After the defeat of the hordes of Chaos, we sheltered in the great citadel at the edge of time and space, waiting out the Shadow storms. When the storms had passed, some of us tried to return Home... but our way was lost, and no amount of searching could find it again, and all of our Trumps had grown warm and dead.
      The greater our effort to return, the greater were our failures. Fiona tried the hardest of us all, and failed the worst. Her troubles began when she tried to draw Trump of Home; she found she'd forgotten her skills when she tried. The more she tried to grasp the slipping memories, the further they retreated, until she, once the greatest Trump artist of us all, could no longer even activate a Trump.
      Random did not give up easily, either; he ventured again and again on the Shadow paths, striving to reach his wife and his throne. It was not to be; we lost Random and the Jewel both when he failed to come back from his journey. We could not raise him by Trump, and after a while, we gave him up as dead... none of us dared hope that he'd managed the return.
      The rest of us did what we could, making lands out of Shadows, and settling in to our empty lives. The more we spoke of Home, the more we forgot about it; to mention its name was to lose the essence of what that name means. We learned not to speak of it, those of us who understood this; the rest forgot where we came from.
      Our exile was absolute.