It wasn't a sound she heard often, but she recognized the melody that heralded the shrinking of her group. She always watched, knowing she would never find what she needed… just as surely as they knew they would.Ī joyous chime pierced the air, and the little Ghost's mood sank. For centuries, they had combed through the long-dried spatter of a fallen world, each hoping to find their prize. Three-Oh-Three floated in the shadows as her modest flock of Ghosts scanned the ruins. Is this what my fellow Ghosts see? Why it feels… right? Then with their foundation of logic, what is my hesitance except some… provincial superstition? In their fervor, they… played midwife, of a sort, to Guardians.Ĭause and effect. They struck for its heart and shattered a roaring conflagration into ten thousand motes flickering in the wind. This is the Hive! Disciples of that unholy church which laid our creator low. I shudder at the ease with which my comrades ignore such basic logic. Such a shame that this purity and confidence was leveled at the unforgivable quintain striking at our great Traveler and unraveling its works. They spill confidence like a vintner drunk on his own reserves. Gazing on them with an eye unvarnished by niceties, one can see that a fiendish purity of purpose drives them. It is a sinister geometry, but not without its beauty. Yet as I watched them, I could not deceive myself into denying the elegance of pouring the Light in all its multiplex glory into these avatars of terrible intricacy. I doubt we share anything more than a species and the dark urge we all undoubtedly feel. It is why, when my debased fellows departed to find unity with the Hive, I found myself compelled to witness their descent. In contrast, I call myself a creature of moral strength and sound reasoning, and as such, believe these traits allow me to judge so unforgivingly-but alas, I am also afflicted by a most curious and inquisitive nature. Is it only brute strength that qualifies a knighthood now? I have little compassion for the universe's mockery upon chivalric ideals. Look at this one: they call him a Knight, this sin putrefying upon a slab. I speak not as some superstitious provincial afraid of the dark, but as a Ghost well-versed in the language of suffering. Mine is a prejudice shared by many: evolution's paintbrush cut within the Hive a terrible anatomy rendered to elicit fear they are loathsome things to look upon, after all.
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