The Dreadnaught loomed in the rings of Saturn, a monument to death. At its heart sat Oryx upon his chitinous throne, gazing out into the abyss of space. His pale flesh seemed to glow under the sickly green lights of the chamber, and his black eyes held the cold fire of a wrath both ancient and unrelenting.

Oryx rose from his throne, armor scraping against itself, and strode to the edge of the platform.

"So much Light in my kingdom."

His voice rumbled through the chamber, echoing in the hollows of bone and metal.

"The Traveler's puppets scurry through my ship, seeking to undo my works."

He clenched an enormous fist, talons digging into fleshless palms.

"They think to take what is mine. But I am the Taken King. I shall rend open the Vex gates and drink of their radiolaria. I shall chase the Cabal fleet back to the outer worlds and scour clean their fortresses. The Light shall flee before me, and I will Take all that remains into the final shape of my throne world."

Oryx turned, eyes blazing, and seized his blade from where it rested.

"They seek to face me? So be it. I shall meet their Light with sword and claw and magic dark. I shall face their champions and break them upon my altar. I shall show them true dominion and the wages of defiance."

Raising his blade high, Oryx bellowed a war cry that shook the Dreadnaught to its foundations. The Hive hordes heard their master and awoke, shrieking for slaughter. Oryx heard their cries and was pleased.

"Go forth, my Horde. Bring me tribute and feed the worms of war. The Light dies here - my work begins!"