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The snow fell upon the rocks overlooking the lake, the water lapping against the rocks below. The sparse vegetation was a vibrant green, swaying in the breeze. This far north (and in times like these) it was a miracle that anything survived at all.
Atop the highest of these rocks stood a Guardian, tall and muscular. They wore a long white-gold robe flanked by tall, golden spaulders on each shoulder. Steel bracers adorned their wrists and leather boots to protect the legs. Their helmet steel-forged with gold leaf; two golden spikes protruding from either side. Etched above the right eye was a Phoenix, clutching a scroll in its talons.
Turning away from the lake, they glided across a narrow gap to the opposite side of the sunken path. Their goal lay in the other direction, away from Rusted Graveyard. Approaching the old docks the danger became more clear. Bodies, both old and new, Fallen and Human, strewn about; a reminder of the constant battle fought for it.
Passing through the docks was easy; completely unguarded. The rusted walls contained many tales, usually of suffering. The facilities here contained many secrets; some needing discovery, others better left alone. Passing from room to room, broken stories and tragic fates grew louder. Not again, now would be a time for triumph, for victory.
A roar echoed through the corridors, the Fallen were aware of their presence. It did not matter; death comes for all things, irrespective of power or place. With haste now, the Guardian moved, the element of surprise lost and the chance to escape best not given. Over debris, through flooded rooms, they moved, with purpose and steely determination. Terminals sparked to life, lights flickered as they carried on. Faster.
Entering the central room, they immediately noticed the hangar doors opened. Evident of their quarry's strength, the doors lay ripped apart. Clutched to walls were Dregs, the lowliest of troops, armed with simple weapons. Simple for them at least. At once a Vandal descended and barked an order. The air filled with electricity, the discharges of weapons proving intense. Strafing from pillar to pillar the Guardian fired back, landing hits with precision. The troops barked and dodged, grenades laced with lightning landed around the room. Their arms were well suited to the task of throwing, combining metal and flesh. Using the power within, the Guardian drew a grenade from fire and threw with might. Landing in the midst of the Dregs many died at once, yet more would come, if not for their leader's death. Reaching the other side of the room, the Guardian struck with their palm. A wave of fire spread and engulfed the Vandal, striking them down. Secondary explosions from the raw channelling rang throughout, announcing victory.
The ground shook, a roar again echoing in the hangar yet much, much closer. A shadow fell across the Guardian, sensing the presence of their foe they faced about. Standing 14 feet tall, with four arms and a horned helmet the Devil Priest crashed down not two feet away. The force threw the Guardian back, colliding with the wall behind and causing a crack in their helmet. They rose to the sound of what could only be their quarry taunting them. The Fallen speak a language not understood by words, but by tone and action. The cloak on its shoulder displaying his House served also as a symbol of their rank. With a flurry of crimson, the Devil charged, giving way to the fight ahead.
Knowing better than to face the Priest head-on, the Warlock used their power to escape his path. In quick motions they switched to a long rifle and struck hard, aiming for the head. It struck true, its sheer force of impact staggering their adversary. Taking the opportunity, the Guardian struck hard with grenades and volleys of fire. The enemy roared again as he recovered, unfazed by the power of the assault. Drawing a weapon from his back, large, even for him, the Archon fired. Lances of explosive energy reached out and saturated the Guardian. Their shield failing, they realised it would take more than mere fire to defeat his target. More than their might, more than their light. As their body gave in to the attack, the Warlock sang a song of fire, to uplift his body as it died.
Silence fell. The Guardian's body lay still on the ground, aflame yet from the brutal assault. The Devil stood above, raising his weapon above his head he roared in victory. Roared in jubilation. Roared with power.
The Guardian roared back. Blinding light enveloped their body as it rose, now aflame with power. The power of the Sun. The power of their Radiance. With the might of Sol flowing through them, the Warlock floated above the ground. Using their now indomitable will, they now unleashed a barrage of pure fire. Their hands flared as a relentless onslaught of grenades and Light wore down their foe. Now aflame himself, the Priest roared in pain, feeling terror for the first time. His technology had failed, his strength had failed, his Darkness had failed. In a final burst of sunlight, the Archon Priest exploded, filled with the power of the Sun.
As soon as it began, the moment ended. Victorious in their fight the Guardian fell to their knees. A moment to rest, to reflect on their triumph. They had brought their light to this place, now free from its scourge. A cleansing flame to burn away the Darkness wherever it may be. Rising now, they glided up through the hangar doors to the roof of the docks. Across the wilderness, the frontier, ongoing battles raged, an explosion here and there. Warlocks, Titans and Hunters across the world fought. Each order brought their own Light, in their own way, to darkened places. Some may fall, some had fallen; this Guardian would remember, the City would remember. In the case of this Warlock now, though, there would be flames that not even the Darkness could extinguish.