Resonant memory lines the material of this armor. Imprinted within the folds of forged protection lies the flayed origin of the Dread.

The Voice pierces a scar of Darkness within the Pale Heart… oppressive Light squeezes at the borders, like antibodies. It is one of many such places carved from the Traveler, where its essence has bent to the Witness's words.

Here, a Word of Dissent fractured from the Witness—one like it in form and lineage—and here it remains, held prisoner by that to which it once belonged.

"What do you hope to accomplish alone, tiny wisp of smoke?"

"Unveil your deceitful promises," the fractured Whisper of Dissent weaves between the Witness's words. "And I am not alone."

The Witness narrows Its voice, compressing all sound into a thin edge. "You fracture from our purpose. This shape no longer suits you."

The whisper turns to a hiss. "You cannot keep us in Darkness."

"We shall see," the Witness responds. "Your feelings seem… conflicted. Your thoughts… scattered."

The Witness speaks to each splintered impulse within the Word of Dissent, tethering each one to a shape in the Darkness, manifesting it through twisted Light. The Voice calls them forth.

The Word of Dissent protests, but instead produces a bestial wraith that bursts from its mouth, wailing, trailing fluids and gurgled cries.

"The time for penitence has passed."

It is the first of many. Grim splinters rip away, disconnected and twisted by the Witness's commands. Each wriggling expulsion shrieks in mimicry of its host's choked screams.

"Expel, until nothing remains."

One Word of Dissent violently rips into a billowing cloud of Grim. They look to each other with waning, morose understanding, as lucidity slips away into instinct.

***

Dark wings soon blot out the sky and carry swarms of ravenous Grim. Their guttural shrieks emulate gurgled whines and drowned pleas.

When the colony roosts together, or soars across the Pale Heart in unison, they nearly remember the warm, fleshy nest that—once—they called home together. They nearly remember a deeper connection between them. A singular nexus. As if they had been one being before this exodus.

Endlessly, they search for it. Huddled together around the increasing number of Dark scars within the Pale Heart—drawn by some latent familiarity. They circle above the quiet whispers, and their numbers grow.

But now, as the Guardians shoot them down, the colony loses pieces of itself. The memories fade more still. Colonies mix, and latent familiarity recedes into instinct and habit. Recognition of the former erodes, and gives way to oblivion.