In the uncharted swathes of the cosmos, where the fabric of space-time weaves into complex patterns, there lies an enigma—Nextar. Shrouded in the umbral tapestries of the galaxies, it is a world that does not glint with the reflected light of distant stars; instead, it repels illumination with its obsidian sheath, a sphere impenetrable to the prying luminescence of the universe. A globe of unending nocturne, Nextar is a celestial anomaly, harboring within its heart a secret coveted by all forms of life: Eartha.
Eartha, the quintessence of vitality, lies at the nucleus of Nextar, a scintillating shard of life's very blueprint. A jewel of emerald iridescence, Eartha's glassy surface holds the allure of the forbidden, the promise of creation. Its mere existence can coax barren worlds from the cold grasp of death, breathing into them the warmth of a nascent sun, the caress of atmospheres, and the tender sprouting of life anew. Yet, this treasure is guarded not by walls or by sentinels of flesh and steel, but by the brooding leviathans of void and vacuum—beings wrought from the darkness between stars.
These are the Nightspawn, denizens birthed from the stygian depths of Nextar's core, creatures so twisted by their environment that terror is etched into their very essence. In their presence, the bravest of souls are reduced to trembling echoes of themselves, confronted by incarnations of their deepest dread. The landscape they traverse is a canvas of desolation and peril, its terrain a crucible that forges only the hardiest of nightmares.
It is against this backdrop of despair that humanity, ever tenacious, has cast its dominion across the stellar expanse. Planets bow under the yoke of human ambition, wearing the banners of colonization like jewels upon a crown. Among the stars, a legion of the chosen is raised: the Gatherers of Eartha.
From infancy, these children are sculpted to interface with the arcane, their sinews woven with the very essence of combat prowess, their minds tempered by the unyielding disciplines of war. They are the acolytes of Soulbliss, a primordial force bestowed by entities ancient as the cosmos itself—the Makers. In their veins courses the celestial ichor, endowing them with preternatural strength, celerity, and senses honed sharper than the edge of reality. With each heartbeat, they are more than human; they are the embodiment of the cosmos's arcane will.
When sixteen cycles of the twin suns have passed over their heads, they stand ready to be swathed in the trappings of their sacred duty: the Darken Armor. Each suit is a masterpiece of cosmic alchemy, infused with Chaosbliss, the sibling essence to Soulbliss. It wraps the Gatherers in resilience unmeasured, a bulwark against the inimical forces that dwell within Nextar. A shield invisible but impenetrable enshrouds them, making each armored figure a solitary bastion against the encroaching tide of cosmic horrors.
The moment of ascension is both ritual and rite of passage. The armoring is a confluence of wills, human and divine, a covenant written in the starlight and shadow. When the armor closes around them, they feel the pulsation of the Makers' breath, and the Nightspawn learn to fear anew, for in the hands of these heralds of humanity, Eartha beckons—not as a siren call to destruction, but as a whispered promise of life's unfathomable tenacity.
In the sprawling expanse of the cosmos, the Legion of Bright stands as a bastion of hope, its legions tirelessly voyaging through the celestial sea to nurture barren worlds with the seeds of life. They are the heralds of the Emperor of Vain, a sovereign whose imperial will is manifest in the ceaseless expansion of human territories, each colony a starlit echo of his resplendent domain.
These valiant souls of the Legion, cloaked in armor that rivals the stars' shine, are bound by an unyielding resolve to propagate the vigor of life across the void. Their commitment is the very sinew of the empire's might, and they wield it with a fervor that would willingly embrace the cold embrace of death should it mean the illumination of just one more shadowed world.
Yet, this crusade of light is not without its antithesis, for in the southern celestial abyss, beyond the radiant frontier, stirs a nemesis cloaked in the malevolent shroud of the Empire of Rot. The denizens of this empire were once ordinary beings, their hearts unmarked by the searing brand of chaos. But the dark cosmo—a malign force pulsing with the power to twist mind and matter—has ensnared them, seeping into their beings and warping them into agents of destruction.
This virulent energy weaves its corruption through the soul, a noxious melody that resonates with the darkest facets of the psyche, compelling its victims to succumb to a maddening descent. Where once stood men and women, there now loom the vassals of Rot, their humanity extinguished by the insidious whispers of the dark cosmo.
Within this empire, the social order is a reflection of the cosmic malevolence that feeds it—only those who wield their newfound chaos with ruthless ambition ascend, standing as monoliths of power among the ruins of their own conscience. They are the chosen of the dark deities, entities that are to life what black holes are to light—insatiable, all-consuming, and absolute in their hunger to obliterate.
The Empire of Rot thus marches to a discordant drum, a cacophony that resounds across the cosmos, signaling the unmaking of worlds. Its crusaders, armored in the remnants of their forsaken souls, carry forth the banner of obliteration, leaving behind them the silence of voided realms, a testament to the supremacy they so dearly covet.
The war between these two colossal forces is more than a clash of arms; it is a struggle for the very essence of existence. The Legion of Bright, with its undimmed determination, stands sentinel against the tide of corruption that seeks to unmake the cosmos. As these two empires lock in their cosmic embrace, the very stars hold their breath, for within the balance lies the future of all creation—an eternal testament to the indomitable power of light to confront the consuming grasp of darkness.