Grimoire:Enemies/Exalted Hive: Difference between revisions

[[Vell Tarlowe|Vell]]: They’re more than Knights.

Vell: That’s like calling you a tin can.

Vell: I’m saying calling them Knights is an understatement.

Toland: Those swords are neither bone nor steel. There’s a dark purpose to their edge.

Eriana-3: Thousands. The Vanguard should’ve known better.

Omar: But we’re prepared?

[[Eris]]: I have a feeling Light won’t be enough.

Eriana-3: Then we’ll take their swords from their ashes, and cut them down one-by-one, Blade-by-Blade.

Eris: Pray it doesn’t come to that.

Omar: You’ve got a strange view on luck.

Toland: When you’ve got your hand around the hilt and their ash under your boot, you might change your tune, Hunter.

Eris: This isn’t about faith.

Eriana-3: It’s about vengeance.

Vell: It’s about the only thing that matters—victory. It’s about doing what we must to end this terror.

Ghost: No. Something is siphoning the Light. <chhk> I’m getting weaker by the second. <chhk>

Eriana-3: And Sai’s Ghost? Same?

Ghost: Faint charge detected <chhk> but it’s fading. Its shell is damaged beyond repair. <chhk> No comms. No transmat. <chhk> Even if there were a signal—

Eriana-3: Use whatever juice you’ve got and relay this transmission to the others.

Omar: He’s mad.

Toland: You’re hunters—hunt. Find the Eyes that are upon us.

Among a sea of cocoons, and surrounded by thousands more freshly spawned hordes, the Heart held Omar's broken body in a vice of bone and pain. She was peeling the Light from his body. How? I can’t imagine, and I have tried. Tendrils of luminance tore away like flesh.

With every strand Omar's scream cut the dark and was met with a chittering chorus from the unborn. I can’t say if they were feeding off the Light itself, or the pain, but my guess is both—somehow, both.

''"That shriek, that wicked laugh. If you listen closely, you can hear power in its song.”''

Hello again. It’s me. I’m sure you know my name. Let me talk a while, let me talk, I do take a debased joy in speaking again to small human-form heads.

When Crota’s victory over our little blue world seemed certain (a moment of silence, now, for Wei Ning, whose directness I admired) it was Oryx who called His Child back into the nether world to plan final victory. It was to Oryx that the violence of His spawn was tithed.

Dwell a moment on the weight of what you’ve done. Contemplate the story you just ended. Will you ever do anything that screams down the millennia? Will you ever hammer your will on the universe until it rings and rings and rings? Oryx was an awesome power. Show reverence.

All right. Enough. Enough. A vacancy has opened, hasn’t it?

You’re a god yourself, now. You’ve consecrated yourself. Emulate me. Use your power to learn.

I write to you from a place of high contempt. No no no, don’t be offended, don’t be so superficial — it’s in the architecture of these spaces. They look down on you.

LISTEN! LISTEN! Understand, you simpleton, it’s entirely obvious —

The echoes of Oryx go forth to ask a question: are you the truth? And that means — well. You see, I’m sure.

Upon Eir’s attendance, say<br>

She fell upon Omnigul, whose aspects multiply, saying<br>