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| Ancient Apocalypse Armor | |
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Ancient Apocalypse Armor is the Legendary Hunter version of the Gambit armor set.
Ancient Apocalypse Mask
- "Maybe you leave your first apocalypse. But your second one never leaves you."
- — The Drifter
Perks
Lore
Emerald Coast. European Deadzone.
Guardian jumpships roared away overhead. The Drifter walked along the shoreline, past the wreckage of Cabal shields and armor. The Lights of the Tower had taken very well to his little game.
He gripped a massive hand cannon in his fist, and his Ghost buzzed around his head like a carrion fly. Its Light was as red as a Vex eye. Drifter scanned the battlefield as he walked, making note of the weapons and the scrap he would have the Derelict's AI transmat to the hangar. The beach was littered with burning Cabal tech. Drifter would find a use for all of it. Routine maintenance for the Derelict. Additional banks.
Drifter bet if he took two of Cabal shields and put them together, he could build a cute little hut that would keep out the sun so he could take a nap.
He passed idly by a Legionary crawling towards a discarded Slug Rifle and shot it in the head. The bark of his cannon rang out across the shore.
This Gambit thing was going so well he might soon have the resources for additional battlefields.
He passed a crouched Psion fiddling with the radio on a fallen Colossus' armor.
A burst from Drifter's cannon sent the small Cabal morph flipping backwards, its head evaporating in a violet puff.
Drifter continued his stroll, readying the battlefield for the Derelict's arrival. The occasional monstrous bark of his cannon was the only sound for miles around.
Ancient Apocalypse Grips
- "Sometimes the difference between survival and eradication is just pure, simple stubbornness."
- — The Drifter
Perks
Lore
Emerald Coast. European Deadzone.
Drifter waited, covering his eyes from the sun as the Derelict descended on a coastline covered in Cabal wreckage.
He keyed a switch on his remote and his ship's Transmat beam dissolved the bank at the center of the battlefield. He couldn't help but chuckle. His Ghost looked at him quizzically.
"Sometimes it is just this easy," Drifter said, shrugging. "The Guardians get paid and we collect our goods. No ambushes, pompous aliens—"
He heard a dull boom behind him over the howl of the Derelict's engines. The sky darkened. He turned to see that Cabal reinforcements had arrived from a massive capital ship above. Armored soldiers landed with heavy thuds in the sand, their weapons a glistening silver.
Drifter's Ghost expanded and its eye went wide. It did this instead of laughing. It couldn't laugh.
"Shut up. Shut up, you idiot." Drifter waved his friend away.
He eyed the approaching squad of soldiers bristling with armor and weapons. The Mote of Dark was cold to the touch in his hand.
Ancient Apocalypse Vest
- "Sometimes it's a cosmic event. Sometimes it's a beast from hell. Sometimes it's one man."
- — The Drifter
Perks
Lore
Emerald Coast. European Deadzone.
Drifter shambled up to the bank. He dragged a Psion corpse with him so he'd have something to sit on.
He dumped the body to the ground, took a seat.
Drifter licked his finger and slid it behind a hidden panel on the bank's outer shell to crack the thing open. It unfolded, ejecting a single, compressed Mote.
A Mote of Dark, he called it. He could see it glow despite the shining sun overhead. It was chill to the touch, an effect of the bank. This particular haul was worth a hundred and two singular Motes of Dark. A one-sided slaughter.
His comfy Psion chair twitched. He stood up, blasted two rounds into it with a massive cannon.
Above him, the Derelict descended. His Ghost flinched slightly as the ship's engines kicked up a whirlwind of dust. Drifter cooed softly to his friend. "I love this job."
Ancient Apocalypse Strides
- "I stopped counting the Armageddons."
- — The Drifter
Perks
Lore
A sudden wind tore at Drifter's duster. He stared hard across the sand at the line of Cabal soldiers in his path. A towering Centurion at the head spoke for the group in fierce Cabalese.
[Surrender your weapons and your ship. Or die.]
Drifter stuck a single finger in the air at them. He imagined the Cabal narrowing their eyes at him under the helmets.
[Why does your kind always insist on fighting even when you are so hopelessly outgunned?]
Drifter shook his head. "I won't fight. I like to watch," he says, and keyed the Mote of Dark in his hand.
An unearthly howl filled his ears and he cursed. He never quite got used to it. The sky turned a shade of fiery green and split in half.
Nine creatures that Guardians would know as Primevals stepped onto the sand of the Emerald Coast, out of place, impossible, massive, and wrong.
The Cabal let out a guttural cry. An approximation of fear.
Tracers raked the air as they fired everything they had against the suddenly-emerging Taken. Explosions rocked the shoreline as the Cabal ship joined in the assault. Pillars of flame erupted into the sky. The Primevals didn't seem to notice, marching forward through the bullets and the fire towards the enemies of their master, who hadn't moved from where he stood.
The Drifter's smile was all teeth.
Ancient Apocalypse Cloak
- "Had a face like the end-times and eyes like manna in the desert. One look at him, and I knew I wasn't gonna be saved."
- — The Drifter
Perks
Lore
The Drifter walked along the shoreline, past the wreckage of Cabal shields and armor. His Primevals had done their work.
He gripped a massive hand cannon in his fist, and his Ghost buzzed around his head like a carrion fly. Drifter scanned the battlefield as he walked, making note of the weapons and the scrap he would have the Derelict's AI transmat to the hangar.
He ambled up to a dying Psion amidst the wreckage of a Harvester torn in half, and stared down at it as it bled.
The front of its skull started to glow, a telltale sign that it was trying to throw its mind up at the Drifter.
He stepped forward and kicked it squarely in the head.
He knelt down.
"All the people who matter say we're on the precipice of a new Golden Age. I'm still trying to figure out what that means. But I can tell you this: the last time humanity had a Golden Age, we owned this system. Every inch of it."
He leaned in to whisper into where the Psion's ears would be if it had ears.
"And not all of us are as polite as the ones up in that Tower." A monstrous bark from his hand cannon rang out, the only sound for miles around.