Banshee-44 — And Out Fly the Wolves

Banshee spins a Wolfpack Round on his workbench, then stops it with his palm. "Perfectly balanced," he muses. "Not surprised. Crux really knew how to put these things together."

He looks up at you. "I wouldn't have thought forging a new Gjallarhorn was possible, but it seems that every day, the impossible gets a little closer."

He looks over at the vaults a few meters away, now brimming with the weapon stashes of countless Guardians. "We lost a lot in the Red War. The Fallen probably tucked what tech they could carry somewhere in the Cosmodrome. Check the old scav hangouts. Maybe Exodus Garden."

Banshee appears lost in thought for a moment. "Y'know, part of wielding the Gjallarhorn is honoring those who didn't make it. Parts should come from the armor of those we've lost… yeah. And we've lost a lot lately…"

He digs around under his table for a moment, then comes up with a battered trigger mechanism.

"I pieced this together a long time ago so I wouldn't forget some friends I had," he says, then looks down. "Didn't work. Maybe it's time to let go of the past, but still honor it."

He raps the tables with his metal knuckles. "Let's make this weapon one to remember."