Shadestalker Suit

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Shadestalker Suit
Specifications
Name:	Shadestalker Suit
Rarity:	Legendary
Class:	Titan/Warlock/Hunter
Availability
Sources:	Onslaught: Salvation

Shadestalker Suit is a Legendary Armor set introduced during the Episode: Revenant.

Shadestalker Helm/Hood/Mask

"And my vanquisher will read that book, seeking the weapon, and they will come to understand me, where I have been and where I was going."The following is a verbatim transcription of an official document for archival reasons. As the original content is transcribed word-for-word, any possible discrepancies and/or errors are included.

"Ulan-Tan was right."

— Helm/Hood/Mask Description

[SALVATION ANNALS:: SERVITOR NIRIKS Perception Feed dump:]

[[Filtering Highspeak]]

ER: The call for aid is sent. This conversation is over.

IX: You owe me answers.

ER: You owe allegiance to your Kell. Prepare your nest for evacuation.

IX: They will kill you. Or worse.

ER: A cost I will gladly pay. Our people will not survive the Scorn on our own.

IX: But in what state will we survive?

ER: Anything is better than annihilation.

IX: You may feel differently in a Human cage.

ER: Leave. I have weapons to prepare. Where Scorn go, he often follows.

IX: As ever, I walk my own path. If I don't see you again, I will know another piece of Old Riis is lost.

[A snap-hiss. Metal groans and shakes.]

IX: You can't lead from a cage. You can't inspire from the grave.

ER: I do what I can. With what I have.

Shadestalker Gauntlets/Gloves/Grips

"And my vanquisher will read that book, seeking the weapon, and they will come to understand me, where I have been and where I was going."The following is a verbatim transcription of an official document for archival reasons. As the original content is transcribed word-for-word, any possible discrepancies and/or errors are included.

"Turn the shadows against themselves."

— Gauntlets/Gloves/Grips description

His knee had grown stiff under his desk.

Zavala initially ignored it. Let the pain burn in the side of his knee, seize the top of his calves. His leg had grown stiff countless times before. But this time, this early in the morning, this soon after sitting down, was something else.

He moved his chair back and considered his knee. What had he done to hurt it? He had not exercised yet, he had not gone on his usual patrol… he had done nothing. Why would a knee hurt from doing nothing?

The riddle dissolved. He was starting to age.

Zavala had anticipated this; part of mourning Targe was preparing himself to furiously resist the inevitable physical breakdown. He'd calculated how to negotiate with his own body, subdue it to stoicism, and make it follow his sturdy command. But what he had not anticipated was how he would feel. He ought to feel dread, terror at evidence of his mortality. But instead…

He allows a hand to rest on his aching knee. To venerate it. He feels it solid under his palm. It is his, it is real, it is both portentous and precious. He is aging. He will age. An absurd and joyous thought warms in his chest: how fortunate, to have lived long enough to grow old. How invaluable, to make the space between himself and the horizon matter. How much time is left? And is it best spent with his knees under a desk?

"Zavala?"

Ikora stands in the doorway. Hundreds of years of knowing each other too well draws her to his seat.

His expression softens, and he stretches out his knee.

Ikora watches his readjustment, and smiles sadly, the same way she smiles when all their mortal friends grow old.

The commander sighs, but with content assurance, not heavy resignation. He looks at his friend. "I think I'd like to go on leave for a week."

Ikora nods, then half-smiles. "How about two?"

Shadestalker Plate/Robes/Vest

"And my vanquisher will read that book, seeking the weapon, and they will come to understand me, where I have been and where I was going."The following is a verbatim transcription of an official document for archival reasons. As the original content is transcribed word-for-word, any possible discrepancies and/or errors are included.

"Unseen deliverance."

— Plate/Robes/Vest description

TYPE: REDJACK SURVEILLANCE FEED [21058]

PARTIES: Five [5]. One [1], Guardian-type, Class Hunter [u.1]; One [1], Frame-type, Unit Combat [u.2]; Three [3], Scorn-[ERROR] Type.

ASSOCIATIONS: Lev [Unit5003]; Scorn; Crucible; Frame; Lord Shaxx; Redjacks

//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//

//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS…/

[u.1:01] Relax, I have you.

[u.1:02] "Relax" means stop. You're in pieces, and you're making it worse.

[u.2:01] Hostiles still pushing from the front. Scans incomplete.

[u.1:03] Your fireteam is gone. Scans are irrelevant if I can't get you back to the Tower to link up.

[u.2:02] Incoming.

[A hissing snap washes the feed with high-yield paracausal discharge, followed by the loud crack of three hard rounds.]

[u.1:04] Stop moving. You're making this worse.

[u.2:03] Thank you, Guardian. Spectral analysis complete.

[u.2:04] Hunter Vanguard suppositions were correct.

[u.1:05] Crow is usually on point. What about?

[u.2:05] Despite being Scorn of unknown type, the hostiles were alive. Also, Traveler radiation was detected emanating from the Dark Ether in their bodies. Thus their origins may be paracausal.

[u.2:06] Confirmation through Redjack surveillance was necessary for verification.

[u.1:06] Quiet down. And make sure they're not sneaking up on me.

[u.2:07] Everywhere type-Fikrul goes, Eliksni of the City are in danger.

[u.1:07] We know. We'll find him.

[u.2:08] Guardians have discovered no tangible means of terminating that unit type.

[u.1:08] You're not helping.

[u.2:09] I am encouraging you to seek confirmation through combat.

[u.1:09] Shaxx. I know you listen to every feed. Your friend is going to give me a panic attack.

Shadestalker Greaves/Boots/Strides

"And my vanquisher will read that book, seeking the weapon, and they will come to understand me, where I have been and where I was going."The following is a verbatim transcription of an official document for archival reasons. As the original content is transcribed word-for-word, any possible discrepancies and/or errors are included.

"The affordances of love do not reside in analogous exchange."

— Greaves/Boots/Strides description

Deep within the maze of the Bazaar, throngs of the City's residents wandered, enjoying all the market had to offer. An Iron War Beast sampled fresh fruits. Awoken haggled over the price of pastries. The smells of caramelized meat and rosemary wafted on the breeze, past every vendor and artisan.

The hum of activity was overpowering yet reassuring to Saint-14 as he stopped to watch an older Eliksni expertly weave fabric on a well-worn loom. The woven symbols were unique and unfamiliar to the Exo, but he watched in awe as an iridescent glow emerged within the vibrant cerulean cloth.

Fit for a Kell, Saint mused to himself—

Breath caught in his throat; hands shook—

Flashes of memory echoed in his mind. All he could feel in this moment… was shame.

He hurried past the weaver and through the crowd, landing squarely in front of a tea stand, a sample placed in his hand before he could open his mouth to refuse. He looked down. The opaque liquid steamed in his cup, pungent and medicinal.

Like distilled Darkness, Saint realized—

Breath caught in his throat; hands shook—

Flashes of memory filled his sight. All he could feel in this moment… was sadness.

He stumbled; apologies and hot liquid spilled all around him as the sounds of the Bazaar became a dull roar in his ears. He needed to escape. The noise, the tea, everything.

He closed his eyes and then rushed away at a fevered pace.

Daylight had waned against the City's walls when Saint found himself in a quiet area, where vibrant green vines stretched down from above, and below, the silhouette of his helmet stretched long and thin across the floor where Mithrax's weathered medical Servitor often waited. Saint breathed a sigh of relief.

He was alone.

Saint placed his favorite keepsake, a small stuffed bear, on the Kell's throne. Gently, he adjusted the lavender ribbon at its neck; the crisp satin sat in stark contrast to the bear's hazy black eyes, to its slightly worn ear and well-loved fur. A gift, once a comfort to a child of the City.

A gift, once a comfort to Saint in the face of loss, in the face of—

Breath caught in his throat; hands shook—

Flashes of memory swelled in his heart.

Osiris.

His strong laugh. His deep, soulful eyes. The warmth of his smile. Of his touch.

Memories of comfort, but all he could feel in this moment… was guilt. Intense and overwhelming, like daggers cutting through him, sharpness bleeding through sweetness. Saint breathed deeply and stared at the medical equipment around the empty throne before him.

"The cost of my joy," Saint whispered, and he wept.

Shadestalker Mark/Bond/Cape

"And my vanquisher will read that book, seeking the weapon, and they will come to understand me, where I have been and where I was going."The following is a verbatim transcription of an official document for archival reasons. As the original content is transcribed word-for-word, any possible discrepancies and/or errors are included.

"In history's long shadow."

— Mark/Bond/Cape description

Undead screeches bounce off the ruined walls of Riis Reborn, carried by blizzard winds that obscure any path to safety. The small band of Eliksni got separated from the rest at the jetty and fled down this abandoned ally. A Salvation Ketch could barely defend itself from these pale monstrosities; what chance did they have?

A second molt is unable to hold her composure; her antennal glands leak as her mother holds her close. Her clicking purr is hushed, just enough to voice comfort.

"I can smell your fear."

Above them, metal creaks under the Revenant's weight. One Dreg begins to scurry away, but his knee is pinned to the ground by a spear.

"Do not weep," it sings, so close his mandibles rake the Dreg's respirator. "Rejoice. Today you will be made whole." The undead hulk salivates as the small band huddles together.

A neon cord catches the aberration's carapace, pulling it up into the air by an unseen hand.

The mother shields her brood's eyes as bitter ichor erupts from the undead's throat. Two more piercing rounds, in quick succession, see him sinking into the snow, now loosed from the ephemeral thread.

The second molt breaks away to see a Slayer Baron, as if from an ancient epic, stepping through the gale.

"Mother!" She chitters in relief. "A fate weaver from your stories!"

The snowdrift clears, revealing the upright figure's alien anatomy. "Not my stories. A new one."

Appearance

• Destiny 2: Episode: Revenant (First appearance)