Long ago, explorers began to spread to the unknown reaches of space, sowing their seed across unknown worlds. They multiplied in numbers, slowly crawling across untouched landscapes, leaving behind their broken toys from another time, only to create new toys to help them. In the millions, billions, they devoured all that was in their path. All sentients soon caught his disease, this all-consuming want for knowledge, for things that were not theirs to want.
There were some, however, that did not share this hunger. They did not contract the plague of civilization. Instead, they chose to isolate themselves from the scourge of humanity. In their collective minds, technology was the power of this great filth that had spread throughout space. Their children learned to rely on their instincts, rather than the tools of society. They were beyond other sentients, for they developed the skills that the Maker had provided. With their own hands and the fibrous shells of native arachnoids, they created armor to withstand the torturous conditions of their rapidly deteriorating home world. Using their extensive knowledge of herbology, their medicine men became the most skilled in the surrounding systems, granting their people extremely long lives and good health. Their miners found veins of rich ore, using it to erect massive towers, each intricately designed with their feats over modern society. They became a thriving civilization of their own right, creating sprawling cities. But their world was dying. In a last effort, they broke their vows, and sent their people to the corners of the Galaxy in the ships they had created from the remnants of their once prosperous cities.
One by one, these ships came under siege, the people helpless against the powers of modern weapons. An entire civilization was lost, except for one, small passenger ship, which had escaped the ravages of modern space. These people, enraged at what they could only witness through the tiny voice of an ancient communications system, vowed to have their revenge against those of the technological world, those that did not have the knowledge of the Maker, and used her gifts for their own, greedy ends.
Let this account of our suffering be the last entry in the Annals of the Record Keeper, the Maker rest him. The Cortiaari shall not be a people again until we hear the Maker’s call to return home. – Likasha Soul, Warrior Class, House of Reaven