The Full record of The Events That Transpired in the Town of Palamon Concering Jaren Ward (compiled from The Last Word Grimoire cards)

This is my third Full Record post in 2 days i hope i don’t break my brain. any suggestions for topics? i’m thinking about making records for Calus’s shadows, (ie Rull, The Ace-Defiant, Nohr) but i digress this is mildly enlightening to be able to fully catalog events that happened in destiny’s lore before the Traveler made contact with humanity instead of having to comb through grimoire and lore tabs whenever i want a timeline for something that happened. (PS note to site owners the timeline on the website only catalogs events up to the events in The Taken King expansion just an FYI). enough talk let’s delve into one of my favorite characters in the lore that we haven’t met in the campaign.

The Tale of Jaren Ward

Jaren Ward was a hunter famous among most (D1 Veteran) players for being the original owner of the exotic D1 hand cannon The Last Word. The grimoire cards that tell his tale strangely enough are not from his point of view. it is from that of a small boy named Shin Malphur in a town called Palamon. Palamon was a small town in an unamed continent established after the Collapse during what is known as The Dark Age. during this age the first guardians emerged. most seeked the traveler’s final resting place but others became corrupt and used their power for personal gain at the expense of others. those of you more versed in lore know that Lord Radegast created The Iron Lords after being fed up with these corrupt guardians known as warlords. this tale takes place before the lords when humanity was still on its hands and knees. (or at least it’s implied if it isn’t then Radegast probably hasn’t gotten to the warlord in this story)

The Tale of Jaren Ward

I Grimoire card/Ghost Fragment: The Last Word

Im writing this from memory - some mine, but not all. The facts won’t sync with the reality, but they’ll be close, and there’s no one to say otherwise, so for all intents and purposes, this will be the history of a settlement we called Palamon and the horrors that followed an all too brief peace.
I remember home, and stories of a paradise we’d all get to see some day - of a City, “shining even in the night.” Palamon didn’t shine, but it was sanctuary, of a sort.
We’d settled in the heart of a range that stretched the horizon. Wooded mountains that shot with purpose toward the sky. Winters were harsh, but the trees and peaks hid us from the world. We talked about moving on, sometimes, striking out for the City. But it was just a longing.
Drifters came and went. On occasion they would stay, but rarely.
We had no real government, but there was rule of law. Basic tenets agreed upon by all and eventually overseen by Magistrate Loken.
And there you have it…no government, until there was. I was young, so I barely understood. I remember Loken as a hardworking man who just became broken. Mostly I think he was sad. Sad and frightened. As his fingers tightened on Palamon, people left. Those who stayed saw our days became grey. Loken’s protection - from the Fallen, from ourselves - became dictatorial.
Looking back, I think maybe Loken had just lost too much - of himself, his family. But everyone lost something. And some of us had nothing to begin with. My only memory of my parents is a haze, like a daydream, and a small light, like the spark of their souls. It’s not anything I dwell on. They left me early, taken by Dregs.
Palamon raised me from there. The family I call my own - called my own - cared for me as if I was their natural born son. And life was good. Being the only life I knew, my judgment is skewed, and it wasn’t easy - pocked by loss as it was - but I would call it good.
Until, of course, it wasn’t.
Until two men entered my world. One a light. The other the darkest shadow I would ever know.

For context the two men mentioned are Jaren Ward (One a light) and Dredgen Yor (The other the darkest shadow i would ever know)

II Grimoire card/Ghost Fragment: The Last Word 2

The man I would come to know as Jaren Ward, my third father and quite possibly my closest friend, came to Palamon from the south.
I was just a boy, but I’ll never forget his silhouette on the empty trail as he made his slow walk into town.
I’d never seen anything like him. Maybe none of us had. He’d said he was only passing through, and I believed him - still do, but life can get in the way of intent, and often does.
I can picture that day with near perfect clarity. Of all the details though - every nuance, every moment - the memory that sticks in my mind is the iron on Jaren’s hip. A cannon that looked both pristine and lived in. Like a relic of every battle he’d ever fought, hung low at his waist - a trophy and a warning.
This man was dangerous, but there was a light about him - a pureness to his weight - that seemed to hint that his ire was something earned, not carelessly given.
I’d been the first to see him as he approached, but soon most of Palamon had turned out to greet him. My father held me back as everyone stood in silence.
Jaren didn’t make a sound behind his sleek racer’s helmet. He looked just like the heroes in the stories, and to this day I’m not sure one way or the other if the silence between the town’s people and the adventurer was born of fear or respect. I like to think the latter, but any truth I try to place on the moment would be of my own making.
As we waited for Magistrate Loken to arrive and make an official greeting, my patience got the best of me. I shook free of my father’s heavy hand and made the short sprint across the court, stopping a few paces from where this new curiosity stood - a man unlike any other.
I stared up at him and he lowered his attention to me, his eyes hidden behind the thick tinted visor of his headgear. My sight quickly fell to his sidearm. I was transfixed by it. I imagined all the places that weapon had been. All of the wonders it had seen. The horrors it had endured. My imagination darted from one heroic act to the next.
I barely registered when he began to kneel, holding out the iron as if an offering. But my eyes locked onto the piece, mesmerized.
I recall turning back to my father and seeing the looks on the faces of everyone I knew. There was worry there - my father slowly shaking his head as if pleading with me to ignore the gift.
I turned back to the man I would come to know as Jaren Ward, the finest Hunter this system may ever know and one of the greatest Guardians to ever defend the Traveler’s Light…
And I took the weapon in my hand. Carefully. Gently.
Not to use. But to observe. To imagine. To feel its weight and know its truth.
That was the first time I held “Last Word,” but, unfortunately, not the last.

III Grimoire card/Ghost Fragment: The Dark Age 2

Loken’s men found Jaren Ward in the courtyard where this had all began.
Nine guns trained on him. Nine cold hearts awaiting the order. Magistrate Loken, standing behind them, looked pleased with himself.
Jaren Ward stood in silence. His Ghost peeked out over his shoulder.
Loken took in the crowd before stepping forward, as if to claim the ground - his ground. “You question me?” There was venom in his words. “This is not your home.”
I remember Loken’s gestures here. Making a show of it all.
Everyone else was still. Quiet.
I tugged at my father’s sleeve, but he just tightened his grip on my shoulder to the point pain. His way of letting me know that this was not the time.
I’d watched Jaren’s every move over the past months, mapping his effortless gestures and slight, earned mannerisms. I’d never seen anything like him. He was something I couldn’t comprehend, and yet I felt I understood all I needed the moment I’d seen him. He was more than us. Not better. Not superior. Just more.
I wanted father to stop what was happening. Looking back now, I realize that he didn’t want to stop it. No one d id.
As Loken belittled Jaren Ward, taunted him, enumerated his crimes and sins, my eyes were stuck on Jaren’s pistol, fixed to his hip. His steady hand resting calmly on his belt.
I remembered the pistol’s weight. Effortless. And my concern faded. I understood.
“This is our town! My town!” Loken was shouting now. He was going to make a show of Jaren - teach the people of Palamon a lesson in obedience.
Jaren spoke: clear, calm. “Not anymore.”
Loken laughed dismissively. He had nine guns on his side. “Those gonna be your last words then, boy?”
The movement was a flash: quick as chain lightning. Jaren Ward spoke as he moved. “Yours. Not mine.”
Smoke trailed from Jaren’s revolver.
Loken hit the ground. A dark hole in his forehead. Eyes staring into eternity.
Jaren stared down the nine guns trained on him. One by one, they lowered their aim. And the rest of my life began - where, in a few short years, so many others would be ended.

IIII Grimoire card/Ghost Fragment: The Last Word

It was the fourth night of the seventh moon.
Nine rises since any sign.
Trail wasn’t cold, but lukewarm would’ve been an exaggeration.
Jaren had us hold by a ravine.
The heavy wood along the cliffs’ edge caught the wind, holding back the cold and the rush of water muffled our conversation.
We’d seen dual Skiffs hanging low as they cut through the valley.
Wasn’t known Fallen territory, but anymore that’s a dangerous assumption.
There were six of us then.
Three less than two moons prior, but still, one more than when we’d first turned our backs to Palamon’s ash.
We took a rotation for watch during the night.
Movement was kept to a minimum and communication was down to hand signals and simple gestures.
We could hold our own in a fight, but only the dead went looking for one—a hard truth that cut in direct opposition to our reasons for being so far from anything resembling civilization, much less our safety.
The Skiffs had spooked Kressler and Nada, and, in truth, me as well. But, looking back, I think we were all just grasping for any good reason to turn back.
Not because we would—turn back—but because it seemed to be our only real hope, and I think we all knew it.
Forward. Where we were headed—into the unknown. And following the footsteps we were. It all just started to feel like a never-ending dead end after a while.
Jaren never wavered though. Not once.
At least not to any noticeable degree.
It was his drive, his conviction, that kept us going.
And—it’s hard to think on—but if I’m honest, it was his death that rekindled my own fire. A fire that was all but exhausted on that cold night.
He seemed confident we were close.
But more than confident—sure. He seemed sure.
No one else felt it—our own confidence, and any enthusiasm we’d had was set to wither soon as Brevin, Trenn and Mel were gunned down.
The Ghost—Jaren’s Ghost—never said a word to any of us. Just hung there. Always alert. Always judging. Not us, per se, but the moment. Any moment.
I never got the sense it thought of us as lesser. More that it was guarded, wary.
We knew it could speak. We’d overheard them a few times. Just brief words, and no one ever pressed the subject.
From time to time I caught its gaze lingering on me, but always assumed the attention was a result of the bond Jaren and I had. He was a father to me. At the time I didn’t know why he’d singled me out as someone to care for. Someone to protect. After all the loss, I welcomed it, but looking back—taking in the arm’s length at which he kept the others—I guess I should’ve known, or at least suspected there was more to it.
We all woke that night, closer to morning than the previous day.
A crack of gunfire split through the wood. Then more.
Far off, but near enough to pump the blood.
A familiar ring. “Last Word.” Jaren’s sidearm. His best friend.
Then another. A single shot, an unmistakable echo calling through the night. Hushed, cutting.
One shot, dark and infernal. Followed by silence.
We crouched low and quiet. Listening. Hoping.
Jaren was gone. Off on his own.
Maybe we were closer than we’d allowed ourselves to believe.
Too close.
He’d gone to face death alone.
I couldn’t admit it—not at the time—but he thought he was
protecting us.
After such a long road—years on its heels, a trail littered with suffering and fire—maybe he just couldn’t take the thought of anymore dead “kids,” as he called us.
The echoes faded and we all held still. No way to track the direction. No sense in rushing blind.
What was done was done.
The cadence of the shots fired told a story none of us cared to hear.
“Last Word” it hadn’t been. And somewhere in the world, close enough for us to bear absent witness but far enough to be a dream, Jaren Ward lay dead or dying. And there was nothing to be done.
Hours passed. An eternity.
We held our spot, but as the sun rose the others began to fade back into the world. Without Jaren there was nothing holding us together. No driving force. Vengeance had grown stale as a motivator. Fear and a longing to see more suns rise drove a wedge between duty and desire.
By midday I was alone. I couldn’t leave. Wouldn’t.
Either I would find Jaren and set him at ease, or the other would find me and that would be a fitting end.
Death marching on.
But then, a motion. Quick and darting. My muscles tensed and my hand shot to the grip of my leadslinger.
Then a confirmation of the horrible truth I had already accepted, as Jaren’s Ghost came to a halt a few paces in front of me.
I exhaled and slumped forward. Still standing, but broken.
The tiny Light looked me over with a curious tilt to its axis, then shot a beam of light over my body. Scanning me as it had done the very first time we met.
I looked up. Staring into its singular glowing eye.
And it spoke…

Damn that was a long one
the next one btw is a transript of a conversation between (who i believe to be) Dredgen Yor and his Ghost

V Grimoire card/Ghost Fragment: Thorn 4

TYPE: Transcript.
DESCRIPTION: Conversation.
PARTIES: Two [2]. One [1] Ghost-type, designate [REDACTED] [u.1], One [1] Guardian-type, Class [REDACTED] [u.2]
ASSOCIATIONS: Breaklands; Durga; Dwindler’s Ridge; Last Word; Malphur, Shin; North Channel; Palamon; Thorn; Velor; Ward, Jaren; WoS; Yor, Dredgen;
[u.1:0.1] Such Darkness.
[u.2:0.1] Impressed?
[u.1:0.2] Far from it.
[u.2:0.2] To each their own.
[u.1:0.3] His Light is faded.
[u.2:0.3] His Light is gone.
[u.1:0.4] You are an infection.
[u.2:0.4] I am that which will cleanse.
[u.1:0.5] You are a monster.
[u.2:0.5] Heh. An old friend once saw me as the same. He was right, and, had we met earlier, so too would you be.
[u.1:0.6] You’d dare defend yourself – all you’ve done – as anything but monstrous?
[u.2:0.6] No more than a hurricane.
[u.1:0.7] Then you’re a force of nature?
[u.2:0.7] I am all that is right. You may not see it – for lack of looking, or blind ignorance – but I am all that is good.
[u.1:0.8] You’ve just murdered a good man.
[u.2:0.8] He shot first.
[u.1:0.9] Yet you stand.
[u.2:0.9] Guess he missed.
[u.1:1.0] He never misses.
[u.2:1.0] First time for everything.
[u.2:1.1] His cannon? Nice piece of hardware.
[u.2:1.2] Well-worn, but clean. Smooth hammer.
[u.1:1.1] It was his prize.
[u.2:1.3] Guess he put too much faith in the wrong steel.
[u.1:1.2] Is that where your faith lies, in steel?
[u.2:1.4] Not for some time. My steel is only an extension. My faith is in the shadow.
[u.1:1.3] Then my Light is an affront to all you are. I am your truest enemy.
[u.2:1.5] One of many.
[u.1:1.4] Would you end me?
[u.2:1.6] Not you. Not now.
[u.1:1.5] The shadow knows mercy.
[u.2:1.7] The shadow knows no such thing.
[u.1:1.6] Then what?
[u.2:1.8] The other.
[u.1:1.7] What other?
[u.2:1.9] The dead man’s charge.
[u.1:1.8] The boy?
[u.1:1.9] You’d end him as well?
[u.2:2.0] If it comes to that… We’ll see.
[u.1:2.0] I won’t let you have the child.
[u.2:2.1] Been long enough now, think maybe he’s a man.
[u.1:2.1] You cannot have him.
[u.2:2.2] Not yet.
[u.1:2.2] I won’t let you.
[u.2:2.3] That you could stop me is an amusing thought.
[u.2:2.4] Here.
[u.2:2.5] Take it.
[u.1:2.3] Why?
[u.2:2.6] Give the apprentice his master’s “sword.” It is a gift.
[u.1:2.4] You cannot have him.
[u.2:2.7] You fear for his Light?
[u.1:2.5] He…
[u.2:2.8] …is special.
[u.1:2.6] Yes.
[u.2:2.9] I am aware.
[u.1:2.7] You’re trying to tempt him. You’re feeding his anger.
[u.2:3.0] The gun is a memento, nothing more.
[u.1:2.8] You claim to be a vessel, a hollow shell where once a man stood, but that is just a lie. The man is still in you.
[u.2:3.1] There is no man here, I am now, and for the rest of time, only Dredgen Yor.
[u.1:2.9] “The Eternal Abyss?”
[u.2:3.2] So, not all the forgotten languages are dead.
[u.1:3.0] Hide behind whatever titles you wish, it is all still a façade. No force of nature would play such games.
[u.2:3.3] Games?
[u.1:3.1] The cannon. You wish to tempt the boy. To spur him on and fuel his rage. There is intent there. The actions of a man, monstrous, mad or otherwise… you are nothing more.
[u.2:3.4] And what value does your conclusion bring, flawed as it may be?
[u.1:3.2] That a hurricane can only be weathered, not stopped. Not redirected. A force of nature is uncaring and without intent, but a man…
[u.2:3.5] Yes?
[u.1:3.3] A man is none of those things.
[u.1:3.4] A man can be killed.
[u.2:3.6] And there it is…
[u.1:3.5] There what is…?
[u.2:3.7] A sliver of hope.

VI Grimoire car/Ghost Fragment: The Last Word 4

Palamon was ash
I was only a boy – my face caked in soot, snot and sorrow.
I’d assumed Jaren, my friend, our Guardian, the savior of Palamon, would always protect us – could always save us…
But I was a fool.
Jaren, and the others, only a handful, but still our best hunters, our hardest hearts, had left three suns prior. Tracking Fallen, after the bandits had caused a stir.
The stranger – the other – arrived the following day.
He rarely spoke. Took a room. Took our hospitality.
I was intrigued by him, as I was Jaren when he’d first arrived.
But the stranger was cold. Distant. Damaged, I thought.
But I wasn’t afraid. Not yet.
Only a child, I knew the monsters of our world to walk like men, but they were not. They were something alien. Four-armed and savage.
The stranger was polite, but solemn.
I took him for a sad, broken man, and he was. Though, at the time, I didn’t understand how that could make one dangerous.
As with Jaren, father made an effort to keep me away from the stranger.
It wouldn’t matter.
As the silhouette approached, fear held tight.
The dark figure towered over me. Looking into me – through me.
He smiled. My knees weak. All lost.
Then, he turned and walked away.
Leaving ruin and a heartbroken, terrified boy in his wake without a second glance.
I’ve been chasing that stranger’s shadow ever since.
We stood silent, the sun high.
Seconds passed, feeling more like hours.
He looked different.
He seemed, now, to be weightless – effortless in an existence that would crush a man burdened by conscience.
My gaze remained locked as I felt a heat rising inside of me.
The other spoke…
“Been awhile.”
I gave no reply.
“The gunslinger’s sword… his cannon. That was a gift.”
My silence held as my thumb caressed the perfectly worn hammer at my hip.
“An offering from me… to you.”
The heat grew. Centered in my chest.
I felt like a coward the day Jaren Ward died and for many cycles after.
But here, I felt only the fire of my Light.
The other probed…
“Nothing to say?”
He let the words hang.
“I’ve been waiting for you. For this day.”
His attempt at conversation felt mundane when judged against all that had come before.
“Many times I thought you’d faltered. Given up…”
All I’d lost, all who’d suffered, flashed rapid through my mind, intercut with a dark silhouette walking toward a frightened, weak, coward of a boy.
The fire burned in me.
The other continued…
“But here you are. This is truly an end…”
As his tongue slipped between syllables my gun hand moved as if of its own will.
Reflex and purpose merged with anger, clarity and an overwhelming need for just that… an end.
In step with my motion, the fire within burst into focus – through my shoulder, down my arm – as my finger closed on the trigger of my third father’s cannon.
Two shots. Two bullets engulfed in an angry glow.
The other fell.
I walked to his corpse. He never raised his cursed Thorn – the jagged gun with the festering sickness.
I looked down at the dead man who had caused so much death.
My shooter still embraced by the dancing flames of my Light.
A sadness came over me.
I thought back to my earliest days. Of Palamon. Of Jaren.
Leveling my cannon at the dead man’s helm, I paid one final tribute to my mentor, my savior, my father and my friend…
“Yours… Not mine.”
…as I closed my grip, allowing Jaren’s cannon, now my own, to have the last, loud word.

You just read 3,794 words of information how do you feel about that? Jaren Ward is probably one of my favorite characters because in my mind he fits the stereotypical Ye Ol Gunslingin Wild Western Cowboy so this was something i had to do not just for the lore but for me.

I would like suggestions as to what i should be making records of next there is a lot of lore in Destiny and as Bungie continues to add on it will only grow so i’m gonna take this one step at a time. for all those smaller lore topics that i won’t cover because there isn’t enough information on the subject i would highly recommend watching Youtuber MyNameIsByf (#Notspon no seriously he’s just a great guy)

Per Audacia Ad Astra

I should probably think of a better latin phrase to close out my posts because Byf already uses that.


still love this story in the lore…

1 Like