The Galactic Core

It is the Age of Ruin. For more than a hundred centuries the Ancestor-Spirits have languished in despair, Their Legacy and Progeny pushed ever closer to extinction. They are the Keepers of the Awld Ways by the will of the Emperor, Protectors of the Lore by the might of His inexhaustible fortitude. These Spirits are a flickering light, skirting the Shadows in the Warp. They are the Countless Dead for whom thousands join rank each day to turn the tides of fate.   Yet despite Their great misery, the Ancestors persist in Their eternal duty. Any fearsome warrior who dares cleanse an infested temple of the Lost Holds, the last watched beacons in the Dark, shall have their Path laid bare, some small part of the Histories revealed to them by those Spirits who so jealously hoard Enlightenment. Crusaders wage war in Their honor on countless fronts, their dreams Blessed on occasion by a glimpse of Truth. But for all their valor, these soldiers are barely enough to hold at bay the ever-looming prospect of annihilation -- never more than a generation away.   To be a Squat in such times is to be one against untold billions. It is to stare into the Maelstrom, and stand defiant against all odds. These are the tales of the Galactic Core. Forget all dwarven halls of gilded stone, for so much former glory now lies in dust and rubble. Forget all allies and promises of aid, for in the grim dark future there is no one to trust. There is no mourning for the ruins, only a deep and seething hatred for the squalor and silence.