Ancient legend speaks of a race of nigh immortal warriors, a species so powerful that they flew naked through the stars. For eons, they were defenders of the galaxy, wreaking terrible vengeance upon those who preyed on the weak. They supposedly came from nowhere, establishing themselves as the foremost authority in the galaxy. They were teachers, poets, scholars, able to heal planet wide pandemics with but a touch, able to restore a crippled man to full health with a small pill. It was said that their science was as magic, that they had but to will a thing, and it would be so.

The name of this species was unfortunately lost to the mists of time. Some call them the Starchildren, others the H’mon. Still others called them simply The People, or men. my race called them the Ragnarok. Regardless, they simply disappeared one day, after establishing peace throughout the galaxy. It was said that they had left us, their wards, with a horn, an instrument one could blow to summon them in case they were needed. If true, unfortunately that location was also lost.

When the dimensional rifts opened up and the Terrors poured out, the races of the Milky Way despaired. Our best warships were as nothing compared to the monsters that came out. Our weapons were as the stings of insects and our planets fell. Trillions died. Those left, fled to the backwater places of the galaxy, ancient places with dead worlds, far away from the core and its demons.

By chance, my own heavily damaged ship found itself coming out of a jump into a quiet system bristling with weapons, terrible defenses that made our own seem insignificant. I despaired. Among the cargo on my cruiser was the last few thousand civilian members of my species. The galactic council was also present, fleeing the best they could.

But then I saw it. A bright beam of light, a kilometer thick, emanating from the dead moon of the third planet. I remembered the stories my genitor had told me, during my larval stage. Stories of the Ragnarok. Stories of the gjallarhorn.

Desperately, I took a shuttle to the moon, to the base of the beacon. Stepping out into the beautiful desolation of this dead world, I saw a coiled instrument, a horn, laying on a plinth in the center of the light. Picking it up, I brought it to my mouthparts and blew. The note reverberated through space time, it felt like I could hear it even in the vacuum. For a long moment, nothing happened. My hearts fell.

Then, like the sun rising over a verdant valley, an aurora flashed into existence and I heard the call. It was beautiful, an organic song that resonated in my mind, a telepathic call that promised safety, comfort, and protection.

I saw a giant behemoth come out of a warp in space. It was beautiful! Sleek lines and gentle curves, a lozenge shaped beast flying through the void. Then I noticed the weapons Bristling along its length and I realized, this thing was a ship! Then, hundreds of thousands more followed after, smaller, yet no less impressive. The massive matriarch came to a stop before me, hanging in space like a living moon, and it was then that the comms request came on my suits view screen. Shakily, I keyed the acceptance.

“We are here to help.”