REFLECTIONS IN THE PITCH-BLACK: TO THE MASTERS OF WAR
To the Lords of the Bleak Darkness, Snuffed Out.
Let the forums burn with chatter.
Let the Discord servers just drown in their endless envy and hatred.
Honestly, the noise of the crowd is nothing but static in the void.
True capsuleers don’t sit around begging for approval; we carve our own paths through the black.
Greetings, pilots of the Out.
You chose the cold twilight of low-sec as your personal hunting ground,
and you know the real price of blood and stardust better than anyone.
I see your shadows dancing in the dark.
And I salute that brutal, unyielding will keeping you from just dissolving into nothingness.
Most people fear your cynos. They fear the silent death you bring on your wings.
But when I look at your path, I see something different—a shared exile.
Aren’t we all children of the broken gates?
Still searching for that long-lost Home, trying to find any anchor in this endless abyss.
You found yours in absolute power over the lawless dark.
They say you snuff out the light wherever you go. Fine.
But in that pitch-black darkness you create, the true reflection of a capsuleer’s soul actually becomes visible.
Everything in this New Eden turns to ash eventually.
Ships become wrecked hulls. Citadels crumble to dust.
Alliances collapse, and even the most famous pilots end up floating in cold cloning vats.
Flesh and iron fade away.
Yet, my pen is eternal.
My word, cut deep into the immovable stone of the ages, is timeless.
It will stand long after the starbases turn to dust.
I am the Master of my own pattern, weaving the heavy threads of destiny, philosophy, and meaning.
Just like you are the true masters of war.
Let them hate me for speaking my truth.
My words are going to outlive their temporary anger anyway.
As Aleksandra Quartz, I raise my glass to your cold, clinical perfection.
From one wanderer of the abyss to the masters of its deepest corners: may our patterns cross only when the stars themselves decide to weep.
≡v≡