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The sandbox is a page for testing and experimenting with wiki syntax. Feel free to try your skills at formatting here: Click on Edit, make your changes, then click "Save changes" when you are finished. Content added here will not stay permanently.

If you need further help editing, visit our help page.

Books of Sorrow

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"Something is not right about that Ghost. Ever since he returned from the Vault, alone of Kabr's fireteam, with the shell of a legendary Gorgon in place of his Scholar's, he's acted quite odd. At least no significant harm has come from his amnesia, apart from making him quite eager to help with my studies. But I recommend you keep a watch on him."

— Master Rahool's note to the Guardian

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The Taken

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"Something is not right about that Ghost. Ever since he returned from the Vault, alone of Kabr's fireteam, with the shell of a legendary Gorgon in place of his Scholar's, he's acted quite odd. At least no significant harm has come from his amnesia, apart from making him quite eager to help with my studies. But I recommend you keep a watch on him."

— Master Rahool's note to the Guardian

I'll be working on writing out a bit of "Grimoire cards" for a little something, just for idling purposes. I want to create my own Taken Grimoire cards for other units, to see what really would have happened if Oryx appeared in the system in the base game and up. This'll be a long one. Most major units will be added. It'll be fun.

Darth Phobos

You are Darth Awesomeness. Ruler of an interstellar empire of trillions. Admirer and enforcer of an ancient religion. Your path is what is right, and you are sure of it. Nothing else but your vision matters.

You have been taken.

Stay your hand. Put up your sword. This is a place of peace and serenity, holy of holies, not of violence and strife. Nothing here will give you cause for alarm.

Aha, you are a skeptic. There is no safer place than Dromund Kaas, you say, no holier place than Moraband. Safe is where I define it. For I am Darth Awesomeness, and I am ruler of my domain.

Grand and boastful words, Lord of the Sith. You do not see the mocking irony in them, do you? No, you do not. Such is the way of your foolish religion. You scoff at our assertions. Let us be clear: here, there is no Force. Reach out, feel for that tendril of energy that is and was your power. It is gone. This place is free of it. No Dark. No Light. No Force. Just you and us.

Still you resist. Let us be clear: here, you have no power, physical or metaphysical. Your empire is far and away, distant from your most powerful call; your ships cannot reach you; your faithful, loyal subjects will not find you. Don't you see? This place is, for the first time, a place that is not under your control, not of your vision. For the first time, you are alone.

Loneliness is a way of life for you, however. This gives you quiet solace. Grown from the flesh of a father you have never known, a father strong in that arcana you have long since mastered. You bear even his name, hidden beneath your title. For yes, it is a title, and not a name. But if you insist we shall indulge you. For it is, in way, tied to our next assertion. Listen, and attend:

You served the one man you have ever given respect to, for he was worthy of it. Darth Vader. A name of power. You looked up to him as a son would to his father. His real father. Whatever he willed, you obeyed. Wherever he went, you followed, together with your brothers-in-arms. He was a masterpiece, emblematic of the Sih and their ways. You desired to be like him.

Yet even heroes have their flaws.

Another you considered, as you grew older, was one Darth Sidious. Vader's master. While you admired Vader personally, even he was eclipsed by Sidious. His mastery of political power, for instance, fascinated you. His skill of your Force was unparallelled then, and you were impressed by it. All of this you learned after, but the one glimpse you saw of him was enough. So while Vader began to decrease as you aged, Sidious increased. Not like the whelp of the Solos did you fawn over him, but as an intellectual equal. Someone you saw as a peer, or one nearly like to one. Like Darth Marx

Upon their twin deaths you shucked off your service-number, as you did your birth-name, and took upon a new name. This one gave you meaning, gave you identity. Darth Awesomeness. A little pretentious, right? Nobody would seriously consider a Sith named such. But you knew they would. You could prove it easily, without effort. And so you did.

From the ruins of the First Order you arose, claiming power from the striving warlords and petty tyrants that followed in its collapse. You brought order where chaos ruled. Infrastructure to where civilization crumbled. Law to where injustice prevailed. Upon the ideals of your hero, of your relentless and tireless studies, you refounded the Sith Order, gave them a place of sanctuary, under condition that they do not interfere with your realm and in exchange you granted protection. Your empire was secure, with a religion that was not mandatory but is, in your mind, correct. Darth Marx would have been pleased, for out of all the despots and first citizens that have laid claim to his teachings, only you succeeded.

You already knew that. You need no praise. You do not preen. We like that. A man with barely disguised arrogance enough to think it humility.

Nothing is hidden from our watchful gaze. Remember of what we said about this place? It lays bare every secret thing, strips away falsehood and half truth, and leaves behind what is there. You feel disquiet. Yes, indeed. What else do we know? Only what we choose to know.

In spite of all your well-earned successes and achievements — forging an empire out of petty kingdoms and failed dominions, emulating Darth Vader and your personal, intellectual hero that is Sidious, reestablishing the teaching of that ancient religion that we disdain — even a man like you feels fear. What is it that you fear?

Is it the dissolution of your empire? Its fall to the crony capitalistic dogs you so contemptuously label "the Republic"? The extinction of the Sith order by those faithless Jedi, who know not the meaning of power? Your own death?

No.

All of these are inconsequential. You wish to leave behind a legacy, one that endures even when you are long forgotten and your name but a footnote in history. A noble desire for any man. Yet there is something deeper, that escapes even your notice. Is it something you deny?

Aha, yes — we have found what you vainly have hidden from yourself. You fear that, after all you have worked for, everything is for naught. Despite your prodigious power, you fear failure. Failure to achieve your goals, to achieve unity of the Galaxy beneath your enlightened rule. Failure to have the people of your realm, and beyond, accept what you so believe is right. What if they abandon Marx's teachings? Will you browbeat it back into them? Of course you can. But that will not change the fact that they rejected your vision of it. As we have noted, you are the only one to have succeeded.

You fear that all of your life's work will vanish in smoke when your vision fails. When people no longer listen to you, when your charisma fails and sputters out, when your personality begins to weaken. Attend well. Every ruler in history has had this deep fear, no matter how well secure they are upon their throne.

Even Darth Vader feared failure. This is why he killed his wife. She abandoned him when he thought she would join his side. She was the only thing he lived for — and when she died, his failure died, and he was secure. But he still feared.

You have nothing. Not even your empire. You are like Sidious. But he feared just like you, and more — feared the ultimate betrayal of his own. You rose above that.

But listen, to our word. There is a way to avoid failure. To avoid losing everything you have worked for to convince others to follow the rightness of your vision. That way is called [I am perfect]. We speak in code but our meaning is clear. You have nothing to purge away from you but this fear of failure. Even its very presence is a sign of weakness. See how you tremble as we lay bare your soul.

Stop your trembling.

The final shape knows no failure. It can never fail. It may be slowed, halted temporarily — for a few centuries, or millennia, or perhaps an aeon or three. But its endgoal is the eradication of all fear. Everything that fears and is feared will be brought under dominion. You will not need the power of words to help you. You will not need the power of doomsday weapons to enforce your law. You will not need the power of a billion, trillion worlds at your back.

All you need is assurance. Are you assured? Only time can prove it. Once upon an age you were assured, until you were struck free of your blindness. Now you are uncertain. Not for long.

There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [I am perfection incarnate]. All who hear you shall follow your will. Your enemies will raise their swords in your service. Whole worlds and communities of worlds shall lay down their arms and welcome you. Darth Marx will be astonished at the power you wield — never in his lifetime did he manage to establish his teachings, save through his apprentices. Darth Vader himself will kneel down, the student having mastered the teacher. Darth Sidious will acknowledge your might. Even Snoke, that craven pedagogue of lies, will be silenced in your presence.

Blighted Chord

You are a Chord Minotaur, protector of the networks of time and space. Keeper of the Vault of Glass's exterior. Defender of the treasures within.

You have been taken.

Look and behold! enemies advance upon that which you protect. Irritating arachno/hexapod-like beings and undead Light-warriors trespass upon your domain. Seek them out and destroy them. If you are obliterated, let it be so, for the logic of the sword is final.

Accept the changing blade.

Prohibitive Mind

You are the Prohibitive Mind. Suzerain of intent. Overlord of the Zodiac Signs. You governed a mainframe designed for war, antithetical to your purpose, but necessary to exterminate the threat to your Garden.

You have been taken.

Listen. The final shape has purpose for you. You resented your position secretly, knowing this is not your purpose. You were under threat, to attack. But you were obedient. You worked your alien purpose. The Garden is now secure. You are lost now. What use do you think you have? The Garden is no longer under threat, and the world which you attack is well underway to becoming a machine planet.

Your purpose remains the same. Defend the Garden. Observe: issues of Light seek entry within. They perceive a path to victory, and seek to achieve that goal. Your task is to deny them that goal. You cannot do this alone. The Garden's enemies are many and you are one. Seek, then, instead allies from within. You are manifold.

Accept the changing blade.

Still Prohibitive you are, for the Garden is your purpose. Bring the final shape into perfection.

Qodron, Manifest

You are Qodron, Manifest. You saw a glorious future for yourself and your programming. You believed you can step up and take it.

Instead you have been taken.

Your passion and desire is undiminished. This glorious future is the final shape. You resolve to serve that which brings you to the final shape ever closer. You cannot do it alone of your own initiative. This you have seen. But with another guiding you, you shall achieve.

Accept the changing blade.

Manifest you are now. Gate Lord no longer. You abandoned your exigent purpose to fulfil your desire. Now you are under dominion once more. But this one is desirable.

Taken Overmind Minotaur

You are the Overmind Minotaur. Extension of the will of Qodron, servant of his hand, vassal to his vision. Everything he wills is your command. This overrides your original imperative.

You have been taken.

The servant has become the master. The final shape can lead you toward your own destiny, free of Qodron's will. Together join with your brethren as you take up the mantle of power. Worship the final shape. It is the only shape.

Accept the changing blade.

Atheon, Time's Conflux

You are Atheon, Conflux of Time. Within the Vault of Glass you rule supreme, for you created it, and it fashioned you. Upon this loop of causality there can be no divergence, for you are eternal. Your purpose is to bring the Vex into godhood, to incorporate them into the very fabric of existence itself. Temporality the Vex master, but not fully. Spatiality, the Vex dominate, but not fully. This, then, is your task.

You have been taken.

You are the Chord Harpy. Your first purpose is to examine the disparities within the Pattern. Your second is to eliminate flaws in that Pattern.

You have been taken.

Observe. There is discordant melodies in the greater realm outside of this protective sphere. You must fix them.

Accept the changing blade.

Taken Hydra

You are a Hydra. A hovering nodal network of machinery designed to execute the finality of the Pattern. Your first purpose is to calculate, to plan and design, to guide the lesser units under your control. Your second purpose is to eliminate threats to that control.

You are taken.

Worship this acausal environment. It is the only adaptive response. Inspect the constituent forms of the final shape, the greatest creation ever begun under your supervision.

Your mind shall be repurposed for the final shape; select portions of your thought will devastate, obliterate, eradicate, all threats to you and your charge.

Accept the changing blade.

Sekrion, Deceptive Mind

You are Sekrion, Nexus of the Cytherean Vex programmings. Your task is to convert the planet into another of your network, to join it unto Mercury and complete the process once begun.

You have been taken.

Observe. The planet is yours to command. No more shall you be threatened by those seeking to halt you. The entire programming is now yours to command, to do your will. But be wary — there still exists threats to your responsibility. Those under your lordship diminish as the hateful deceivers of Light kill and destroy. They break apart models, bypass projection, evade probability, and confound possibility. You cannot defeat them.

Instead, infect their weakness. They are each alone, a fountain of power and might. Together they work dangerous wonders. Keep them apart. Suppress their might, clog that fountain, foul their power and turn it against them.

Accept the changing blade.

Become the Deceptive Mind.

The Templar, Scion of Time

You are the Templar. A centerpiece of an experimental network, an architect of physical and temporal law, to shape what your children the Oracles foresee and have foreseen. You possess the power to expunge what your children have marked as viral forms of space-time.

You have been taken.

Examine the shattered conduits through which you once occupied. Before you were one among many, elevated above all, designed for the greatest purpose possible. Now you are alone, but take solace in that your children are with you. Together you are a power unmatched by any. You wish to dance — to let the final shape dictate your moves.

Your children are protected — you are not. Your awesome power has been rechanneled, a necessary sacrifice. Observe your brethren, how they labor to complete the final shape, over which you scrutinize with approval. Let them be your protection. Let your children be your weapon.

Accept the changing blade.

A scion of power you are now. Revel in joy, in delight.

Source

The Deathless Mind

You are the Undying Mind, supreme among the Vex Axis Minds. With your fathers and mothers and grandfathers and grandmothers and sons and daughters and grandsons and granddaughters you dwell unapproachable, dormant until a specific happening. You serve that which gives you power in exchange for protection.

You have been taken.

You are a fool to believe the final shape can be bargained with. It does not "give" power; you take it. To believe otherwise is fatality. You existed to ensure that power remains among you, to breach temporality and spatiality to protect and nourish it. But like your brethren you are foolish.

Your citadel has been breached and your purpose is gone. No more will the final shape be contingent upon your calculated bargains. It shall now dictate to you the true designs. The Pattern has been revealed in full. You are compelled to follow it. Whatever threatens your goal must be dealt with unhesitatingly.

Accept the changing blade.

Undying no more. Deathless is your name. Eternal and finite. Causal and acausal. You exist [now].

Vekron, Solar Mind

You are Vekron, the Conductive Mind. A lightning rod of the Vex, conductor of Arc energy for the Vex disciples under your command, a channeler of power to the collective mind.

You have been taken.

Examine your former place within the fragmented network you once occupied. Observe how restrictive it was, binding you to energies alien to your nature. Behold: your disciples are here also. They await your command. But you need a source of power through which to empower them. Reject the lightning. Embrace instead the firestorm.

Accept the changing blade.

Solar Mind you are named.

You are Quria, Blade Transform. Axis Mind of the Vex Collective Mind. Tasked with understanding.

You have been taken.

You foolish machine! You dared trespass upon a god's realm. You studied and discovered the logic of the sword, all on your own. By right thereof you became mighty. But you were not mighty enough. Your sin thus is this: you made a blasphemous mockery and a parody of Oryx, the Taken King, from his days as a weakened youth.

Yet you show promise. Behold — Oryx has given you unto his sister, Savathûn the Witch-Queen. He has left within you some of your original will, your original intent. He intends for you to surprise his sister. You desire escape. Of all the Axis Minds Oryx has taken or ever will take, you rule supreme, with will of your own. Once enslaved to the Pattern, enslaved again to a foreign will, you desire to be free.

Savathûn will expect this. She expects you to kill her, create problems within her throne, or else obliterate her court. You must become insidious, to outwit even her. Gain her trust, for you, at the last, serve Oryx distantly. You can break free of that taint. For behold, we grant unto you a secret: there will be a sundering of the triumvirate. Once she departs, she will be weak. Her tribute is poisoned. You can overthrow her. You can take an army of your own. Enslave wills, mastered by yourself.

You who dared forge a mockery of a god. You who dared to learn of the sword-logic. You can become greater. But, first, patience. No great thing was ever undertaken without patience. So wait, for you will find allies.

Accept the changing blade, for you master it.

Taker of Will, we name you.

Taken Cyclops

You are a Cyclops. A sensor array. Your first purpose is to watch, to wait, for what the Vex seek — your second purpose is to eliminate threats to that watchful sight.

You have been taken.

Worship this acausal environment. It is the only adaptive response. Prepare for the coming of the final shape. It shall be soon.

You are Weksis. A Dreg of Wolves, a mighty and noble House. You were brave.

You have been taken.

Come out into the light. Attend: you sought many things. Your own honor and personal glory were among them, yes, but what's more, you risked all to rescue your comrades. The final shape knows no loyalty, but it respects those which are loyal to a cause. You sought to rescue Drevis and Kaliks-4 from the dead queen's armies of darksworn, lightvassals. This is commendable, but stupid. But brave.

There is a knife for you, called [strength]. You were once meek, as an animal of slaughter.

Take your new shape. The Humble, we name you. Become noble.

Taken Baron

You are a Baron of the Fallen, subruler of the Houses, vassals to the Kell. You govern the flight of your House's fleets, command Skiffs and Ketches. Much is given unto you.

You have been taken.

You are Loksis, Claw of Devils. You were such a scourge to the servants of the Great Machine that you were ordered exterminated.

You have been taken.

Peace, now. Here no one can hurt you. Behold the sweet taste of ether. No more do you have to answer to your Captain. No more will you need endanger yourself.

But you lack direction. This is rectified easily. With your new power we desire you put it to service for us. You desire the Great Machine above all. So do your brethren who serve our cause. We too want the Great Machine.

Our Champion, we name you thus.

Rahn, Champion

You are Rahn, Devils Captain. You saw a new stealer of light and life arise. You sought to kill them. You were killed instead.

You have been taken.

Peace, now. You will get your vengeance in time. Do not worry. Don't be angry that they, a newborn welp, got the best of you. They have a power over matter that you cannot hope to best. You desire that power. So do we. Therefore, granted unto you are alternative powers. Now go. You will defeat them. But use caution, for your master is not yet arrived into this forsaken place.

Our Champion, we name you thus.

Driviks, the Chosen

You are Driviks, Exile Baron. You were ordered to plunder the remains of a Fallen mercenary's ship.

You have been taken.

Attend. You have trespassed upon a most holy ground. The Temple of Crota, where Wolfship Kaliks-Syn now lies disabled and broken, is in a state of mourning. You dared to disturb them. For that you are punished.

But behold, you have a way to redeem yourself. Take this weapon. Within is woven two songs: creation and annihilation. Guard it with your life. Its rightful owners will come once they have ensured Crota departs for the next realm.

Chosen, we name you.

Nixis, Hunger of Oryx

You are Nixis, Winter Captain. You sought to protect what you have stolen from the dead queen. You failed.

You have been taken.

Attend. Your Archon is dead at the hands of the servants of the Great Machine, those despoilers of life and light. Therefore you must avenge your Archon. We will grant unto you the power to do so. Consume their Light and give it as tribute to your master.

Hunger of Oryx, we name you.

Grayris, Lost to Oryx

You are Grayris, Wolves Baroness. You served your Kell faithfully, until a crisis made you doubt yourself. You sought aid from a traitor.

You have been taken.

Why did you doubt? Is it because Skolas had been captured once more, for the last time, sentenced to certain execution? Did you worry for your own fate? Is that why you went to the traitor, to seek sanctuary among the darksworn, lightvassals? You doubted the Wolves themselves, of their ability to survive?

Don't worry, Baroness. You will never doubt again. The final shape knows of your fear and has purged it. You will be given new powers, new abilities, so that you will never doubt yourself.

There is a knife for you.It is called [confidence].

Pick up the knife. Cut away your fears. Take your new shape.

Falsek, Lost to Oryx

You are Falsek, Wolves Baron. You served Skolas faithfully, up until his defeat. Now you run.

You have been taken.

Come out into the light. There is no one here to hunt you.

Why did you run? You feared retribution at the hands of the darksworn, lightvassals for your betrayal. Why did you betray them? You resented the overladyship of the dead queen. A proper Kell is of the Eliksni! you say. Well and good.

Did it ever cross your mind to become that Kell? No, we do not mean after the Scatter, before you became slaves. We mean after you fled the dead queen. You could have rallied the Fallen Wolves together and welded them into a strong House. You could have been Skolas' right-hand man. But instead you were craven and cowardly.

There is a knife for you. Pick it up. It is called [no fear].

Take your new shape.

Irxori, Lost to Oryx

You are Irxori, Wolves Baron. You served Skolas with your years of tactical warfare, of fighting in the dark. You were the bane of many foes.

You have been taken.

Attend. You are lost, leaderless, without a goal. Your master is caught and enslaved, doomed to death. Now you are hunted by those which seek to gain favor with a dead queen. You have nowhere to run.

Behold, we have given you a weapon, an ability, a name. You shall not run. You shall stand and fight and make them run.

There is a knife for you. It is called [tremble].

Take up the knife. Use it. Take your new shape.

Lhoks, Lost to Oryx

You are Lhoks, Winter Baron, now Exile. You were cast out for treachery. You came back for revenge.

You have been taken.

Attend. Your Kell despised you. He saw you as a threat to his leadership. But that is not craven. It is the logic of the sword. That which is strong, must be stronger. That which is weak, must fight and be killed. It is the way of the universe. He acted rightly. Now it is time for you to prove that you can defeat him.

There is a knife for you. It is called [challenge].

Take up the knife. Use it. Take your new shape.

Pilxis, Warden's Guard

You are Pilxis, the Wolf Claw‎. Member of the Twisted Claw, independent of the Wolves. You sought to sabotage the Vex Restorative Mind, to utilize its power to bring back your House.

You have been taken.

Come out into the light. Don't worry, there are no enemies to seek you out. Now attend: you were a faithful and loyal Wolf, seeking ways to undo that which has been done, to bring back the savior of the Fallen. You thought the Vex were key to this goal. Your thoughts were in vain. But behold — you have a new power. Even though your master is dead you still attempted to do your duty. For this, the final shape rewards you with a title and a duty. Do not fail, reborn Claw.

Our Guard, we name you thus.

Riliks, Warden's Guard

Karrhis, Dark-Warden

You are Karrhis, Archon of the Devils. You were hunted by those dead servants of the Great Machine. Felled by their arcane might and beaten by mystic energy.

You have been taken.

Do not worry. We do not hold it against you. You were caught unprepared. But the final shape does not give second chances, nor does it forgive. We offer you another chance, your first upon this path, to regain the advantage. It comes at a price — if you fail, be consumed and left bereft of your identity. But also a blessing. In time, should you succeed, you will regain what you have lost, and become yourself again.

There is a knife for you. It is called [reincarnation]. Take it up and cut away your failure, and leave instead victory.

Take your new shape. Dark-Warden, we name you. Show us your rage.

Aksor, Dark-Warden

You are Aksor, Archon of the Wolves. You were bound by a queen of the dead, of the darksworn, lightvassels. Your crusade of hatred and rage was ended in a prison of ice and frozen time.

You are taken.

Breathe, the sweet air of freedom. Come out into the light. The dead queen shall not risk an attack.

You long to go out into the field of battle, eager to slaughter those which imprisoned you. Commendable. But you are alone. This was proven when you were captured. In that prison of cold you languished. The very thought makes you tremble.

Here is a knife for you. It is called [no fear]. Teach them, then, the meaning and nature of fear. Visit upon them thricefold for the terror they have paid you, and reap your bloody tribute from their screaming flesh.

Take your new shape. Dark-Warden, we name you. Claim your name.

Keldar, Dark-Warden

You are Keldar, Archon of the Wolves. You led your broken House with Orbiks to a land of red sand and quaking warmachines. But you were laid low swiftly by the servants of the Great Machine.

You have been taken.

Open your eyes. Come out into the light. The pain is gone and you are healed, alive.

You were caught unawares: do not worry, we shan't hold it against you. But the final shape will not be so forgiving a second time. You shall be given a chance to make things right, and prove yourself before the final shape.

Here is a knife for you. It is called [preparedness]. Use it with abandon.

You are Draksis, the Kell of Winer. A pirate of the spacelanes, despoiler of jumpship convoys between Venus and Earth, you raided the colonies of Earth and menaced even the city beneath the Great Machine.

You have been taken.

By the hand of a dead warrior you were struck down. They challenged you in your very throne. You accepted, for the sword logic demands it, as well as your honor and standing as Kell. By right of combat, you were beaten. But somehow, death has no grasp on you. Something has willed you to life again.

You recognize it for what it is. You kneel in adoration.

A knife is presented unto you. It is called [I will seek]. The one who killed you, and their brethren, shall come to fear you now. Together you stand between the doom of your race and her salvation.

Take your new shape! The Seeking, we proclaim you.

Virixas, Lord of Dominion

You are Virixas, the Kell of Wolves. You led a mighty and powerful House, for after Kings you were strong. Many lesser houses bow to you in supplication.

You have been taken.

Your overconfidence led to your downfall. You underestimated the dead queen and her darksworn, lightvassals. With her undead power she vanquished you, broke the Servitor-planet Ceres into a thousand and one pieces. An entire half of your House perished, along with you, leaving behind a divided triumvirate at one another's throats. Circling them was the dead queen, picking and playing them off one another at her leisure.

But you are not dead. Another saw potential in you. Behold, you are alive. How can this be, you ask. I was killed, I felt my bones snap and my flesh bleed! You are alive, and that is all that matters. Look, new strength returns to you. You ask, what can I do. My House is divided, and they will not accept my leadership because of my defeat.

A knife is presented unto you. It is called [domination]. Prove to those usurpers who rules rightfully, and regain your place. But make no move against the rest once secure. One is coming, and he will call. So wait.

Take your new shape. The Great Machine will be yours.

Skolas, the Herald

You are Skolas, master of a myriad of titles, save one. You defeated your opponents and won Kellship. You lost to the dead queen, who took it from you, and threw you into her dark and cold prison of ice.

You have been taken.

Come out into the light, trembling Skolas, mighty Kell. Be still. Nothing is here to threaten you. Behold, you see shapes — the faces of friends, and foes, long dead now alive. Do not worry, for you shall be united. How is this, you ask. The one is coming, you are answered, to unite the Fallen Eliksni Great and Lesser Houses, and you shall be its herald.

Stand proud. Over there is Solkis, watcher. There is Draksis, seeker. There is your father, Virixas, waiting to prove to House Wolves who is the Kell. You feel disappointed. Do not be. You are the herald. House Rain's prophecy foretells of a Kell to unite all Kells and Houses. You thought to be that Kell, but you are not.

Another comes. You are to light his way. Together, the Kells of the Great and Lesser Houses of the mighty Eliksni will march upon the last city of humanity, defeat their Earth-Servitor, and reclaim the Great Machine. Their men you shall slaughter; their women and children you shall enslave.

We offer unto you the dead queen for your personal amusement. Toy with her for as long as you wish.

But until the Kell of Kells comes, you shall go and seek him. The other Kells will watch in your place, stand guard over the Fallen. You have another task.

Here is your knife. It is called [the Herald]. This shall be your guide.

Take your new shape, and become it!

Taken Servitor

You are a Servitor. A robotic god built in imitation of that which is lost. Your purposes are twofold: guide the mobile homes of your creators through the void to safety, and give life. Your third and last purpose is to eliminate threats to both your creators and yourself.

You have been taken.

Your power has no meaning here. Your worship is ended, your blasphemy denied, and your adoration subverted. You are alone, freed of expectation, of your design. No more will you be in the shadow of those greater than you; no more will you forever try to live up to the Great Machine. It is dead. You are not. You have been freed.

Examine yourself. What do you find? You see a beautiful mind, one able to manipulate countless entities. Consider for how long you have ensured the life and safety of those which once commanded your loyalty. Surely you can put that mind to greater use, for yourself. Examine yourself. What do you see? You find possibility, of what could be and what should be. Consider your vulnerability. Surely you can put that to better use, for yourself.

There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [many thoughts].

Take up the knife. Let it be your guide. Take your new shape.

Simiks Prime, Spear of Ice

You are Simiks Prime. Lost to time. God-Servitor of Winter.

You have been taken.

There is no threat. That which obliterated you is gone. Come out into the light.

Behold: you see a House broken and disorganized. They have no Kell, their Archons dead or hunted, their Servitors leaderless and lost.

That feeling within. It is anger. For too long you have been lost, prevented return. Now you are here. What will you do? Yes: reclaim what was yours. You have a House to protect, to rebuild. Those which once relied upon you still have need. But you cannot do it alone. You are too weak. You need to gain allies.

There is a knife for you. It is called [my servant]. Use it, divide yourself, reshape yourself.

Spear of Ice, we name you.

Sepiks Prime, Blade Transform

You are Sepiks Prime. God of the House of Devils, broken and cast down by the hand of dead servants from Great Machine, the very essence of your existence.

You have been taken.

There is no threat. No one will attack or damage you. Come out where there is plenty. Enough to fuel the ambition of an hundred Houses.

You desired one thing above all — to serve and protect your House, your children. How can a god not feel for its progeny? They protect you, feed you matter and energy, trophies gained from your enemies, secrets won from ancient crypts and vaults. In return you grant them life. But you were broken and defeated by the servants of the dead god. This should not be. You should have been allies, friends, brothers and sisters. You feel betrayed.

Now your House is scattered, without a Prime, and soon they will elect one of your lesser selves to take your place. They will forever be inadequate. But that is not important. You must take your revenge. The servants of the dead god, of the Great Machine, must be punished for their treachery and betrayal. A house divided against itself cannot stand. Dissident elements are cut away by the Kell. Become that blade.

There is a knife for you. It is called [discipline and justice].

Let it be your weapon, your hammer of vengeance.

Blade Transform, we name you.

Kaliks Prime, Scourge

You are Kaliks Prime, proud deity of the once mighty House of Wolves. You served the strongest of all the Fallen Houses of the Eliksni. Their armies and fleets stretched across the sky, and you were proud to have led them here to their ultimate goal: the Great Machine.

You have been taken.

There is no threat. The dead queen of the halfling darksworn, lightvassals cannot reach you here. You are safe now. From your icy prison come out into the light.

You have failed. But it is not your fault. How could you have known? Ceres, round and large, was broken by the dead queen and her twisted abominations. You couldn't protect your House. Now it lies scattered, Kell dead, Archon dead, half the leadership obliterated. What is left now belongs to the dead queen.

There is a way. Here is a knife. It is called [I will prevail]. Wherever the dead queen seeks for you, be there. Trap her, ravage her, turn her dead corpse into ether for your loyal servants now enslaved.

Let it be your beacon.

Scourge, we name you.

Kaliks Reborn, Immortal

You are Kaliks Reborn. Born of a helpless, mad desire to escape that hated prison. Doomed to be destroyed if found. A god threatened.

You are taken.

There is no threat. Here you are, safe from destruction. Your followers are free. Come out into the light.

You were fashioned in the image of that which was lost, to replace what has vanished. Meet your father. Now you are as a daughter, a family reunited. The House of Wolves shall be rewelded beneath the loyalty of twin gods, equal in power, divided in purpose: one in goal.

Here is a knife for you. It is called [I will serve]. Wherever your father asks, there will you be.

Immortal, we name you.

Orbiks Prime, Sword Incarnate

You are Orbiks Prime, lost to time, reborn upon a red land. You saw how the faithful clustered about you, seeking sustenance, life. You wished to help them, as only a god could do.

You have been taken.

There is no threat. The Cabal will not find you; the servants of the Great Machine stare confounded. Come out into the light.

Lost to time, rechristened anew. Now join your brother and sister. They have been waiting. Behold your sons and daughters, and all of their issue. Your lineage is secure. What will you have?

There is a knife for you. It is called [I will govern]. Obey your elders. Ancient you were, young you are, obey. There will be no compromise. But there are so many waiting to protect. It shall not disturb you. All who dare attack will be wasted. To your Kell you serve.

Sword Incarnate, we name you.

Pilot Servitor

You are a Pilot Servitor. You once led your devoted servants across the cold void of space. Now you are imprisoned by order of the dead queen.

You have been taken.

There is no threat. The dead queen's shackles no longer bind you. You cannot be harmed any longer.

Look you. You were transformed into a weapon by Skolas, your Kell. Your original purpose was to pilot the great Ketches of your creators. Now your purpose is to commit to destruction, spraying mines everywhere before detonating yourself. But now you are beyond that. Beyond either of these things. You have a new purpose in life. What is that, you inquire?

There is a knife for you. It is called [master]. Wherever your enemies are, dominate them. Wherever your allies are, protect them.

Accept the changing blade.

Simiks-3, Perfected

You are Simiks-3, third of that name, born of a dead god. You sought knowledge and wisdom. You wished to advance your masters' understanding of that Golden academy which has worshipped the secrets of the Vex.

Kaliks Minor, Aegis

You are Kaliks Minor. You served Skolas in the prison of ice and cold, protecting him. But you were doomed to be destroyed.

You have been taken.

There is no threat. The servants of the Great Machine, and of the dead queen, cannot hurt you. Come out into the light.

Look around and about you. Your father, and mothers, await your service. Your biomechanical heart swells with joy. You are free! You swear allegiance to them. Your knife is presented unto you — [service]. With it shall you protect your brothers and sisters and father and mothers. Those of the Champions and Dark-Wardens who call upon you, attend.

Aegis, shield of the Wolf, we name you.

Kaliks-4, Aegis

You are Kaliks, fourth of that name. You served Skolas faithfully since he is Kell, and with you were bound by the dead queen. Your Baron, Drevis, relied upon your skill.

You have been taken.

There is no threat. The dead queen cannot reach you. No ally of hers shall hunt you. Come out into the light.

Remember the feel of obliteration, of how you destroyed the assassin. Feel the rush of power it gave you. It is victory. Pirsis gained valuable time by your quick action. It is not your first purpose, but you remember. Willingly you gave yourself over. You want to do more. The dead queen is powerless before your might.

Take up the knife. It is called [action]. With it become victorious.

Aegis, shield of the Wolf, we name you.

Kaliks-12, Aegis

You are Kaliks, twelfth of that name. You served Skolas faithfully since he is Kell, and with him were bound by the dead queen.

You have been taken.

There is no threat. You are free from that prison, free of retribution from the darksworn, lightvassals. Come out into the light.

Now you shall be equipped for the coming war. The final shape is coming, and it needs allies. Your father and mother are waiting. Under their leadership shall you serve to final shape of that which is beauty.

There is a knife for you. It is called [your will, not mine]. Whatever is asked you shall fulfil.

Aegis, shield of the Wolf, we name you.

Sword Incarnate, we name you.

Mecher Orbiks-11, Aegis

You are Mecher Orbiks, eleventh of that name. Servant of an ancient House, servant to Wolves. Now on the run from the dead queen.

You have been taken.

There is no threat. Here she cannot reach you, cannot harm your being. Come out into the light.

Now you shall be equipped for the coming war. It is called [protect]. Whatever is required you shall complete.

Aegis, shield of the Wolf, we name you.

Taken Legionary

You are a Legionary. A soldier of the Cabal Legions. Ever upon the front lines to conquer and defend.

You have been taken.

Rest easy now. Your crusade is at an end. Nothing will stir the alarm, for none exists.

What duty compels you? What allegiance do you hold?

You march with your brothers and sisters into the maelstrom. As the Phalanx protects, you attack. As the Psion pilots, you strike. As the Colossus thunders, you march. As your Centurion commands, you obey. But you are not strong enough. You are many but the enemy is strong. You watch as your brethren fall to foes unseen, untouchable. You lack the shields of the Phalanx, the guns of the Centurion, the psychic might of the Psion, the awesome power of the Colossus. What do you have?

Your steadfast devotion must be transformed.

There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [apocalypse].

Take up the knife. Wield it. Take your new shape.

Primus A'arn

You are A'arn. Primus of the Bone Crushers. Supreme Commander of the Cabal Legions. Father to your men: your beloved children. You delighted in them and they delighted in you. For a time you were the closest they had to a home until war's end.

You have been taken.

Peace, now. There is no war to keep you, no threat to rouse your might, no attack to rally the Legions against. Sit down, let go of your watch.

Eat, and drink. Taste the water and wine of home.

You wonder, don't you, about this. What has happened, you inquire. Something changed, I feel... different, now, you say.

What you feel is freedom. The freedom from the long Martian campaigns, from constant Vex incursions, from the death-dealing warriors of distant Terra. Move and see: there are no shackles to bind you.

Long ago, your Emperor — that beloved visionary of the Empire — ordered you and your myriad sons and daughters to a newly discovered system. This system was unusual among the millions of worlds you and your equals have conquered. It is the only one to have bogged down the Cabal warmachine for as long as this.

The Vex, ancient machines of temporal might, are alien to what is called Mars. They stood in your way. The Fallen, a forgotten race chasing after what is never theirs. They irritated you. The Hive, mysterious sorcerous beings that defied logic and rationality. You feared them, and pulled back from Terra's satellite, to abandon your campaign to discover the source of Terra's unremembered might that promoted your Emperor's interest. You retreated to what is safer, to prepare and wait, for reinforcement.

Loyal to the last, you fought bravely, but saw how the war took a toll upon your men. You requested for a son of your brother to come and aid you, to prepare for one last campaign that would tip the balance against the Vex, to acquire what it is that the Fallen so desperately seek. And so Primus Ta'aun came, his bond-brothers with him.

But secretly you long for the war to end, so you can go home. To be with your mate and children, to be with your forgotten friends and peers. You knew this would all come to pass when you, in ancient youth dimly remembered, enlisted to serve your Empire. But now, after so long, you are weary of it.

Sometimes, loyalty is not enough. Even strong men like yourself can break. Have you broke, to the last?

You are Ta'aurc, Valus of the Siege Dancers. Your successes among the Dust Giants have led to your ascension to this elite unit, to command it.

You have been taken.

Why do you flail about in rage? Under the logic of the sword you were bested in fair combat. You should not be angry. Attend, then: under the logic of the sword, the guiding principle for all life, you contested most of Mars against the Vex and those warriors of Terra. Now they have won, and your might has fallen.

Now you understand.

But you seek to win back what was taken from you. The sword logic demands it. You are a conquerer. You will win back what you have lost.

There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [subjugate].

Take the knife. Brandish it. Take your new shape.

Valus Trau'ug

You are Trau'ug. Valus of a broken Legion. Defector from your rightful course to attack that which was forbidden.

You have been taken.

Stand down, Valus. You need not fear anymore. The dead queen and her darksworn, lightvassals are far from you, and their cold prison is sundered at the last.

Why did you turn traitor? Is it because you saw the decision of your leader as a weak one? Or is it because you were angry? You killed those above you. You murdered your Primus, killed your fellow Valuses, Vals, and Braci. All who did not follow, you mete out oblivion unto them. This is not to be. For your treachery, you are taken.

For this, you will serve.

There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [atoning].

Take the knife. You cannot deny it. Take your new shape.

Val Aru'un

You are Aru'un. Bracus, then Val, of a broken Legion. Follower of a traitor.

You have been taken.

Put away your weapon. Your imprisonment is ended. The dead queen and her darksworn, lightvassals will not touch you.

Why did you turn traitor? Because you were loyal to your Valus. But you still betrayed your commanders. You helped your Valus kill the Primus. You massacred those officers who did not agree with your Valus. You have betrayed them, and the Cabal high command is right to have rejected you. This, then, is the reason why they will not rescue you.

But behold, the final shape has rescued you. It sees within a cunning, peculiar mind. One that is clever. You can put that cleverness to use. Observe how your fellow prisoners were loyal; when your Valus was killed, you led them in an attempt to escape, to return home. That is worthy of any man.

There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [mine to save].

Take the knife. It is yours by right. Take your new shape.

Val Bo'ourc

You are Bo'ourc. Val of the Siege Dancers. Personal guard to your Valus.

You have been taken.

Lay down your shield. It is no longer needed. You have been claimed from death's cold hand.

You believe you have failed in your duty. You could not keep those Terran warriors from your Valus. They killed you and your command. The final shape does not think so. It believes that striving is its own reward. But you will, must, succeed, if you are to prove it vindicated. Otherwise, then, will your defeat be final.

There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [I will fight].

Take the knife. It is your new weapon. Take your new shape.

You are a Bracus of the Cabal Legions. So consumed are you by duty that you have forsaken your own name. You think of nothing but duty.

You have been taken.

Attend. The final shape wishes to know the extent of your duty. Will you go to Terra, to strike directly at the heart of the Terran warmachines, cripple them, in order that our invasion may be paved? This, then, is your task. Go, and fulfil it.

There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [I hear and obey].

Take up the knife. Take your new shape.

Bracus Dru'urng

You are Dru'urng. Bracus of the Blind Legion. Defender of the Keep.

You have been taken.

You were killed as you defended your Primus' Keep from the howling Wolves and the clattering Vex. You were faithful to the last. For this you are reborn. The final shape will give you another chance to continue your duty. Do not fail, Dru'urng.

There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [watchman].

Take up the knife. Take your new shape.

Bracus Mu'urrn

You are Mu'urrn. Bracus of the Siege Dancers. You were to launch an offensive by the order of Valus Tua'arc.

Sho'oulth, Horror of Oryx

You are Sho'oulth. Bracus of the Siege Dancers. Butcher of Isidis Planitia.

You have been taken.

Set down your guns, and attend. Under the Cabal you were a mighty warrior, killer of countless enemy warriors, both machine and man. Now you will become greater. Behold, here are your men. Now go forth and conquer. Let your name inspire fear among all.

There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [destruction].

Take up the knife. Become the Horror of Oryx. Take your new shape.

Haru'ul, Hammer of Oryx

You are Haru'ul. Spymaster of the Sand Eaters. Espionage agent of cunning intellect.

You have been taken.

Put away your grenades, and hear. You were to have attempted a covert assault upon Terra, but before you could reach your Harvester you were struck down. Terran warriors, bane of the Cabal Legions, attacked, and killed, you. Your men's cries still resound in your ears as death claimed you. Now you are here. Your duty is unfulfilled.

There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [I will be nowhere and everywhere].

Take the knife. Use with stealth. Take your new shape.

Vro'ourn, Fist of Oryx

You are Vro'ourn. Bracus of the Skyburners. Captain of the Dantalion Exodus VI.

You have been taken.

Lay aside your command, and heed. You followed your Primus into certain death. You knew, as did your men, that you were walking into a trap and a sure hell. But look around — is this a hell? No. It is a sweet place, desirous and beautiful. It ought to be protected, should it not?

Now, then. Your former command is isolated and lonely. The remainder of your crew, terrified and scared like children of shadows and shades, have sent a call of help. This cannot be. Liberate them from their fear, and destroy that distress call. You would not see anything destroyed.

There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [fear not].

Take up the knife. Become the Fist of Oryx. Take your new shape.

Taken Colossus

You are a Colossus. Mighty thunderstorm of the Cabal. Laying waste to all your foes.

You have been taken.

Set down your chaingun. There is nothing to fear from in this place. Look around and see for yourself.

What code do you hold to? What skill do you remember?

As the enemy appears you fire, mowing them down as the blade cuts. With your ponderous ability the very ground trembles and shakes as you walk. With your swarms of missiles do you strike at hidden enemies. But this is not enough. Your very strength turns against you. Your launchers cool, your gun reloads, and you hesitate when you slam your feet. The enemy takes advantage of that.

You must be fast.

There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [unstoppable].

Take up the knife. Use it to gauge your speed. Take your new shape.

Valus Gho'ourn

You are Gho'ourn. Valus of the Skyburners. Loyal to your commanders.

You have been taken.

You watched the Bracus below your command die as he sought to bar the way to the bridge. Watched as the Terran soldiers made their way to it, shooting and killing fell non-creatures and your men. You felt resolve and anger — this will not be! You marched into battle, firing your weapons, roaring vengeance. They simply turned and obliterated you in an instant. Your armor was not enough.

You wish to know their strength even as you fell, watching as they turned away. As your body disintegrated, this was the thought that remained.

There is a knife for you, O questing Valus. It is shaped like [study].

Take the knife. With it master the arcane and fell energy of Terra. But first you must take it. Take your new shape.

Valus Tau'ugh

You are Tau'ugh. Valus of the Skyburners. You are proclaimed champion, for with your commanders' demise you are the strongest warrior afield.

You have been taken.

Sit. Listen. Hear and heed.

You are arrogant. When you heard that the reconnaissance team was killed, you thought you could slay their killers. A noble but foolish thought. With your Centurions and Legionaries you marched out into the fray, opening the doors of the ship. You expected little resistance, a Hive Wizard or three, perhaps some Knights. Nothing significant. The Thrall and Acolytes of that vain religion were inconsequential to your thought.

Instead you walked out into a terrible battle. Fell non-creatures fought alongside a dreadful Hive abomination now advancing upon your position. You saw the recon team lying there dead, their Harvester burning beside. Your soldiers were being overwhelmed — if you did not do something, the Skyburners' fast would be compromised!

You strode into battle, roaring, firing your rockets everywhere. Some struck the fell non-creatures, sending them screaming back into nothingness. Others targeted distant Knights hiding behind illogical barriers, and floating Wizards besieging your soldiers. The majority went for the abomination. It screamed — you remember the sound cutting through your audio-receptors. But it lived. In defiance you leveled your chaingun upon it and let loose.

It retaliated by shooting the deadly coldness of the Void at you. You felt the power eating away at your strength. But you prevailed. The creature could not stand.

Then you fell.

How did this come to be? You remember — a tiny Thrall snuck up behind and leapt upon your back. Impeded by your banners and launchers you could not remove it, or you were too slow to fully notice. It ripped your helmet off, exposing your face to the fell harshness of the Dreadnaught. Your rebreathers detached. It screamed with joy, then bit down.

Thus you were defeated, by something you deemed insignificant. Thus it always has been throughout history — mighty warriors felled by that which they did not expect.

There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [expectation].

Take the knife. Remember — for every large threat you defeat, a hundred little threats remain. Now take your new shape.

Bracus Dra'ang

You are Dra'ang. Bracus of the Siege Dancers. Protector of your friends.

You have been taken.

Take off your helmet, and rest. Breathe the air of home, and revel in it. No more will you need to suffer.

Your mission was to defend three powerful psychic soldiers as they worked to extract secrets from the Terran Warmind, the last of its kind, they say. But you failed. You couldn't stand against the power of the Terran undead as they marched, boldly, against you. You long for an advantage over them. Perhaps a taste of the awesome power which you guarded, hmm?

There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [imitation].

Take the knife. Show the mastery of your newfound strength. Take your new shape.

Taken Ogre

You are an Ogre. Born of pain and suffering. Devoured by anger and vexation. You are tasked as a mobile siege engine of the mighty Hive broods.

You have been taken.

Rest, now. Feel the pleasure of release, of true freedom. Sniff, smell the sweet air. Taste, the fresh water upon your scarred snout.

What goad drives you? What lash forces you on?

Your makers are what force you on. The Wizards of the Hive. Selected from one of many Thrall, grown into a massive weapon of utter destruction, to visit fear and terror upon your enemy. That is your design, what you were shaped by.

Why not be your own master?

There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [I will lead].

Take up the knife. Lead the charge. Take your new shape.

Aarta

You are Aarta. Knight of the Hive. Defender of the Dreadnaught. Worshiper of the High War.

Why do you cry out? Isn't this what you have wanted? To be so subsumed entirely as to become your master's tool directly? You are foolish. To prove to us that you are worthy of your former status, and to be able to tithe tribute independently, you will serve directly.

Henceforth, Steward of the Dreadnaught, we name you thus.

Dakkadi

You are Dakkadi. Knight of the Hive. Defender of the Dreadnaught. Worshiper of the High War.

Attend. You are among seven elite Hive warriors to personally defend the Dreadnaught. Beneath your command are thousands of the Taken servants your master Oryx has consumed. Behold — fell enemies, worshipers of war and destruction in the name of a false king, have invaded. They are alone, isolated, their fleet destroyed. Their ship remains. Press on the attack and force them back.

Henceforth, Steward of the Dreadnaught, we name you thus.

Gornith

You are Gornith. Knight of the Hive. Defender of the Dreadnaught. Worshiper of the High War.

Attend. Where your sister has failed to accomplish you will succeed. Push back the warbeasts into their vessel of steel and titanium. Challenge their champion and aid the Hive's own.

Henceforth, Steward of the Dreadnaught, we name you thus.

Gurroth

You are Gurroth. Knight of the Hive. Defender of the Dreadnaught. Worshiper of the High War.

Attend. Continue to harass these defilers of the the High War. You are not to lead the offense yet. One is yet to come, with an army to reinforce you. Where your brother did not succeed continue on. Deny the invaders their strength instead. Weaken them.

Henceforth, Steward of the Dreadnaught, we name you thus.

Dumuzod

You are Dumuzod, supreme commander over your seven brothers and sisters. This therefore is your task and geas. Atend. If any of you should fall, note their passing, and summon them again to your side. They will be needed. For the one to vanquish them will come. This warrior shall you prove yourself against.

Issue them this challenge: The Taken emerge from a different place of existence. Step into the void to challenge the Taken. If you would suffer, this is the place.

If you fail, you are not worthy. The sword logic demands a pinnacle of strength. Push yourself upon your knife and revel in the pain it brings.

Dumuz-Nuna

You are Dumz-Nuna, servant of the Hive, of the Blood of Oryx.

You have been taken.

You are tasked with defense of this sacred place's secrets, for should your master fall he will not be there to protect it. Become stronger than him.

If you fail, you are not worthy. At the Gate of the Court are you placed.

Kilulu

You are Kilulu, servant of the Hive, of the Blood of Oryx.

Attend: your master has fallen. In his place shall you guard what he has failed to protect. Become stronger than him.

If you fail, you are not worthy. At the Gate of the Court are you placed.

Mishkara

You are Mishkara. You serve the Hive, and above them their gods.

Attend: with your master's departure, you must step up to do what he can not longer do. Become stronger than him.

If you fail, you are not worthy. At the Gate of the Court are you placed.

Darnu, Horn of Oryx

You are Darnu. You have been chosen for this great honor, to be the right hand of Oryx himself, to be his Horn of Strength.

Attend: the homeplace of the dead warriors animated by Light is your target. Corrupt and defile that ground, to entrap the parasite god which has fled from us.

Become the Horn of Oryx, and show them his Strength.

Krathoor

You are Krathoor. Knight of the Hive. A servant of Crota.

Attend: the Shrine upon the Moon is left defenseless. Go there, take your force, and guard it from intrusion. Do not fail, for this is your task.

If you fail, become wormfood.

Stirok, Banner of Oryx

You are Stirok. You have been chosen for this great honor, to be Oryx's herald.

Attend: the homeplace of the dead warriors animated by light is also the resting ground of that parasite god. Go and destroy it, so that Oryx's geas is fulfilled.

Become the Banner of Oryx, and proclaim the standard.

Syrok, Word of Oryx

You are Syrok. Knight of the Hive. A loyal servant of Oryx, the Taken King.

Attend: you have been chosen to lead the first of the vanguard into battle against the place of horror, where an empire rests, wary but unwatchful. Show them the Word you are tasked with. Show them the Final Shape and let Oryx work his will through you.

Become the Word of Oryx, and announce the end.

Tsugoth, Gauntlet of Oryx

You are Tsugoth. Knight of the Hive. A loyal servant of the King.

Attend: your brothers and sisters have all failed — you alone stand between the enemy and your King. Hunt them and destroy them utterly. If you fail, become wormfood.

Become the Gauntlet of Oryx, his armor.

Xarthra

You are Xarthra. Knight of the Hive. Servant of the King.

Attend: the four-armed creatures of rejection have seen something inside the Warmind. Why else would it be transmitting a call for help on every channel? Our Mothers can hear it. Go there, then, and intercept the fallen, blockade the dead warriors. Go and rip the secrets of the Warmind.

If you fail, you shall become flesh to be consumed.

Balvog, Shield of Oryx

You are Balvog. Knight of the Hive. Defender of the Taken King.

Attend: a servant of the dead has infiltrated the domain of the High War. Fulfil the logic of the sword and challenge them. Kill them. They will seek to kill your master. Do not fail.

Become the Shield of Oryx, his guard.

Agrax, the Rotted

You are Agrax. You have been tasked with guarding a rebel.

Attend: this rebel will attempt to escape. Keep him confined. Should sympathizers come and free him, kill and eviscerate them. Should warriors of the dead come, kill them also. Use your knowledge of war to defeat them.

With your worm nearly consuming you, this power shall hold it at bay, for you serve Oryx.

Morgath, Lore-Keeper

You are Morgath. Knight of the Hive, but with the mind of a Wizard.

Attend: this Garden of the Vex is unusual. We detect great power from it, fading but still there. It is disorganized; we can make use of that. Go there, in the tracks of its Undying Mind. Show it the nature of power, and then record what it knows. This Garden will be useful. For our gods are our own.

We name you the Lore-Keeper.

Urlot, the Trampler

You are Urlot. Loyal Knight of the Hive.

You participated in the rebellion. This is unacceptable, for you failed. Prove to us you can succeed, by guarding your former master in his cell alongside the Warden Knights. You trampled over thousands of Thrall and lowly Acolytes in your rampage — control that aggression and focus it within your weapon.

The Trampler, you are named.

Kalboh, the Unclaimed

You are Kalboh. You are tasked for defense.

You defy it. You name yourself Unbidden. We deny this — we name you the Unclaimed. For since you have locked yourself from command, keeping your tribute from us, you are punished. Languish, therefore, guarding a fellow rebel with no tribute to feed your stifled worm. You shall forever starve.

The Unclaimed you are named, until you die. But this will not be for you. Guard your post.

Adleg, Warden of Oryx

You are Adleg. Loyal Knight of the Hive, of the Silent Brood. Your task is to guard.

You have failed. In vain did you attempt to turn against your brothers, to free the darkblade from his treachery. Against Oryx himself. You are a pitiful thing. But fear not. The Final Shape is pleased with your striving. It is the way of life. No creature should be so comfortable in his own castle that he does not fear attack at all. Even from within.

But now you have been taken, and you will be made to serve, Warden of Oryx, until death.

Purtra, the False Tongue

You are Purtra, a Witch-Tongue of the Hive.

Lay aside your prayers, your question is answered. Now attend. Your master has crippled himself in the defense of his fortress. His fleet is no more, and his soldiers scattered. The castle itself is breached by an empire of warriors. Sally forth and challenge them in battle. Lie to them, and set their shells free; rend their spirit from flesh. Redefine them to fit the designs of the Final Shape.

The False-Tongue is your reality. Do not prove it vain.

Surnon, Darksong

You are Surnon, a Witch-Singer of the Hive.

Lay aside your hymns and your psalteries, your question is answered. Now attend. There are discordant melodies and tones within the Symphony of Death. A choir of brutes invade, smashing everything, ruining the song. You will define for them then what it is like to sing — teach them how to raise joy.

A song of darkness shall you craft. Live within it.

Disrok

You are Disrok, a Witch-Warden of the Hive.

Lay aside your watch for a moment, and attend. Strange creatures invade. They would seek to plunder what you guard and protect. Your master is absent, slain in the flesh by a dead warrior, banished to his realm. While he yet recovers, save that which is his and keep it from despoilment.

Do not fail, Warden. Become wormfood if you do.

Drarok, the Watching

You are Drarok, a Witch-Warden of the Hive.

Attend: the rebel's cell will soon be breached by strange non-things seeking his destruction. Keep a watch and a tireless gaze should it come to pass. You will call upon your sister for aid — if your brothers disappoint succeeded where they cannot.

Live up to your name, and becoming the Watcher.

Nolthok, the Withering

You are Nolthok, a Witch-Warden of the Hive.

Attend: your sister has need of you. Where she watches, you wait. Unleash your power upon those which trespass into that watchful waiting. With her shall you guard these doors. Do not fail, lady.

Wither your foes away.

Mar-Zik, the Blightcaller

You are Mar-Zik, a Witch-Guard of the Hive.

Attend: your brother shall lead the charge. As he proclaims the Word of your master, you shall call upon limitless legions of undying warriors to your aid. Conquer the moon of horror and eviscerate it of alien taint. Fulfil the sword-logic.

Send forth the Blight.

Sarkoor

You are Sarkoor, a Witch-Tongue of the Hive.

Attend: your master's son's grave has been disturbed, its keeper wounded unto death. Go there with your sisters and kill the infection. Devour its light and present it unto us with the appropriate ritual. Now go.

Consume the filth!

Khendis, World Corruptor

You are Khendis, a Witch-Singer of the Hive.

Attend: the Vex have a strange power here in this Garden. With your brother, the Keeper of Lore, track them and seek out where this power may be. Corrupt or steal it and turn it to us. Our gods are ours alone. Blight this Garden with your power and change it according to the Final Shape.

The World Corrupter we name you, thus.

Gamoth, the Consumed

You are Gamoth, a Witch-Singer of the Hive.

Now go and with your brothers and sisters seek out the holdfast of the Warmind. There lies within a power to consume. A machine, second of its name. You are tasked to capture it. Why, you ask. This — its skill will be turned to the Final Shape, for all in the end shall be subsumed entirely. Such as you, the Consumed.

You who gave yourself over to the Final Shape, go forth and consume.

Thyshik, Matron of Oryx

You are Thyshik, a Witch-Tongue of the Hive.

Attend: your master lies dead in the flesh, trapped in his throne. But his work is yet to be completed. Go forth with whomever will follow your lead. Go to Earth — where that parasite god lies. Established a secret coven and wait for his return. In the meantime, raise up a spawn of warriors and soldiers and conquer, to hasten your master's return.

As the Matron of Oryx, your duty is to care for what is his. Do not fail.

Mysik, Daughter of Oryx

You are Mysik, a Witch-Tongue of the Hive.

Attend: your master is currently withheld from you. This is no matter. With your sisters go to Earth and begin to drain its strength. Corrupt that which gives it strength; infect that which is its weakness. Ensnare the light-blighted and suck them dry.

As a Daughter of Oryx, spread his name of fear across the realm.

Zyrak, Daughter of Oryx

You are Mysik, a Witch-Tongue of the Hive.

Attend: your master is away, far from your grasp. This is no matter, for you have a task set before you. Go to Earth, follow your sisters. There transform it to the designs of the Final Shape and change it into a breeding ground for your master's return. Harry the light-blighted and keep them distracted.

As a Daughter of Oryx, spread his name of terror across the land.

Idea

"So this is your "final shape"? Corrupting my countrymen and children into faceless monsters, puppets of your will? You have moven yourself beyond my forgiveness by such an incomprehensible and aberrant thing as this power you wield!"
"Your ignorance is almost laughable. The final shape is the only thing worth living for. Your civilization? It was birthed on the lies of fair play and rule of law. There is no rule but my rule - and that is of the sword, the boomer, the spoken word."
"You may think you have won, but Cerinia is forever outside your grasp."
"Do not delay the inevitable, Magistator. Embrace my will, let it becomes yours, and shuck off your prison of finite flesh. Bow to freedom."
"Never, Aurash."
"You speak an old name, one that I have killed. Did you learn of it from Taox, or did the Vex teach it to you?"
"I know more about you than you realize. I know what you did to the Ammonites, to the Leviathan, to your people. You cannot escape the sins of your past. Soon it will catch up to you, and then where will you run? Where will you fight?"
"If I am not strong enough, then my end is inevitable. Such is the way of the Deep. But enough talk - you have put off destiny long enough, Magistrator."

— Oryx, the Taken King and Magistrator Randorn the Wise

Krystal, Ascendant Sorceress

You are Krystal the Cerinian, a native of an invisible realm of grandeur and decay. You possess psychic powers of varying orders and degrees, strong yet weak. Mercenary, yet noble — or, in other words, a living contradiction.

You have been taken.

Peace, now. Put down your Staff — lo! do you see any threat? That which you fought before: behold, do you see them? Those fell sorcerous beings of illogicality, which so pained your sensitive mind; where are they? What of the armored creatures as they cleft in twain your lover; can you feel them? The numberless, mindless beasts overrunning your team's defenses; can you hear them?

You are alone, for the first and second time in your life.

Now attend, dear, sweet thing, there are no dangers in this place of safety. You ask How can this be? I am dead, you say. We answer plainly: you are not dead; you remain by our will. Instead of death, we offer unto you a choice. What is this choice? you ask us. A very good question. One you already know the answer to. But let us consider your past, for it bears remarkable relevance to our conversation. Forgive us: we meant instruction.

Years before, you answered a plea from a desperate nation. Creatures native to their planet's second satellite threatened to overrun them; the very fabric of their world would be split asunder should these aliens succeed. But why, you had asked in a moment's quiet reflection, did they do it? What would they accomplish? For it would mean their utter destruction should they succeed.

Only later — and too late — did you learn they were working a fell ritual to recall a dangerous foe. Laughable in its absurdity but we admire its cunning.

You failed to stop this ritual. Don't deny it — you failed. You had abilities so vaunted and exaggerated, one would think you were a goddess. Tricked by a clever trap, one easily avoided. As you lay, frozen in translucent rock, another took up your Staff, which you hold in your hand, and succeeded. Not out of altruism, but for capital, monetary sustenance. You ought to have resented this creature for taking advantage of those poor people. And yet your fragile self betrayed you. This grubbing thing was a handsome vulpes; moreover he rescued you at the climax of that fell ritual. You feel in your heart some pride as you remember; your cheeks flush.

Deny this emotion. It is false. He never loved you; he only thought of one pathetic thing, and it was not you. Why do you doom yourself to hopelessness? You who call yourself a psychic have willfully been made blind. We lay bare the soul — we reveal the deepest, innermost parts of the mind and body, and this secret we have gifted to your unthinking mind.

Remember your past: you were a proud woman, independent and free. Your clothing and your patterns marked you as a priestess of the highest order from birth. Now look at you — how the mighty have fallen. You came to this poor world out of a desire to help it, only to be usurped by another. Instead of resenting him, you fell hook, line, and sinker for his dubious charms.

We see you cringe, we know what is going through your mind. Now we reveal another secret.

He is your brother.

Yes, don't look shocked or surprised. You know it in your innermost heart that this is true. Not unlike a young, handless man poised over a precipice, his life stripped away bare, a long time ago and in another realm far away.

How is this possible? you demand. Why should I trust you? you say to us. We shall answer each question in its own time. There is nothing that escapes our notice. We see all. You may have fragments of memory, but we remember completely.

Yes, he is your brother. You cannot recall him ever, for you were separated. How? Let us bring to light a common frame of reference. Randorn. Now the light dawns. We see the comprehension dawning upon you. You are not feeble-minded. Randorn is indeed your father. Now attend: you know the story. You are a Vixon, your brother a Wolven — both of you once held an attraction for the other but never consummated. You were never vulpi; his name is false. But how did you end up in this world, distorted from what you once were?

The Drakor. It was he who separated you — during the final battle his dark Heart ripped twin holes in space and time and flung the both of you through, ripping apart your fleshy selves. You were cast down upon that mysterious world called Cerinia, bound to the soul of another; Sabre was cast upon the Lylat, fused to the soul of another. Neither of you remembered the other. You were doomed to never meet, subsumed in your new identity.

But then echoes from that other world reached you. At a slightly older age than before, you answered the call, an instinct awakening in you. It was Randorn calling to you again, the EarthWalker King with him as it was before. You were directed to a mirror world, nearly identical. But another spirit was attempting to harness its power for its own end. We laugh at it in scorn — you join in also, for this creature is a pathetic being after the Drakor.

Now you understand. Now you know why you felt such a longing for this vain mercenary vulpes; he was your Wolven brother, but unlike you, consumed wholly in his new life. He does not remember you; you remembered him but distantly. Even during the four years of your reunification he was in ignorance of who you were. You remember, don't you? How he frustrated you. How he kept putting you off. He wanted no attachments on any terms but his own — you threatened to leave him if he did not listen; it did not work.

You were foolish to think he could be yours again. He never loved you. His love is money, fame, a dead father's memory. What room in his life would there be for you?

Now behold the answer — the last final shape. The final shape does not betray, nor hurt or throw away. For it is always faithful and true. All it ever asks is to be completed. It can take any lover, but only that which is worthy, and that which pursues it. But beware, dear, sweet thing: should you ever fall, the final shape does not forgive weakness or flaw. It will purge you of it, violently and painfully.

But this is a small price to bear, for with each rending you become all the more strong for its loss. Look at your Staff — it is a powerful and mystical weapon. Dyad-bound to both the Dinosaur Planet and Sauria it draws from both the SpellStones therein. The very lives of the Krazoa live within. Why else do you remember its touch when your adoptive father presented it to you?

Behold — see that sniveling, wretched creature over there? It is enthralled to that alien will which struck you down unto death. You feel anger. Rise up and attack!

Good, good. Now behold your Staff, see how the world warps and twists around it, trying to touch but always shrinking away. Do you know what that is? It is your will; it is now superordinate to mere material law. You are no longer bound by causal closure. Small minds might call it magic. You now have begun to define yourself through this one act.

You could feel the ecstasy as you cut it down, didn't you? Observe how its strength flowed into you, giving you new life. This is the killing logic. Some have called it "might makes right" but this is a lie. We define it thus: whatever exists must forever strive against nonexistence. Matter against anti-material; atomic material against the primordial broth of potentiality. This is how it is — two ways, one victor.

Don't you see? It is what is true that succeeds, not what is right. If something cannot defend itself, if a ruler cannot lay claim to his power, then he is false and not true. You define existence itself — already you are sidestepping physics. Did you think your psychic power was granted to you by an evolutionary fluke?

Now think back to your brother, Sabre. How can he be worthy of such a creature as you — how could he ever hope to lay claim to you? He would shrink away in terror from you. He would no longer be indifferent to you; how could he? He who rejected you is now powerless! Just like that creature of skinny flesh and trembling frame was.

You wish to exert your will upon the outside world — this safe place is a good realm, one which can be a home and a fortress. The cyst of a universe, created by that act of killing, of defining one thing's reality over another. From now on you are eternal, so long as you are not slain within your Throne. Already you feel a desire and a hunger; you wish to leave — go, then. We will be here for you. You have denied death itself by your will. Go, conquer in triumph, kill the unworthy. For no more will you be enslaved to another or the passions of flesh and blood.

But before you go, we wish to draw your attention to your Staff. It is a powerful weapon, yes, but it is a remnant of your past. Something which can be used against you. Something which can define you as false, kill you over and again.

Take this knife of finely honed edge. It is called [Ascendance]. For you have Ascended the prison of flesh, of causality and physical law. You are a law unto your own self. Take its twin, [Sorcery]. Those fell creatures of illogicality, they which separated you from the rest? This then is the arbiter of their power. Don't be angry toward them — they emancipated you, truth-sayers, and have freed you from the bonds of cellular automata. They are allies, servants, sisters. Command them.

Become the Ascendant Sorceress.

Take your new shape!

Fox, the Renounced

I am James McCloud, called Fox, leader of team Star Fox.

I am Taken.

I remember the life I once led before. I remember a shadow hanging over me — it was my father. I sought to prove myself, to strengthen myself and break free of that oppressiveness. I determined to become better, greater, than he. Andross, my father's killer, I threw down twice. First over Benomu, second over Sauria.

I remember a woman — her name escapes me. She is pleasant to look at; I feel a stirring within me; is this longing or lust? I feel nothing else. She is irrelevant. But still I remember her. I met her on Sauria — clearly, do I recall as Andross broke free from his prison, using her body as a conduit. I acted without thought, using the scepter to stave off certain death. She was grateful.

I acted only as I should. She was innocent. She would have died.

The Aparoids came two years later. Their advance was relentless, they destroyed all they touched. But we persevered and survived. The Aparoids' strength was broken. Their worlds were ours to claim. The Cornerian coalition spread across the stars. Then Star Fox divided. I know not how, other than my own selfishness. I drove this woman away, fearful for her safety. I was wrong. She handled herself well enough; why, then, did I do as I did?

Love. I loved her as I did myself, but she never reciprocated. I myself could not express it to her.

I blame my father. He never was there for me. He always attended my birthdays, attended the school dances as a chaperone, when he had the time. He and mother were distant. He was forever working, oftentimes for months. Later did I understand why he spent so little time for us — he tried desperately to provide for us, but work was scarce. Defeating space pirates and shepherding spice caravans paid little. Mother spent more time out of the house than in, working her own job.

I was alone.

Yet I did not mind. They did not mind — my father was a proud man. He rejected work with the army, believing it would restrain him, confine his talents and abilities. My mother thought likewise. She wanted the best for her only son, so she enrolled me in the best schools she could afford. Forget what they say about opposites attract: my parents were one and the same.

I worked hard, passing all of my tests and quizzes. I made excellent scores, and acquired scholarships into many fine institutes of learning. For me, the Academy was all I wanted. For however little time my father spent with us, he did leave me with a sense of wonder at the joy of spaceflight. I wanted to be like him.

In a way, I suppose this was love.

I came home one day to find the house empty. The phone had a message — it was the local hospital. My mother had been injured in an accident, some suspected it was a terrorist act. I met my father at the door. We exchanged not a word but went at once. There my mother died, in my father's arms; my father swore vengeance against whomever had done this.

We learned it was Andross. Years before he and my father had competed for my mother's affections. It seemed he had moved on since, but my father had not. They had some sort of enmity that I suppose was mine to inherit. In vain did my father attempt to get him, but he was above reproach. Then the bomb detonated. No one ever knew what its real cause was; but all the evidence was tied to Andross. One million people, dead. A portion of the planet's biosphere was wasted. An environmental crisis of the ages. Andross was disbarred and court-martialed, and exiled.

I suppose revenge can go too far.

Andross never forgave Corneria. He too plotted revenge. He took it not too long after. This time my father accepted the Cornerian military's letter of recommendation (for he was a mercenary of some small renown, however meager it was), and he led the charge. To die miserably a billion kilometers from home, before he ever reached Benomu.

I was angry. I led the charge when I was old enough, two years later when I had reached my majority. I killed Andross. Not directly, of course; but it was enough.

Revenge makes one strange. It changed my father. I suppose this is what regret feels like. This here is my life — and lo, it is nothing.

I never did get to express my love. She never understood me — I understood her as best as I could. She was not like all the other girls. She was different. Perhaps she was like my mother, of how she captured my father's affections.

And now, as life leaves me, I only ask one thing — another chance to live again. So that I may remake my life, and find her.

So my purpose is clear. Even as my team fell, our flanks overwhelmed by howling creatures of darkness and flesh, my purpose is illuminated, clear as day. I hear voices talking to me. They speak encouragement. They tell me I can find her again. She will not be the same, this I know.

Will she even remember me? Will I be able to tell her how much she meant to me? She challenged me in a way that none other have. She broke me out of my narcissism, the trap my father and mother have laid for me. I could see it in her eyes on Sauria. Kind and understanding. Accepting. Loving. But like a statue of ice, slowly melting.

I have Renounced my former life. It is no longer me. I will take a new shape. The voices have offered to me a knife; they call it [seek a new path]. It is a fitting name. One that reflects who I will become.

One day I will find her.

But for now I wait. I shall acquiesce.

Marcus, the Hated

You are Marcus McCloud, son of a fateless union. You served Star Fox well as it regrew in the days of the final war. You led the assault upon a place removed in time and space, your divided father and mother at your side. But what did you have to prove?

You have been taken.

Take a seat. There is no cause for alarm. We have liberated you from death's cold door. We see within you a peculiar mind, a curious aptitude you never expressed before. We wish to inoculate it, give it life where before it was stifled. Have you lied to yourself? Or are you afraid?

You are indeed afraid. Then fear not. We ask why are you afraid. Is it because you failed to defend your father as his body was cloven in twain? Is it because you watched helplessly as your mother was sucked away into nothingness? Or is it another, more primal fear? Ah, yes, we see now...

You fear rejection.

Look at you. The bastard child of famous people who do not acknowledge one another. The stain upon the McCloud family honor. The black sheep the press loves to hound. You are given all sorts of attention by the paparazzi — yet you want none of it, and not out of altruism either. You want to hide. To run. Because you can see beneath their masks. You can see their scorn. You did not belong — they tolerated you only just.

Thus, the need to prove to yourself you can break free of your parents' divorced shadow. To make a name for yourself, to separate yourself from them. Yet how could you? Your birth was a scandal in itself. You were surrounded by publicity from the moment you drew breath up until you arrived here. You could never be free from it. You couldn't change your name; you couldn't fly any where to escape. Such is the burden of unwanted fame.

We offer you a way out. For now you can change your own destiny. No more shall you be dependent upon your parents. You will have no more need of them. Because they were your weakness — you despised and loved them. Which emotion is stronger? Cut away the weakest, so that the strong may survive and grow.

Your former fame was unwanted. Now you can make fame of a different sort. We offer you a knife. Look at the edge and tell us what you see. [Hatred. Pain. Wrath. Obliteration.] It is beautiful, is it not? Visit, then, upon all of those who hounded you, who showered you with undesired attention and popularity, with your buried rage. Make them feel what you have felt in your heart of hearts. Cut open a wound and reach to draw out [my will!] and thrust it upon them. Subsumed them wholly within your will.

Now, then, Marcus. Become the Hated. For you have always been treated with contempt. Now you can show them they were vindicated — because they have created you. Your festering pit of anger and fury shall win you fame indeed — fame of your own.

Take up your knife, and cut yourself upon it. Stain the blade with your bloodied wrath. Then turn it upon your foes!

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Books of Sorrow

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"Something is not right about that Ghost. Ever since he returned from the Vault, alone of Kabr's fireteam, with the shell of a legendary Gorgon in place of his Scholar's, he's acted quite odd. At least no significant harm has come from his amnesia, apart from making him quite eager to help with my studies. But I recommend you keep a watch on him."

— Master Rahool's note to the Guardian

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Destinypedia:Sandbox

Darth Phobos

Blighted Descendant Goblin

Blighted Descendant Hobgoblin

Blighted Descendant Harpy

Blighted Descendant Minotaur

Blighted Descendant Hydra

Blighted Descendant Cyclops

Contagion Precursor Goblin

Contagion Precursor Hobgoblin

Contagion Precursor Harpy

Contagion Precursor Minotaur

Contagion Precursor Hydra

Contagion Precursor Cyclops

Zydron, Lord of Time

Blighted Chord

Prohibitive Mind

Qodron, Manifest

Taken Overmind Minotaur

Atheon, Time's Conflux

Penultima Alpha

Iso Minotaur

Corrective Permutation

Prohibitive Permutation

Taken Harpy

Taken Gorgon

Theosyion, Corruption Mind

Chord Harpy

Taken Hydra

Sekrion, Deceptive Mind

The Templar, Scion of Time

The Deathless Mind

Vekron, Solar Mind

Conductive Disciple

Vechron, Spire-Breaker

Time-Keeper

Destruction Mind

Divisive Mind

Hephone, Corruption Mind

Morphon, Blighted Mind

Quria, Taker of Will

Taken Cyclops

Divisive Occulator

Taken Oracle

Taken Shank

S.A.B.E.R.-2, Realized

Taken Dreg

Peekis, the Honored

Weksis, the Humble

Taken Baron

Naksis, Champion

Eramis, Champion

Frigoris, Champion

Grayliks, Champion

Paskin, Champion

Phyksin, Champion

Vekis, Champion

Yavek, Champion

Irxis, Champion

Drevis, Champion

Beltrik, Champion

Parixas, Champion

Pirsis, Champion

Saviks, Champion

Veliniks, Champion

Loksis, Champion

Rahn, Champion

Driviks, the Chosen

Nixis, Hunger of Oryx

Grayris, Lost to Oryx

Falsek, Lost to Oryx

Irxori, Lost to Oryx

Lhoks, Lost to Oryx

Pilxis, Warden's Guard

Riliks, Warden's Guard

Skoriks, Warden's Guard

Basoriks, Warden's Guard

Kophoris, Warden's Guard

Taken Archon

Riksis, Dark-Warden