Board Thread:Fun and Games Forum/@comment-24510587-20151030164455/@comment-26809040-20160130035523

Varrus Vass sat in his room on the fallen ketch, listening to the intercom. He let out a short laugh. He had no idea why Scythe disliked him, perhaps it was because he detested his "people". He couldn't see how the hunter put up with the company of scavengers, picking at the bones of humanity. But that was a complaint he'd already worn thin.

The giant glanced around the room. His battered and broken armour lay scattered around, on benches, shelves, the floor, and the bleak slab of metal that the fallen called a bed. The black bodysuit he wore under his plate was fine in most areas, except for where the joints and gaps in his armour lay above. In these places, the suit was riddled with holes from conventional firearms, and charred by bolts from infernal hive weapons.

The titan sat there, on the "bed", picking crumpled rounds out of his torso, and staring at the mark of the voidborn glowing in the minimal lighting of the room on a table. He though once more of what it meant to bear that mark, that hallowed vessel of history. With each bloody chunk of bullet or charred bit of flesh that hit the floor, he was reminded of the links that formed the voidmail, the light of fallen guardians, each as strong as the last, forming an unbreakable weave of their combined resolve and light. Was he worthy to add his light to theirs?

Varrus asked himself this question often, but now, he was not so sure. He had honed himself in the crucible, adhered to the defender's doctrine, and put his teammates safety before his own. But for all he had done to protect them, he had nearly killed them. His weakness, not of body, but of mind, had allowed the darkbringer to alter his thoughts, to turn him against those who it was his duty to protect. And again, when they finally confronted Enxor, his mental weakness had trapped him in his own nightmares far longer than the others, and kept him from the fight.

He had failed. For all his might and skill, he had neglected to bolster his mind, and in doing so became the weak link.

With a frown, the giant sent the last blunted round to the floor with a soft *ping*, and lay down on the bed, resting his head on his helm like a pillow. He sat there, frowning up at the celling, contemplating his failure. He had sworn never again to be the weak link. He had failed himself and his friends, both those lost and living. He was unworthy of the legacy of the voidborn, unworthy of the mark. He could not bear it once more until he had purged the weakness from himself, for the sake of all he protected and called friend.

He lay there, searching his mind for some way to strengthen it, when a vague idea dawned on him. He reached down to his side, and hefted his battered and ash-stained autorifle, The Summoner. His gaze rested on the faded yellow and black eye on the side of the weapon, as he slowly formed an idea on how he could banish the hold of the dark form his head.

''Perhaps...but I shall think on it for a while. And I have no shortage of time... ''