"[i]Young one, there is no sense in placing the blame on them. Their fault is not with their drives, or need for power. They simply do not understand, as we did not understand. And now, the duty falls with those, like yourself, who shall remain. We have not just failed ourselves, but the galaxy as well. It is us, who are weak. Surely, with time, they will understand what needs to be done. And, perhaps, it is best that we are forgotten.[/i]"

The Being dreamt, for perhaps the millionth time, of what it had lost. Of the grandeur and wonder, forever shattered by those they had sought to destroy. In fear, they had lashed out, for the first time, against what they could consider an equal. And a painful reality had been revealed: They were not equal. Their enemies were superior, masters of The Harmony, and had not even accepted it into their being, for it was merely a tool to be used and exploited by them. The very Lords themselves, The Seeders, had chosen another, long before the first of their kind took to the stars. And for that, those who came before perished, wasted to nothing, and cast off into oblivion.

For millennia now, a great deal had taken place. Many civilizations had risen and fallen again, crumbling to dust long before they could understand the very forces of reality that shaped their existence, a slave to perception and thought and time. A lucky few made it to the stars, and set about repeating the practices of their forefathers on others foreign to them, lashing out in fear at what they did not understand. Even rarer, some understood the benefits of becoming allies, and worked hard to suppress their desires to betray the new friends they had made, for it seemed almost certain they were soon to do the same. The galaxy was vibrant, and alive, and showed great promise. It had almost seemed that The Harmony was more than a teaching, a force intangible to all, even those who had breathed it's very essence.

This peace, however was soon to be shattered. Vanguards, unfeeling and unsympathetic, forged of metal sheets and memory. existed simply to watch. To wait, for the time of return. Perhaps, it had been believed, there would be no need to be awakened. Even the hated Enemy had moved on to other pursuits (or rather, a lack thereof), while the Guardians of the Last Day's Archives continued to live as they had before The Schism, and perhaps the Young Races would achieve a mutual understanding of comraderie and acceptance. But, like all great conflicts, there was not one, but many catalysts, and it all seemed to coincide at once: A series of alien nations, on the brink of terrible war. A great voice, familiar and awe inspiring, speaking again, for perhaps the first time since those days. And something else... A vile presence that tainted everything it touched, and driven to wreak havoc on all galactic existence.

Without a second to lose, a signal was sent, to the only entity who could understand it's meaning, in the hope that it still lived to hear the message. Mechanisms and machines, eons abandoned and derelict, hummed to life, pulsing with unknown energy little understood by nearly all, and began preparations. Not for peace, but for war. Few as those who remained were, they would uphold Their cause, no matter the opposition. If not for themselves, then for those who were most in danger. The preservation of life, the one meaning to their existence, did not include themselves. It was time to make right what had been done long ago.

All that was needed was the hand of a single creature, no matter the race or belief. A single act, and the Teu would return.