Rain falls gently from the Venusian skies above, creating a fine mist that washes over a lone, silhouetted figure. It stalks the moss-covered ruins. Great columns and tunnels, created from a bizarre fusion of rock and lifeless gray metal, rise into the yellow sky, now filled with clouds. The mist sticks to everything, causing the ruins to gleam dully, and the vegetation stubbornly clinging to it to look slick. The plant life looks strange and out of place next to the structures. One is a sign of prosperity and growth, a true sign of the power of the Traveller and the Golden Age. The other, a sign of not only death, but anti-life - a driven, hateful force bent on purging every beating heart to a degree so extreme that it inflicted upon itself the very doom it would grant all other races. The Vex. They gleam under the rain water, their ancient copper-colored limbs moving as they patrol their own monuments. Sullen orange optics greet the darkening light as day shifts slowly to night. The lone figure ducks behind a pillar as several strut past, their movements ungainly and as natural as their bodies. Despite all of their advancements and control over time, these Vex seem crude. Especially beside the figure. Slowly stepping out from it's hiding place and into the dim, harsh red lights of the ruins, the rain-washed form of the lone figure reveals itself to be an Exo, dressed in tattered and dirty robes. They're singed from wire rifles, torn from bullet holes, and have had one too many run-ins with the powered sabres of the Fallen. Dirt from half a dozen worlds fights against the rain, refusing to wash out from the stains they created with such determination. The Exo is neither tall not short, though perhaps on the slim side. Beneath the flickering lights of the Maw helm is a doll's face. A Cacytus is held loosely in it's hands, and it looks just as battered as the female form of the Exo. A Vortex, once belonging to the Future War Cult, rests on a single-point sling on it's right, the brilliant colors of the Cult scrubbed away. Over its shoulder, secured by a heavy chain, is a machine gun. The warlock, its robes clinging wetly against its frame, moves further into the citadel. The chains hanging beneath the Exo's robes barely make a noise. Somewhere within this massive relic-fortress is a distress signal, human made. It's only been going for a few hours, but the garbled, stock transmission is already fading. Time is running out, and she picks up the pace as the dark ruins swallow her up again. (( Open ))