Our song fades. Our children perish. Our world, a land torn between day and night, runs red with blood.
For countless years, Moth has been frozen still, one half drenched in eternal daylight, the other cloaked in endless night. For countless years, the soldiers of sunlight and the dwellers of darkness have lived in isolation.
Now we kill. Now we die.
We are the children of Moth. We were born in sunlight or in shadow. We can stop the fire, or we can watch our world burn. This is our story.