Fools, I gaze upon thee as much in amusement as in pity. You cast your ballots and quarrel among thyselves, yet it is for naught. For this great concours has been long decided.
Thou who have found solace in the Warlock have done so under the guise of free will; however, thou have been deluded. As the representative of the novice Guardian, those who becometh Warlocks do so predominantly on whim. For thou have been seduced by supernatural wonders so far beyond thine understanding.
Titans, thou similarly disgust me so. For thou hast taken pity upon an underdog; thou have not truly pledged thine allegiance to such a mighty warrior. You are unworthy.
In the midst of this, the Hunter lies in wait. She watches from afar, her neverending gaze fixated on the quarrel. She need not concern herself with lowly things, for atop her lofty perch she symbolizes perhaps the most purest of truths: "Victory already belongs to me."
You see, Guardians, when thouest Brave the steps of the Legendary Vault of Glass, thou are likely to find in your midst a peculiar, unavoidable truth; commonness. Titans shall be reigned in for brute force, while the divine powers of the Warlock are harnessed for support. Oh yes, my friends, Warlocks and Titans will be aplenty.
Yet, there shall that lone Hunter stand - a sniper in her hand and her neverending gaze once again fixed forward - and she will emerge the heroine. The unsung champion; a Chariot of Fire. Her rarity will encapsulate the fierceness of a young maiden hand-blessed by the Traveler's Light. Her presence ever felt as her comrades fall before her. My fellow Guardians, when the Hunter is on her perch, she is untouchable. And it is beautiful.
Especially if you have a rear-view.
