Humanity was a fluke. The first in a cascade of inevitable impossibilities rippling outwards through the darkness of the universe. From the sulfur lakes of Alembic IV to the eternal sunset of the Dead Moons, the empty infinity of Space had been fouled far beyond our reach as a scattered species. Something has been changing in the laws of nature, almost imperceptibly but noticeably. Decimals don’t add up neatly anymore, cosmic constants started to display a little flexibility; and time, space, and gravity unfuse in places and contort around each other. In face of this, the huddled remnants of humanity turn towards exo-occultism and fascism in blind hopes of salvation from what they cannot understand and likely never will. Mariners of the Lost Fleet were the first to prove the death of their gods and set out to fill their place; the Cyan Syzygists abandoned their cloisters in the belts and began their centuries-long pilgrimage to the Blood Nebula. Only the Countesses of the Golden Circle remain unwavering. They insist, they know that the reason for the Universe derailing, unraveling, is to be reborn, to rid itself from its flukes and mistakes.