it a war? That’s a criminal level of hyperbole.

That tree...many a day was spent beneath its branches. Many a night was spent listening to the breeze rustle its leaves. Too many days were wasted by me pretending to be a leader, pretending to know what would be the best for the City, its people. My people.

People who I led into exile. Into death. Their final deaths during the Red War.

I’m the only one left who knows the history of those who were forced outside of the walls. The only one who holds the full truth of what we endured, believing all along that one day we would return. That we could return. That we would be welcomed, even.

I foolishly thought we’d come back to the City and perhaps take our place back in the Consensus. Do the good that we intended, protect the citizens, uphold the law, change what needed to be and right what was wrong.

Stupid thought. Stupid dream. Stupid, stupid man I am.

The tree is gone now. Utterly destroyed by the Red War.

The Concordat is gone now. Also destroyed by the Red War.

I have nothing left but to live. But, life is for the living, isn’t that so?

It’s time I kill Lysander, accused betrayer, blasphemer, failure, murderer. It’s time I leave Lysander out in the wilds and be reborn in the City as someone else. I don’t know what good it will do in the long term.

I’m not doing this as a mea culpa, some act of penance to assuage my guilt over the people who believed in me dying thanks to my arrogance and need to be right. To speak out against the rhetoric and political machinations of the other Factions.

Nothing can make up for the way in which I failed the Concordat.

A dead man like me wouldn’t even know where to start.

[pactum-callixtinum]

where @oxothnk​ is smarter than the average bear‌:

“Well hey there stranger! You bumped into the right Exo. Funny enough that you mention food because I’m on the way to my favorite ramen shop.” Cayde seemed a bit more cheerful today than normal. If talked up to with just the right words, he might even buy this new stranger a round of drinks.

“So, you new around these parts I’m takin’ it?” Cayde slowed his pace down to walk and talk with his potentially new drinking buddy. “If ramen ain’t your thing, then I know a killer hotpot spot just around the corner.” He pointed back behind them with his right thumb and stopped to see what the stranger wanted to decide on. All the while he was taking note of all the little things one would miss.

The types of weapons and how they were helped. Hell, if they were even clean. The tattered robes stained with whatever he was rolling around in. Poor cloak, it looked like it could use a good wash. And a helmet. Most don’t keep theirs on. The Hunter paid extra attention to that. Now Cayde is never one to go looking for a fight but with new people was always new experiences. He could take ‘em on in a gun fight no problem but a knife fight? Just by looking at him one of his hands could crush his head if he so desired. Maybe getting drunk with a class confused Titan wouldn’t be the best so early in the say.

He didn’t miss those brightly lit blue eyes casting over his form. He knew that he looked out of place, but Traveler’s Light be damned if he was going to masquerade as a Warlock.

He’d never learn how to do the...floaty thing anyways. Besides which, Ikora Rey would smell his fraudulent space magic ass coming a kilometer off. At least he had the knack to be a Hunter, as well as actually being able to force his Light to reconfigure to his new shape. Form. Class. That stuff.

Just please Traveler, don’t ask him to do an arc stride.

He had some memory of Cayde-6 from many, many, many years ago. Of course, it was peripheral knowledge as Andal Brask was the Hunter Vanguard at the time and the Exo and the Vanguard were thick as literal thieves.

“I’m...relatively new,” he answered, turning his head slightly to look back to where Cayde pointed. Ramen sounded good. The helmet would be off for a little bit. Noodles and broth were the quickest meal. He was all too familiar with being in the wild for so long. “I like ramen. Best meal for a long stretch out in the Wildlands.” A pause. “Is it a busy place, the ramen stand? Sorry, I’m not really used to being around so many people, you know?” He offered a shrug and a nod of the head in the direction of the mountain range outside of the City’s walls.

The mountains that he knew, without having to see them, were in that direction. The City changed a great deal since he was last in it, but environment was still the same.

“Also, I’m not looking the very best at the moment. Probably’d have too many people staring at you with me in tow.” He held his hands out from his sides and looked down. It was true. His cloak was an embarrassment and he needed to be run through one of the hangar’s wash bays for a power scrub.

[pactum-callixtinum]

Nikos Kazantzakis, tr. by Richard Howard, from “The Rock Garden,”

[pactum-callixtinum]

Hermia and Lysander, A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1870). John Simmons (British, 1823-1876). Watercolor heightened with gouache on paper laid down on canvas.

Shakespeare’s forbidden lovers Lysander and Hermia travel through the enchanted wood to find safe haven. They find themselves lost and decide to sleep, oblivious to the surrounding multitude of fairies and woodland creatures. Lysander holds Hermia’s ringed finger while touching the loamy moss of the forest floor explaining “One turf shall serve as pillow for us both;/One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth.”

[pactum-callixtinum]

“Wouldn’t it be better to find out sooner?”

“Can’t rush Consensus business. We’ll find out when the tally’s done.”

“…I still wonder if the Concordat’s coming back.”

“Not if the sitting factions have anything to say about it. You haven’t heard anything, have you?”

“No, no… Well, not myself. Heard some people are still in communication with Concordat remnants, of course, and that some even hear from Lysander.”

“Lysander’s just a myth at this point. If he really is out there, he’s gotta do more than plot out in the wilderness if he wants to get back into City politics.”

“You don’t think there’s something to his strategy of making a foothold first? Can’t really just show back up and ask to get on the ballot after getting his ass handed to him at Bannerfall.”

“Exactly. That’s why he won’t come back, and it wouldn’t matter even if he did. You don’t just try to overthrow the Vanguard and undermine the whole City government with impunity, and you don’t get to come back from being rebuked for something like that. I tell you, the Concordat’s done, at least under Lysander’s leadership.”

“And you don’t think they could reform, even under a new leader?”

“At that point, they may as well call themselves something else. Either way, the City won’t have forgotten what Lysander’s bunch did. As deathless constituents, Guardians have long memories, right? Any kinda new Concordat would get a swift verdict just the same.”

(A Swift Verdict w/ Benevolence of the Nine)

(Request and image credit: @solstice-the-absol​)

[pactum-callixtinum]

Deborah deNicola, from Where Divinity Begins: Poems; “The Furthest Point,”

[pactum-callixtinum]

in which @oxothnk makes a new friend

"So...ah...know of a decent place to eat in this Tower?" He rubs the back of a helmeted head through the fabric of his hood as he asks, armor-plated shoulders rising to punctuate his question.

While this random person has the necessary accouterments of a Hunter — frabjuous cloak, check; proper six shooter instead of one of those crappy semi-autos, check; snazzy mix of worn leather and scuffed metal for armor, check — he looked...well, he looked more like a Titan that lost a bet and got shoved into Hunter gear rather than a Scout or Pathfinder or any other Hunter, really.

Not to say there can't be big Hunters, mind, but this guy...he's built like those lovably stubborn tanks. Thankfully, he wasn't taller than Cayde, so the stranger had at least that going for him.

That and his taste in hand cannons.

[pactum-callixtinum]

Λύσανδρος

τικέτα

ask : επιστολή

submission : υποβολή

visage :  ομοίωμα

image :  εικών

video :  βίντεο

gif : κινουμένων σχεδίων

audio : ήχου

text :  εδάφιο

poetry : ποίηση

trigger warning : προειδοποίηση ενεργοποίησης

tw :  τραβώ την σκανδάλη

headcanon : ιστορία

so queue us all

name : Σαίξπηρ

past : Τιτάν

present : κυνηγός

future : άγνωστος

the golden age : η χρυσή εποχή

the dark age : η σκοτεινή ηλικία

the city age : την εποχή της πόλης

verse one : η σύμβαση

verse two : τα άγρια

verse three : τον κόκκινο πόλεμο

verse four : το σπασμένο λίκνο

verse five : τον αργαλειό της μάγισσας

when gods fall : τα πανό πέφτουν

destiny :  πεπρωμένο