Hey guys, I'm pretty into Destiny lore, even at this early stage of reveal. I've been impatient for more info, but I didn't want to wase my time of writing out a ton of speculation. So I decided I'd write a FanFiction, to be corrected and revised as more Destiny canon is released. Under the working name "Destiny: The Drums of Mars" I've concocted about 50+ pages so far, as well as a few excerpts and vignette's to help develop how I feel Destiny's lore is going to play out. The below is a little piece on the perspective I wanted to explore about how the people of the Last City regard their circumstances. Please, rip it apart and give me some good critique. Your criticisms make my writing better. :) Thanks [quote] It rained. A plodding, drumming rain that shook the make- shift shelters of the Lower Ward, the high mists of clouds above swooping in on an icey breeze as their thick embrace sealed amidst the towering spires of the Outer Bulwark. The streets of the Last City, usually cluttered with the bustle of urban trade, emptied as the deluge began in full. Habit more than discomfort urged the people indoors, the memories of a atmosphere aflame with atomics and the poison that fell in it's wake transcending the gap of generations; becoming something deeper and more dark. Habit became tradition and though the rain that fell from the new sky was now pure, still the people hid. The Seraph Hierophants preach of a time long ago, before the darkening of man. A golden age in which the Traveler shared of it's power and knowledge freely and openly. A time when man's reach touched the outer most edges of the sun's domain. When rain heralded a time of growth and renewal. A time before man's decadance and hubris brought about the ruin of all. As the world rebuilds so do we gather within the shadow of our once savior, the scattered remants of a hundred nations united in common purpose: Survival. The remnants of our last stand, those ages ago, rust and wither about us; our sins washed away and born again through the fire and blood of our struggle. The rain is again clean and renewing. But old habits die hard. Some of the young Guardians have taken to standing upon the brink of the Tower Promenade, facing the storm in certainty and reverence; the cleansing rain perhaps representing something emphemeral beyond the present. Hope perhaps, that nothing, even our present troubles, last forever. Or perhaps they gaze upon the shell of the Traveler, the ever-present reminder of our sacrificial savior that hangs, from time beyond memory, high above our city. Some still sing to it, hoping against hope that mayhaps it will awaken again from it's slumber to raise us from the darkness once more; imparting it's wisdom and power as legends says it once did. Some call it foolish, but the thought keeps us all fighting. Generations of silence and darkness have made us hard. Time has marched on since the days of legend, when the Traveler's final light cleansed the unknown foe and crumbled the remnants of our empire in a matter of days. Much has been lost. Much has been forgotten. But in the stories, full of darkness and pain, there lies something more. It is said in the last hours of the old empire, as the Traveler's strength became all that held the foe at bay, a message was given; broadcast on all channels. As the people lay cowering, the sky lit with fire and death and the doom of humanity falling about us, we were given two words. Two words that rang out amidst the ruined world, as the Traveler rose into the sky and made it's stand: "Be Brave."[/quote]