"You speak of knowledge, Judicator. You speak of experience. I have
journeyed through the
darkness between the most distant stars. I have beheld the births of negative
suns, and
born witness to the entropy of entire realities. Unto my experience, Aldaris,
all that
you have built here on Aiur is but a fleeting dream, a dream from which your
precious
Conclave shall awaken, finding themselves drowned in a greater nightmare."
-- Zeratul, Praetor of the Dark Templar
Prophecy Unveiled
The ashes have cleared. The air is still. Over the face of Aiur hangs a tenebrous
mood,
as a former paradise struggles to regain a foothold on the cusp of survival.
The Overmind
is no more, but the Homeworld lies tattered, broken, humbled. Cities stand
as mere
remnants of the glory they once proclaimed. Judicator, Templar and Khalai
alike struggle
to rebuild their homes and centers of power. The Conclave has learned its
lesson, but
the nightmare is far from over.
Out in the morning mist, the Zealots can already be seen standing in a blue
glow, holding
a silent vigil amid floating pylons and ornate structures. Through the haze,
a pair of
nameless figures stands like granite before the silhouette of an ancient,
commanding
temple; one erect, still and undaunted--the other, a four-limbed construct
waiting
patiently for the storm. Both bear the dark markings of the Sargas tribe.
Both have seen
countless battles. Both are aware of a presence that may threaten all that
they know and
cherish. The heart of Aiur still beats with an unmistakable vitality, but
a dark,
approaching thunderhead cackles derisively on the horizon with a purity of
essence so
vile it can only belong to one force--the Zerg. The tempest is upon them.
The stage has
been set.
The First Stroke
Our story begins at the outskirts of the province of Antioch. A shadow falls
on a nearby
temple--a dim, stifling presence, full of primitive drive. The link falters.
Shields
flicker. A living tidal wave emerges from the nearby hill bank. Claws and
teeth swarm
into the secluded valley. The temple guards slash into the onslaught. Warriors
fall.
Pylons are crushed. The luckier Zealots make it to high ground. In the minds
of all
Protoss defending the temple, suddenly--silence.
There is no escape.
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