AN: The first hundred words are heavily sampled from the Gardening entry in the newest physical lorebooks Bungie released. As such, I will not be counting them towards rolls. Still, they fit too well in helping understand a bit of the Traveler's motivations, so I included them.

You delight in possibility.

The same action, over and over, only produces the same results if all circumstances are the same. One stray atom changes a lifetime, and one gust of wind, an eon of history.

Choice is infinite. Possibility, endless.

To some, this is mere statistics, an inevitability of existence. But you see it for the miracle it is. You know stagnation. You have witnessed it more times than you care to recall: the dull sameness of systems that loop endlessly, their purpose long since extinguished. A depletion of possibility, a garden that no longer blooms, even if it does not wither.

And so you choose. You choose the sparks that might kindle new fires. You choose your Owl.

Your Owl moves like a flicker of firelight in the shadows, a candle fighting against the wind. He is not a roaring blaze, not yet. No, he is a spark: fragile but persistent, a thing that refuses to be extinguished. He did not seek your light (Your burden) for power, but for connection. You chose him (You let him choose you) because of this.

He kneels now in the clearing below, his talons pressing into the damp earth, wings folded tight against the storm's ferocity. Around him, your Arc sings. It is your voice, though its language eludes him. (It is your peace, though he cannot yet feel its depth.)

He is reaching for something he cannot yet hold.

He is a riverbed craving the torrent, a sail yearning for the wind. But his grip is too tight, his heart too wary. Fear clings to him like fog, and you see it: the doubt, the worry, the weight of his own humanity.

Once, long ago, you wove a tapestry of flowers. It was beautiful, perfect in its imperfection, until it was unraveled by a knife. Now you weave anew, and each flower-thread you choose must be stronger than the last, to withstand that winnowing blade for even a fraction of a second longer.

Your Owl is one such flower-thread.

You watch as he wrestles with the storm, his spirit straining for balance he cannot yet force. He has not yet learned the truth: It does not yield to fearful hands.

And then, you see the moment. The spark becomes lightning.

He stops fighting. His breath slows. His wings loosen. Fear falls from him like rain off glass. It is subtle but profound, the quiet surrender of one who understands at last. He is no longer grasping, no longer bracing. He has become the wind, the river, the conduit. He is fearless, not because the storm has passed, but because he has accepted it.

The Arc answers him.

It flows through him now, electric and alive, a part of him as much as the blood in his veins. His spark flares brighter, no longer a fragile thing, but a light that could illuminate the world. (You are pleased.)

Your Owl is not perfect- no flower ever is. But perfection was never the goal. He is resilient, curious, and brave enough to listen. He stands now, the storm rippling through his feathers, and you see that he has taken his first true step.

You will watch over him, as you do all your chosen.

But this one is different. This one speaks back. This one reaches for you with questions, not demands. He will falter. All of them do. But you know (You hope) he will rise again, and again, and again.

You will guide him. Through him, perhaps, you will guide the others.

And you will not allow your silence to forge another knife.

(Never again.)

INTERLUDE 1 END

AN: I tried to emulate the lore entries that show the Traveler's POV. I'm quite happy with the result.

Everything after the sampled section will count towards rolls.