Odd communication technique, but costly. Thought to phoneme to mark to digital signal. Each transmutation yields less than the input; the alchemy of conception. Read well, Guardian, for less of value has filtered through these transitions, and you must slake yourself on only the anhydrate wisdoms that remain.
I witness your crude battering against the shores of Savathûn's throne world; causal flotsam adrift in the Sea of Screams. Your flailings stir storms on its waters as surely as a firefly lights conflagrations. And yet, you persist. Why wouldn't you? Stubbornness, glutted by fear, stirs a Guardian to every cause. You tempered yourself in the Light and the Dark to become a blade that would not break. And despite that keen crucible of obstinance, you lack the true will for genius.
You bow to the Traveler, Guardian, and you must lose because Savathûn bows to a mightier master—the same master to whom the Traveler genuflects: survival. That is their shared secret, and what makes them strong: a purer reagent with which to alloy. They are siblings, possessed of the same valence electrons.
The same Light-Dark temper has distilled for you an ally.
And ever the Guardian, you thirst for the briny waters of conflict that you know, ignoring the sweeter, fresh flow that bursts from the vessel.
Savathûn will be the universe's salvation, hero. She can be yours, too, if only you cast down the bitter draught of old allegiance on which you have grown drunk.