The Eremite

My Queen,

Undoubtedly you have read the reports. I make no apology for the ritual I have performed, or what I become when under its effects. You too have done many things in your own life that revealed who you are.

The Guardians see me unrestrained. I do not control my emotions when I enter the oubliette and embrace my transformation. I warned you of this many years ago, when I was afraid of what I might do. But I am no longer afraid. The time for warnings has passed. We have the knowledge we need.

Long ago I warned you of the threat Oryx posed and the imminence of his arrival. I spoke of his sword logic and his throne world, of his insatiable worm and the power of his Dreadnaught.

With this insight, you did something marvelous. Your throne world, your Eleusinia, is a testament to your will, to your Techeuns' skills, and to Riven's delight. Sadly, its desecration is, to our knowledge, irreparable. I am certain it was once beautiful.

But I believe it was also the sole exception in a process of creation that is uniquely Hive. If only the slaying of a powerful being was required, then every Guardian would be reveling in their own creation.

Recall that it was only with Hive magic that the Scorned Baron Hiraks—the Mindbender, as he wished to be styled—created a throne through Cayde-6's murder. So, too, did Crota affect his own throne in the same way.

Of course, Oryx and Savathûn's thrones are well-known to us. A worm-husk of bone; a lush garden of Light. Others have seen brief and terrible glimpses of Xivu Arath's throne. It gapes like a maw, following her wherever there is war.

Theirs were inadvertent. Upon their first true deaths, they did not know what they had made. With their strength and the power of their worms, they created something dire, and found themselves there upon their deaths. Imagine the Hive gods' first glimpses of their realms. To retreat to one's throne is to retreat into the variances of one's mind. It is a stark confrontation.

You were well prepared for yours. Such was the consequence of my warning. I could well imagine my surprise at the variances of my own, as my own emotions surprise me now. But Imagining must be enough for me.

Eris Morn