The spawned one calls me 'mother'.
A filthy, rotten term these... humans call their superior females of blood.
The word confuses the planet protectors.
I will allow it, for now.
·- ~*~ -·
The Cetra.
A voice amongst the dead admires her, speaks of her as 'the perfect image of a mother'.
The puppets grow restless, straining their bonds...
Humans are so fond of their 'mothers'... Let us see if the claims about the Cetra are true.
·- ~*~ -·
The three fragments, ever so loyal to their 'mother's' voice...
It takes much effort to re-create the words and voices spoken to 'children'.
Useless and trivial knowledge that will all be discarded once those puppets complete their task:
The reunion...
My reunion...
The end.
·- ~*~ -·
The half-breed is much stronger that I thought...
Somehow I am not surprised to see that this planet has not dissolved and absorbed the essence of it's precious little worshipper.
I should have disposed of her after I had stolen her image, but no; I simply borrowed and left the half-blood with the opportunity to turn my theft against me.
I have grown too 'soft'.
The defeat of my 'sons' has weakened me severely...
The passing of time will corrode the protectors' strength greatly.
A deep rest seems to be of the wisest benefit.
Time will pass...
… And after they have weakened, I will awaken and claim one of their own.