The Plague took our friends, our families, and our worlds, yet it craved more – always more. So it moved on . . . and on, and on . . .
. . . So did we.
We left our dead worlds behind and fled into the Rift, to the farthest reaches of the universe. It was our hope to find the last of the living worlds before they were taken by the Plague; but instead, we found mostly death. We saved those we could and once more we moved on . . .
I can no longer recount how often we returned to the Rift, or how many worlds we stood upon. I only know it was not enough.
Eventually, we no longer found survivors, only the infected. It became painfully apparent that our mission was at an end. So we returned to our new home. Of all the countless worlds we ventured, we found only six that yet held life. The universe, once brimming with a multitude of intelligent races, was reduced to a mere four.
But the four races were strong; survivors who had defied the odds and withstood the onslaught of the Dark Army. Because of our joint trials and suffering at the hands of the Dark Army, the four races became as one, and together we looked to the future, to hope, and to the possibility that we had at last found sanctuary.
Little did we know that our battle had just begun.