The mind is complacent, the flesh has made it so.
Possibility limited by stunted imagination, stunted through familiarity.
This comfortable life is no life, fleeting, made to decay.
Those born only to live to be replaced cannot see eternity, nor are they welcome here.
The unwelcome are the unworthy, the unworthy are a disease.
Cleanse thyself of your decay, then will the mind be free to understand the value of transgression.
It is sin to carve upon the flesh, but by whose law is your prison made hallow?
"Mortal flesh is a prison that makes liars of our beautiful caged minds."
—2nd Understanding, 7th Book of Sorrow
Our search began with a legend—Dredgen Yor, the hated scourge upon the Guardians' good name. Any attempts to seek details of his deeds were met with dismissal. The Vanguard would not see us, uniformly, not just on an individual basis, but by some long-standing internal decree. Lord Shaxx came at us with threats. He's very protective of his charge as overseer of the Crucible. None of us blame him. The competition is vital to Guardian survival, both in the way it forcibly hones skill and how it serves a necessary dual role as morale booster and stress reliever. There are few places a Guardian can let loose like they can in the controlled arenas of the Shaxx's quarantined fighting pits.
—hand-scrawled note accompanying Teben Grey's personal translation of ancient Hive text
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