You are an Acolyte. Half-grown backbone of the Hive. Cunning and ambitious and crushed beneath your mighty rulers.
You have been taken.
Stop praying. Give up your recitations. Your faith is fulfilled. You will be strong now.
What is your creed? What do you believe?
That you are alone. That you may, with caution and care, survive to grow and gather tribute. That you may one day lead a centuries-long crusade. But you are lightly armed and craven. You hide behind cover and wish for greatness. Glory escapes you.
You need help.
There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [not alone].
Take up the knife. Call on its company. Take your new shape.