Chivalric Fire

"It should be elegant," says Zavala, striking his breastplate with a fist. The sound echoes through the room. "The Vanguard's representatives are as suited to diplomacy as they are combat. That is our strength, when our allies range from an Ahamkara to the Cabal." Shaxx's firm gesture of denial drives the side of his hand into a shelf. An Omolon-branded canister falls off and rolls across the floor. "It must be an unstoppable force in sword form! It should spit fire! Also, it should be red." "No, no," the Drifter says from the doorway. He kicks the rolling canister away without looking down. "I'm a law-abiding citizen. I pay my taxes. You can trust me. It needs to look mean. You want people thinking: 'They're madder, badder, and hungrier than me. I'm not tangling with them.'" Banshee-44 dubiously scratches his jaw with the point of his stylus. He glances up at his clients from his notepad. "That's a lot of elements for one design. Can you cut a couple?" The workshop erupts in impassioned shouts.