"Margulis, from your winter ashes, there has sprung a field of flowers. Conceived by me, germinated for deadly purpose. You used to dream of old Earth, didn't you? Bathed in gold and solemn blue. I intend to reclaim it now, from the spores, and the ruin. It came to me like a proverb: fight poison with poison.
Cure this sick horde with the greatest of plagues. I will call her... Saryn."
"Lust was my sin. But greed is the blight that weakens our steel. These industrialists have gorged on the harvest of our long war. Their mind drones; Their mechanizations, toil in foundries remote. For what purpose? We must set watch upon them. Baiting our snares with the worms of profit.
Those kneeling at the altar of commerce will be returned... to the Void.
"Fear is a weed, snaking in the dark. It vines within the mind, corrupting it. It germinates within tribes... dividing them. Your graces, we who are beyond death, have forgotten the simple power of fear. Let us now remember.
You will find no greater power... than the simple thought of your own name... inscribed upon a grave.
"These like-faced savages, these earth-worn mules, a vast violent ocean at our command. Yet they wither. Mired in massed steel and flesh, casting these hordes from gene molds and flock minds, we inspire nothing. Our demons of void womb must be different. Unusual. Singular. Crafted without caste, wrought of the finest ore, slender and queer.
Sight without eye. Wrath without sound.
Not a soldier, but a myth. Not a warrior... a spirit... Banshee."
"Our long deathless winter has left us numb. Our wasted animal within, ugly and gaunt, hibernates beneath our shimmering beauty. Why do these Warframes stir us so? They burn with our lost desires, lost instincts. Tenno tamed, but only just. Cast and hunted as game. Trapped and tortured, yet they remain... animals.
Less than their human seed, gnawing their limbs from the snare, devouring a banquet of suffering, obese with heat and acid... and rage.
"Greed and denial will seduce any destruction... even our own. We're blind to future consequence... casting our debts on those to come. But what if now, the Gray Mother sought revenge?
A brutal thorn... piercing the gushing ulcers of waste and industry.
A new green, sown upon sanguine ground. Fertilized with the the blood and bone of its defilers.
"Oh, how you suffered to become this beast. Yet you laughed at me. Others writhed and raged in the vice, but you, you played the fool. And so it was, that you distorted my design.
A sanguine trick. A murderous comedy. But no one is laughing anymore... except you.
The mere vapors of your life, shimmering still. Mirage."
