The Root Exotic Scout Rifle Rooted: Body shots leave behind a small explosive that burrows into the opponent’s body, head shots detonate all explosives at once. Reloading while explosives are still undetonated remove explosives from opponent. Flavor Text: “Pulled up and exposed, bark twisting and roots rotting. And thus the trees die.” Zynliks knelt his hands on the cold, old metal. He clenches his hands with so much strength his nails push into the metal and scratch it. This was his house, his home. An old Ketch of House Rain, now beaten and battered. Left to rot, with her guts pulled out. From the rafters few banners still hung, torn and tattered. He had walked the halls before finding himself in the Kell’s throne room. He had passed his old quarters, only an old picture remained. He left it. He had passed the room where they distributed ether. He remembered drinking deep with friends, with family. Laughing and gossiping against the now destroyed pillows and throws. In the warm, happy with what he would never have again. Worst of all, he had passed the nursery. Where those who were his brothers, his sisters, is cousins, and others of his family, his house were born. He only found the scattered remains of old corpses. Hatchlings, forced to be abandoned and left to die. He did his best, but could not hold in his cry, that built up in his lungs, and threatened to push past his mandibles. It was then he heard breathing. He turned to see her standing there. One of the human’s guardians. A light bearer, and a reminder of all his race had lost. “GO!” he screamed out, though he knew she could not understand, for he could not speak any language that humans could. She did not move. “GO! He screamed again. And again she did not move. Zynliks pushed hard against the floor, righting himself and stumbling a few steps towards her. “WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR THEN!” he screamed “WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR!” he stumbled closer. “ALL YOU EVER DO IT DESTROY WHAT I LOVE! YOU TEAR UP THE ROOTS OF MY HOUSE AND NOW YOU STAND THERE ONLY TO MOCK ME!” The guardian stepped back on her right foot, her hand grasping her hand cannon. “DO IT!” Zynliks yelled. “DO IT! WHAT ELSE DO I HAVE! DO IT! KILL ME!” he reached her and grasped her scarf in his upper hands. “DO IT!” he screamed as he slid to the floor. “Do it.” He whispered as he hung his head. He expected death, not for her to wrap her arms around him. And so, into this alien’s chest, he screamed, and cried, and sobbed.