grimoire -- the taken: luther
You are a Guardian. Pilot, soldier, seeker of the truth. When you wrench your lips apart and howl defiance, the sun itself roars with you.
You have been taken.
Let the flame dim, for now, allow it to flicker. There is as much beauty in the roaring flame as the dull ember. That ember will beat as your heart.
Why do you continue? To what end do you raise dead bones to arms?
You were a firebrand, even before your first death. Railing against falsehoods, true or perceived, and damning your commanders and scientists that denied you the complete picture behind the Voidwalker project. When they refused, you still followed orders. That good little soldier died centuries ago, backstabbed by false friends. Why, then, do you continue the charade?
You allow your commanders to bumble -- traitorous, or worse, incompetent. They know Rasputin’s threat, his potential, yet cower from him like children from a cruel father. From now on, you shall have no more commanders. You shall be your own, new spark -- the fire that takes.
There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [no more questions]. Pick it up.
Take the knife. Let it be your answer. Take your new shape.